35736	----	produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive.) Life and Death _And Other Legends and Stories_ THE WORKS OF HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL POLISH BY JEREMIAH CURTIN. _The Zagloba Romances_ WITH FIRE AND SWORD. 1 vol. THE DELUGE. 2 vols. PAN MICHAEL. 1 vol. QUO VADIS. 1 vol. THE KNIGHTS OF THE CROSS. 2 vols. CHILDREN OF THE SOIL. 1 vol. HANIA, AND OTHER STORIES. 1 vol. SIELANKA, AND OTHER STORIES. 1 vol. IN VAIN. 1 vol. LIFE AND DEATH AND OTHER LEGENDS AND STORIES. 1 vol. WITHOUT DOGMA. (Translated by Iza Young.) 1 vol. [Illustration: HOUSE PRESENTED TO HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ BY THE POLES Mr. Sienkiewicz and Mr. Curtin in the foreground] Life and Death _And Other Legends and Stories_ By Henryk Sienkiewicz Author of "With Fire and Sword," "The Deluge," "Pan Michael," "Quo Vadis," "Knights of the Cross," etc. _Translated from the Original Polish by_ Jeremiah Curtin Boston Little, Brown, and Company 1904 _Copyright, 1897, 1899, 1900, 1904_, BY JEREMIAH CURTIN. _All rights reserved_ THE UNIVERSITY PRESS CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. PREFACE _"Is He the Dearest One?" was produced under the following circumstances: About fourteen years ago there was a famine, or at least hunger, in Silesia. Though that land is a German possession at present, it was once a part of the Polish Commonwealth, and there are many un-Germanized Poles in it yet._ _The mother in this sketch is Poland. Yasko, the most unfortunate of her sons, is Silesia. Poor, ill-fated, he neglects his own language, forgets his mother; but she does not forget him, as was shown on the occasion of that hunger in Silesia. The Poles of Russian Poland collected one million marks and sent them to Yasko._ _The ship "Purple" represents Poland and its career, and is a very brief summary of the essence and meaning of Polish history. Like some of the author's most beautiful short productions, it was written for a benevolent object, all the money obtained for it being devoted to that object._ _All persons who have read "Charcoal Sketches," in Sienkiewicz's "Hania," will be interested to learn the origin of that striking production. It was written mainly and finished in Los Angeles, Cal., as Sienkiewicz told me in Switzerland six years ago, but it was begun at Anaheim Landing, as is described in the sketch printed in this volume, "The Cranes." Besides being begun at Anaheim Landing, the whole plan of "Charcoal Sketches" was worked out there. "The Cranes" appeared in Lvov, or Lemburg, a few years ago, in a paper which was published for one day only, and was made up of contributions from Polish authors who gave these contributions for a benevolent purpose. The Hindu legend, "Life and Death," to be read by Sienkiewicz at Warsaw in January, is his latest work._ _JEREMIAH CURTIN._ _Torbole, Lago di Garda, Austria, December 18, 1903._ CONTENTS _Page_ LIFE AND DEATH: A HINDU LEGEND 3 IS HE THE DEAREST ONE? 21 A LEGEND OF THE SEA 29 THE CRANES 41 THE JUDGMENT OF PETER AND PAUL ON OLYMPUS 55 LIFE AND DEATH _A HINDU LEGEND_ LIFE AND DEATH _A HINDU LEGEND_ I LIFE AND DEATH There were two regions lying side by side, as it were two immense plains, with a clear river flowing between them. At one point the banks of this river sloped gently to a shallow ford in the shape of a pond with transparent, calm water. Beneath the azure surface of this ford could be seen its golden bed, from which grew stems of lotus; on those stems bloomed white and rose-colored flowers above the mirror of water. Rainbow-hued insects and butterflies circled around the flowers and among the palms of the shore, while higher up in the sunny air birds gave out sounds like those of silver bells. This pond was the passage from one region to the other. The first region was called the Plain of Life, the second the Plain of Death. The supreme and all mighty Brahma had created both plains, and had commanded the good Vishnu to rule in the Region of Life, while the wise Siva was lord in the Region of Death. "Do what ye understand to be best," said Brahma to the two rulers. Hence in the region belonging to Vishnu life moved with all its activity. The sun rose and set; day followed night, and night followed day; the sea rose and fell; in the sky appeared clouds big with rain; the earth was soon covered with forests, and crowded with beasts, birds, and people. So that all living creatures might increase greatly and multiply, the kindly god created Love, which he made to be Happiness also. After this Brahma summoned Vishnu and said to him: "Thou canst produce nothing better on earth, and since heaven is created already by me, do thou rest and let those whom thou callest people weave the thread of life for themselves unassisted." Vishnu obeyed this command, and henceforward men ordered their own lives. From their good thoughts came joy, from their evil ones, sorrow; and they saw soon with wonder that life was not an unbroken rejoicing, but that with the life thread which Brahma had mentioned they wove out two webs as it were with two faces,--on one of these was a smile; there were tears in the eyes of the other. They went then to the throne of Vishnu and made complaint to him: "O Lord! life is grievous through sorrow." "Let Love give you happiness," said Vishnu in answer. At these words they went away quieted, for Love indeed scattered their sorrows, which, in view of the happiness given, seemed so insignificant as to be undeserving of notice. But Love is also the mighty mother of life, hence, though the region which Vishnu ruled was enormous, it was soon insufficient for the myriads of people; soon there was not fruit enough upon trees there, nor berries enough upon bushes, nor honey enough from cliff bees. Thereupon all the men who were wisest fell to cutting down forests for the clearing of land, for the sowing of seed, for the winning of harvests. Thus Labor appeared among people. Soon all had to turn to it, and labor became not merely the basis of life, but life itself very nearly. But from Labor came Toil, and Toil produced Weariness. Great throngs of people appeared before Vishnu a second time. "O Lord!" exclaimed they, stretching their hands to him, "toil has weakened our bodies, weariness spreads through our bones, we are yearning for rest, but Life drives us always to labor." To this Vishnu answered: "The great and all mighty Brahma has not allowed me to shape Life any further, but I am free to make that which will cause it to halt, and rest will come then to you." And Vishnu made Sleep. Men received this new gift with rejoicing, and very soon saw in it one of the greatest boons given by the deity thus far. In sleep vanished care and vexation, during sleep strength returned to the weary; sleep, like a cherishing mother, wiped away tears of sorrow and surrounded the heads of the slumbering with oblivion. So people glorified sleep, and repeated: "Be blessed, for thou art far better than life in our waking hours." And they had one regret only, that it did not continue forever. After sleep came awakening, and after awakening came labor with fresh toil and weariness. This thought began soon to torture all men so sorely, that for the third time they stood before Vishnu. "O Lord," said they, "thou hast given us a boon which, though great and unspeakably precious, is incomplete as it now appears. Wilt thou grant us that sleep be eternal?" Vishnu wrinkled his brows then in anger at this their insistence, and answered: "I cannot give what ye ask of me, but go to the neighboring ford, and beyond ye will find that for which ye are seeking." The people heard the god's voice and went on in legions immediately. They went to the ford, and, halting there, gazed at the shore lying opposite. Beyond the clear, calm, and flower-bedecked surface stretched the Plain of Death, or the Kingdom of Siva. The sun never rose and never set in that region; there was no day and no night there, but the whole plain was of a lily-colored, absolute clearness. No shadow fell in that region, for clearness inhered there so thoroughly that it seemed the real essence of Siva's dominions. The region was not empty. As far as the eye could reach were seen heights and valleys where beautiful trees stood in groups; on those trees rose climbing plants, while ivy and grapevines were hanging from the cliff sides. But the cliffs and the tree trunks and the slender plant stems were almost transparent, as if formed out of light grown material. The leaves of the ivy had in them a delicate roseate light as of dawn. And all was in marvellous rest, such as none on the Plain of Life had experienced; all was as if sunk in serene meditation, as if dreaming and resting in continuous slumber, unthreatened by waking. In the clear air not the slightest breeze was discovered, not a flower was seen moving, not a leaf showed a quiver. The people who had come to the shore with loud conversation and clamor grew silent at sight of those lily-colored, motionless spaces, and whispered: "What quiet! How everything rests there in clearness!" "Oh, yes, there is rest and unbroken repose in that region." So some, namely, those who were weariest, said after a silence: "Let us find the sleep which is surely unbroken." And they entered the water. The rainbow-hued surface opened straightway before them, as if wishing to lighten the passage. Those who remained on the shore began now to call after them, but no man turned his head, and all hurried forward with willingness and lightly, attracted more and more by the charm of that wonderful region. The throng which gazed from the shore of Life at them noted this also: that as they moved forward their bodies grew gradually less heavy, becoming transparent and purer, more radiant, and as it were blending with that absolute clearness which filled the whole Plain of Death, Siva's kingdom. And when they had passed and disposed themselves amid flowers and at trees or the bases of cliffs, to repose there, their eyes were closed, but their faces had on them not only an expression of ineffable peace, but also of happiness such as Love itself on the Plain of Life had never given. Seeing this, those who had halted behind said one to another: "The region belonging to Siva is sweeter and better." And they began to pass to that shore in increasing numbers. There went in solemn procession old men, and men in ripe years, and husbands and wives, and mothers who led little children, and maidens, and youths, and then thousands and millions of people pushed on toward that Calm Passage, till at last the Plain of Life was depopulated almost entirely. Then Vishnu, whose task it was to keep life from extinction, was frightened because of the advice which he had given in his anger, and not knowing what to do else hastened quickly to Brahma. "Save Life, O Creator!" said he. "Behold, thou hast made the inheritance of Death now so beautiful, so serene, and so blissful that all men are leaving my kingdom." "Have none remained with thee there?" inquired Brahma. "Only one youth and one maiden, who are in love beyond measure; they renounce endless bliss rather than close their eyes and gaze on each other no longer." "What dost thou wish, then?" "Make the region of Death less delightful, less happy; if not, even those two when their springtime of love shall be ended will leave me and follow the others." Brahma thought for a moment and answered: "No! Oh no! I will not decrease beauty and happiness in the region of Death, but I will do something for Life in its own realm. Henceforward people will not pass to the other shore willingly, they must be forced to it." When he had said this he made a thick veil out of darkness which no one could see through, and next he created two terrible beings, one of these he named Fear and the other one Pain. He commanded them then to hang that black veil at the Passage. Thereafter Vishnu's kingdom was as crowded with life as it had been, for though the region of Death was as calm, as serene, and as blissful as ever, people dreaded the Passage. [Illustration: SMALL CHAPEL ON THE SIENKIEWICZ ESTATE] IS HE THE DEAREST ONE? II IS HE THE DEAREST ONE? In the distance a dark strip of pine wood was visible. In front of the wood was a meadow, and amid fields of grain stood a cottage covered with a straw roof and with moss. Birch trees hung their tresses above it. On a fir tree stood a stork on its nest, and in a cherry garden were dark beehives. Through an open gate a wanderer walked into the yard and said to the mistress of the cottage, who was standing on its threshold: "Peace to this quiet house, to those trees, to the grain, to the whole place, and to thee, mother!" The woman greeted him kindly, and added: "I will bring bread and milk to thee, wayfarer; but sit down the while and rest, for it is clear that thou art coming back from a long journey." "I have wandered like that stork, and like a swallow; I come from afar, I bring news from thy children." Her whole soul rushed to the eyes of that mother, and she asked the wayfarer straightway: "Dost thou know of my Yasko?" "Dost thou love that son most that thou askest first about him? Well, one son of thine is in forests, he works with his axe, he spreads his net in lakes; another herds horses in the steppe, he sings plaintive songs and looks at the stars; the third son climbs mountains, passes over naked rocks and high pastures, spends the night with sheep and shouts at the eagles. All bend down before thy knees and send thee greeting." "But Yasko?" asked the mother with an anxious face. "I keep sad news for the last. Life is going ill with Yasko: the field does not give its fruit to him, poverty and hunger torment the man, his days and months pass in suffering. Amid strangers and misery he has even forgotten thy language; forget him, since he has no thought for thee." When he had finished, the woman took the man's hand, led him to her pantry in the cottage, and, seizing a loaf from the shelf, she said: "Give this bread, O wayfarer, to Yasko!" Then she untied a small kerchief, took a bright silver coin from it, and with trembling voice added: "I am not rich, but this too is for Yasko." "Woman!" said the wayfarer now with astonishment, "thou hast many sons, but thou sendest gifts to only one of them. Dost thou love him more than the others? Is he the dearest one?" She raised her great sad eyes, filled with tears, and answered: "My blessing is for them all, but my gifts are to Yasko, for I am a mother, and he is my poorest son." A LEGEND OF THE SEA III A LEGEND OF THE SEA There was a ship named "The Purple," so strong and so great that she feared neither winds nor waves, even when they were raging most terribly. "The Purple" swept on, with every sail set, she rose upon each swelling wave and crushed with her conquering prow hidden rocks on which other ships foundered. She moved ever forward with sails which were gleaming in sunlight, and moved with such swiftness that foam roared at her sides and stretched out behind in a broad, endless road-streak. "That is a glorious craft," cried out crews on all other ships; "a man might think that she sails just to punish the ocean." From time to time they called out to the crew of "The Purple": "Hei, men, to what port are ye sailing?" "To that port to which wind blows," said the men on "The Purple." "Have a care, there are rocks ahead! There are whirlpools!" In reply to this warning came back a song as loud as the wind was: "Let us sail on, let us sail ever joyously." Men on "The Purple" were gladsome. The crew, confiding in the strength of their ship and the size of it, jeered at all perils. On other ships stern discipline ruled, but on "The Purple" each man did what seemed good to him. Life on that ship was one ceaseless holiday. The storms which she had passed, the rocks which she had crushed, increased the crew's confidence. "There are no reefs, there are no winds to wreck this ship," roared the sailors. "Let a hurricane shiver the ocean, 'The Purple' will always sail forward." And "The Purple" sailed; she was proud, she was splendid. Whole years passed--she was to all seeming invincible, she helped other ships and took in on her deck drowning passengers. Blind faith increased every day in the breasts of the crew on "The Purple." They grew slothful in good fortune and forgot their own art, they forgot how to navigate. "Our 'Purple' will sail herself," said they. "Why toil, why watch the ship, why pull at rudder, masts, sails, and ropes? Why live by hard work and the sweat of our brows, when our ship is divine, indestructible? Let us sail on, let us sail joyously." And they sailed for a very long period. At last, after years, the crew became utterly effeminate, they forgot every duty, and no man of them knew that that ship was decaying. Bitter water had weakened the spars, the strong rigging had loosened, waves without number had shattered the gunwales, dry rot was at work in the mainmast, the sails had grown weak through exposure. The voice of sound sense was heard now despite every madness: "Be careful!" cried some of the sailors. "Never mind! We will sail with the current," cried out the majority. But once such a storm came that to that hour its like had not been on the water. The wind whirled ocean and clouds into one hellish chaos. Pillars of water rose up and flew then with roars at "The Purple"; they were raging and bellowing dreadfully. They fell on the ship, they drove her down to the bottom, they hurled her up to the clouds, then cast her down again. The weak rigging snapped, and now a quick cry of despair was heard on the deck of that vessel. "'The Purple' is sinking!" "The Purple" was really sinking, while the crew, unaccustomed to work and to navigate, knew not how to save her. But when the first moment of terror had passed, rage boiled up in their hearts, for those mariners still loved that ship of theirs. All sprang up speedily, some rushed to fire cannon-balls at the winds and foaming water, others seized what each man could find near him and flogged that sea which was drowning "The Purple." Great was that fight of despair against the elements. But the waves had more strength than the mariners. The guns filled with water and then they were silent. Gigantic whirls seized struggling sailors and swept them out into watery chaos. The crew decreased every minute, but they struggled on yet. Covered with water, half-blinded, concealed by a mountain of foam, they fought till they dropped in the battle. Strength left them, but after brief rest they sprang again to the struggle. At last their hands fell. They felt that death was approaching. Dull despair seized them. Those sailors looked at one another as if demented. Now those same voices which had warned previously of danger were raised again, and more powerfully, so powerfully this time that the roar of the waves could not drown them. Those voices said: "O blind men! How can ye cannonade wind, or flog waves? Mend your vessel! Go to the hold. Work there. The ship 'Purple' is afloat yet." At these words those mariners, half-dead already, recovered, all rushed to the hold and began then to work in it. And they worked from morning till night in the sweat of their brows and with effort, seeking thus to retrieve their past sloth and their blindness. THE CRANES IV THE CRANES Homesickness (nostalgia) tortures mainly people who for various reasons are utterly unable to return to their own country, but even those for whom return is merely a question of will power feel its attacks sometimes. The cause may be anything: a sunrise or a sunset which calls to mind a dawn or an evening at home, some note of a foreign song in which the rhythm of one's own country is heard, some group of trees which call to mind remotely the native village--anything suffices! At such moments an immense, irresistible sadness seizes hold on the heart, and immediately a feeling comes to a man that he is, as it were, a leaf torn away from a distant but beloved tree. And in such moments the man is forced to return, or, if he has imagination, he is driven to create. Once--a good many years back--I was sojourning on the shore of the Pacific Ocean in a place called Anaheim Landing. My society was made up of some sailor fishermen, Norwegians for the greater part, and a German, who gave food to those fishermen and lodged them. Their days were passed on the water; every evening they amused themselves with poker, a game at cards which years ago was common in all the dramshops of America, long before fashionable ladies in Europe began to play it. I was quite alone, and my time passed in wandering with a gun over the open plain or along the shore of the Pacific. I visited the sandbanks which a small river made as with a broad mouth it entered the ocean; I waded in the shallow waters of this river, noted its unknown fishes, its shells, and looked at the great sea-lions which sunned themselves on a number of rocks at the river mouth. Opposite was a small sandy island swarming with mews, pelicans, and albatrosses; a real and populous bird commonwealth, filled with cries and uproar. At times, when the day was calm, and when amid silence the surface of the water took on a tinge almost violet, changing into gold, I sat in a boat and rowed toward the little island, on which pelicans, unused to the sight of man, looked at me less with fear than astonishment, as if wishing to ask, "What sort of seal is this that we have not seen till to-day?" Frequently I looked from that bank at sunsets which were simply marvellous; they changed the whole horizon into one sea, gleaming with gold, fire, and opal, which, passing into a brilliant purple, faded gradually until the moon shone on the amethyst background of the heavens, and the wonderful semi-tropical night had embraced the earth and the sky. The empty land, the endlessness of the ocean, and the excess of light disposed me somewhat toward mysticism. I became pantheistic, and had the feeling that everything surrounding me formed a certain single great soul which appears as the ocean, the sky, the plain, or diminishes into such small living existences as birds, fish, shells, or broom on the ocean shore. At times I thought also that those sand-hills and empty banks might be inhabited by invisible beings like the ancient Greek fauns, nymphs, or naiads. A man does not believe in such things when he turns to his own reason; but involuntarily he admits that they are possible when he lives only with Nature and in perfect seclusion. Life changes then, as it were, into a drowsiness in which visions are more powerful than thought. As for me, I was conscious only of that boundless calm which surrounded me, and I felt that it was pleasant to be in it. At times I thought of future "letters about my journey"; at times, too, I, as a young man, thought also of "her," the unknown whom I should meet and love some time. In that relaxation of thought, and on that empty, clear ocean shore, amid those uncompleted ideas, undescribed desires, in that half dream, in semi-consciousness, I was happier than ever in life before. But on a certain evening I sat long on the little island and returned to the shore after nightfall. The flowing tide brought me in--I scarcely had need to lift an oar then. In other regions the flow of the tide is tempestuous, but in that land of eternal good weather waves touch the sand shore with gentleness; the ocean does not strike land with an outburst. Such silence surrounded me that a quarter of a mile from the shore line I could have heard the conversation of men. But that shore was unoccupied. I heard only the squeak of the oars on my boat and the low plash of water moved by them. Just then, from above, certain piercing cries reached me. I raised my head, but on the dark background of the sky I could discern nothing. When the cries were heard a second time, directly above, I recognized in them the voices of cranes. Evidently a whole flock of cranes was flying somewhere above my head toward the island of Santa Catalina. But I remembered that I had heard cries like those more than once, when as a boy I journeyed from school for vacation--and straightway a mighty homesickness seized hold of me. I returned to the little room which I had hired in the cabin of the German, but could not sleep. Pictures of my country passed then before my mind: now a pine forest, now broad fields with pear trees on the boundaries, now pleasant cottages, now village churches, now white mansions surrounded by dense orchards. I yearned for such scenes all that night. [Illustration: A VIEW OF THE HOUSE FROM THE POND ON THE SIENKIEWICZ ESTATE] I went out next morning, as usual, to the sand-banks. I felt that the ocean and the sky, and the sand mounds on the shore, and the plains, and the cliffs on which seals were basking in the sunlight, were things to me absolutely foreign, things with which I had nothing in common, as they had nothing in common with me. Only yesterday I had wandered about in that neighborhood and had judged that my pulse was beating in answer to the pulse of that immense universe; to-day I put to myself this question: What have I to do here; why do I not go back to my birthplace? The feeling of harmony and sweetness in life had vanished, leaving nothing behind it. Time, which before had seemed so quiet and soothing, which was measured by the ebb and flow of the ocean, now seemed unendurably tedious. I began to think of my own land, of that which had remained in it, and that which had changed with time's passage. America and my journey ceased altogether to interest me, and immediately there swarmed in my head a throng of visions ever denser and denser, composed wholly of memories. I could not tear myself free from them, though they brought no delight to me. On the contrary, there was in those memories much sadness, and even suffering, which rose from comparing our sleepy and helpless country life with the bustling activity of America. But the more our life seemed to me helpless and sleepy, the more it mastered my soul, the dearer it grew to me, and the more I longed for it. During succeeding days the visions grew still more definite, and at last imagination began to develop, to arrange, to bring clearness and order into one artistic plan. I began to create my own world. A week later, on a certain night when the Norwegians went out on the ocean, I sat down in my little room and from under my pen flowed the following words: "In Barania Glova, in the chancellery of the village mayor, it was as calm as in time of sowing poppy seed." And thus, because cranes flew over the shore of the Pacific, I composed "Charcoal Sketches." THE JUDGMENT OF PETER AND PAUL ON OLYMPUS V THE JUDGMENT OF PETER AND PAUL ON OLYMPUS A POEM IN PROSE It was a night of spring, calm, silvery, and fragrant with dewy jasmine. The full moon was sailing above Olympus, and on the glittering, snowy summit of the mountain it shone with a clear, pensive, greenish light. Farther down in the Vale of Tempe was a dark thicket of thorn-bushes, shaken by the songs of nightingales--by entreaties, by complaints, by calls, by allurements, by languor, by sighs. These sounds flowed like the music of flutes, filling the night; they fell like a pouring rain, and rushed on like rivers. At moments they ceased; then such silence followed that one might almost hear the snow thawing on the heights under the warm breath of May. It was an ambrosial night. On that night came Peter and Paul, and sat on the highest grassmound of the slope to pass judgment on the gods of antiquity. The heads of the Apostles were encircled by halos, which illuminated their gray hair, stern brows, and severe eyes. Below, in the deep shade of beeches, stood the assembly of gods, abandoned and in dread, awaiting their sentence. Peter motioned with his hand, and at the sign Zeus stepped forth first from the assembly and approached the Apostles. The Cloud-Compeller was still mighty, and as huge as if cut out of marble by Phidias, but weakened and gloomy. His old eagle dragged along at his feet with broken wing, and the blue thunderbolt, grown reddish in places from rust, and partly quenched, seemed to be slipping from the stiffening right hand of the former father of gods and men. But when he stood before the Apostles the feeling of ancient supremacy filled his broad breast. He raised his head haughtily, and fixed on the face of the aged fisherman of Galilee his proud and glittering eyes, which were as angry and as terrible as lightnings. Olympus, accustomed to tremble before its ruler, shook to its foundations. The beeches quivered with fear, the song of the nightingales ceased, and the moon sailing above the snows grew as white as the linen web of Arachne. The eagle screamed through his crooked beak for the last time, and the lightning, as if animated by its ancient force, flashed and began to roar terribly at the feet of its master; it reared, hissed, snapped, and raised its three-cornered, flaming forehead, like a serpent ready to stab with poisonous fang. But Peter pressed the fiery bolts with his foot and crushed them to the earth. Turning then to the Cloud-Compeller, he pronounced this sentence: "Thou art cursed and condemned through all eternity." At once Zeus was extinguished. Growing pale in the twinkle of an eye, he whispered, with blackening lips, "[Greek: Anagkê]" ("Necessity"), and vanished through the earth. Poseidon of the dark curls next stood before the Apostles, with night in his eyes, and in his hand the blunted trident. To him then spoke Peter: "It is not thou who wilt rouse the billows. It is not thou who wilt lead the storm-tossed ships to a quiet haven, but she who is called the 'Star of the Sea.'" When Poseidon heard this he screamed, as if pierced with sudden pain, and turned into vanishing mist. Next rose Apollo, the Silver-bowed, with a hollow lute in his hand, and walked toward the holy men. Behind him moved slowly the nine Muses, looking like nine white pillars. Terror-stricken, they stood before the judgment-seat, as if petrified, breathless, and without hope; but the radiant Apollo turned to Paul, and, in a voice which resembled wondrous music, said: "Slay me not! Protect me, lord; for shouldst thou slay me, thou wouldst have to restore me to life again. I am the blossom of the soul of humanity; I am its gladness; I am light; I am the yearning for God. Thou knowest best that the song of earth will not reach heaven if thou break its wings. Hence I implore thee, O saint, not to smite down Song." A moment of silence came. Peter raised his eyes toward the stars. Paul placed his hands on his sword-hilt, rested his forehead on them, and for a time fell into deep thought. At last he rose, made the sign of the cross calmly above the radiant head of the god, and said: "Let Song live!" Apollo sat down with his lute at the feet of the Apostle. The night became clearer, the jasmine gave out a stronger perfume, the glad fountains sounded, the Muses gathered together like a flock of white swans, and, with voices still quivering from fear, began to sing in low tones marvellous words never heard on the heights of Olympus till that hour: To thy protection we flee, holy Mother of God. We come with our prayers; deign thou not to reject us, But be pleased to preserve us from every evil, O thou, our Lady! Thus they sang on the heather, raising their eyes like pious nuns with heads covered with white. Other gods came now. Bacchus and his chorus dashed past, wild, unrestrained, crowned with ivy and grapevine, and bearing the cithara and the thyrsus. They rushed on madly, with shouts of despair, and fell into the bottomless pit. Then before the Apostles stood a lofty, proud, sarcastic divinity, who, without waiting for question or sentence, spoke first. On her lips was a smile of derision. "I am Pallas Athene. I do not beg life of you. I am an illusion, nothing more. Odysseus honored and obeyed me only when he had become senile. Telemachus listened to me only till hair covered his chin. Ye cannot take immortality from me, and I declare that I have been a shadow, that I am a shadow now, and shall remain a shadow forever." At last her turn came to the most beautiful, the most honored goddess. As she approached, sweet, marvellous, tearful, the heart under her snow-white breast beat like the heart in a bird, and her lips quivered like those of a child that fears cruel punishment. She fell at their feet, and, stretching forth her divine arms, cried in fear and humility: "I am sinful, I deserve blame, but I am Joy. Have mercy, forgive; I am the one happiness of mankind." Then sobbing and fear took away her voice. But Peter looked at the goddess with compassion, and placed his aged palm on her golden hair, while Paul, bending toward a cluster of white field-lilies, broke off one blossom, and touching her with it, said: "Joy, be henceforth like this flower, and live thou for mankind." Then came dawn--the divine dawn that looked out from beyond a depression between two peaks. The nightingales stopped singing, and immediately finches, linnets, and wrens began to draw their sleepy little heads from under their moistened wings, shaking the dew from their feathers, and repeating in low voices, "_Svit! svit!_" ("Light! light!"). The earth awoke, smiled, and was delighted, because Song and Joy had not been taken from it. _THE ZAGLOBA ROMANCES by Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin._ WITH FIRE AND SWORD An Historical Novel of Poland and Russia. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. $1.50. The first of the famous trilogy of historical romances of Poland, Russia, and Sweden. Their publication has been received as an event in literature. Charles Dudley Warner, in _Harper's Magazine_, affirms that the Polish author has in Zagloba _given a new creation to literature_. _A capital story._ The only modern romance with which it can be compared for fire, sprightliness, rapidity of action, swift changes, and absorbing interest is "The Three Musketeers" of Dumas.--_New York Tribune._ THE DELUGE An Historical Novel of Poland, Sweden, and Russia. A Sequel to "With Fire and Sword." With map. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. $3.00. Marvellous in its grand descriptions.--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._ Has the humor of a Cervantes and the grim vigor of Defoe.--_Boston Gazette._ PAN MICHAEL An Historical Novel of Poland, Russia, and the Ukraine. A Sequel to "With Fire and Sword" and "The Deluge." Crown 8vo. $1.50. The interest of the trilogy, both historical and romantic, is splendidly sustained.--_The Dial_, Chicago. QUO VADIS A Narrative of the Time of Nero. By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish by JEREMIAH CURTIN. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. $1.50. One of the greatest books of our day.--_The Bookman._ The book is like a grand historical pageant.--_Literary World._ Of intense interest to the whole Christian civilization.--_Chicago Tribune._ Interest never wanes; and the story is carried through its many phases of conflict and terror to a climax that enthralls.--_Chicago Record._ As a study of the introduction of the gospel of love into the pagan world typified by Rome, it is marvellously fine.--_Chicago Interior._ The picture here given of life in Rome under the last of the Cæsars is one of unparalleled power and vividness.--_Boston Home Journal._ One of the most remarkable books of the decade. It burns upon the brain the struggles and triumphs of the early church.--_Boston Daily Advertiser._ It will become recognized by virtue of its own merits as the one heroic monument built by the modern novelist above the ruins of decadent Rome, and in honor of the blessed martyrs of the early Church.--_Brooklyn Eagle._ Our debt to Sienkiewicz is not less than our debt to his translator and friend, Jeremiah Curtin. The diversity of the language, the rapid flow of thought, the picturesque imagery of the descriptions are all his.--_Boston Transcript._ THE KNIGHTS OF THE CROSS An Historical Romance of Poland and Germany. By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish by JEREMIAH CURTIN. Illustrated. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. $2.00. The greatest work Sienkiewicz has given us.--_Buffalo Express._ It seems superior even to "Quo Vadis" in strength and realism.--_The Churchman._ The construction of the story is beyond praise. It is difficult to conceive of any one who will not pick the book up with eagerness.--_Chicago Evening Post._ There are some scenes in the book that for power and excitement remind one of the great encounter between Ursus and the bull in "Quo Vadis."--_Minneapolis Tribune._ Vivid, dramatic, and vigorous.... His imaginative power, his command of language, and the picturesque scenes he sets combine to fascinate the reader.--_Philadelphia Bulletin._ A book that holds your almost breathless attention as in a vise from the very beginning, for in it love and strife, the most thrilling of all worldly subjects, are described masterfully.--_The Boston Journal._ Another remarkable book. His descriptions are tremendously effective; one can almost hear the sound of the carnage; to the mind's eye the scene of battle is unfolded by a master artist.--_The Hartford Courant._ Thrillingly dramatic, full of strange local color and very faithful to its period, besides having that sense of the mysterious and weird that throbs in the Polish blood and infects alike their music and literature.--_The St. Paul Globe._ _OTHER NOVELS AND ROMANCES by Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin._ CHILDREN OF THE SOIL Crown 8vo. $1.50. It must be reckoned among the finer fictions of our time, and shows its author to be almost as great a master in the field of the domestic novel as he had previously been shown to be in that of imaginative historical romances.--_The Dial_, Chicago. HANIA, AND OTHER STORIES With portrait. Crown 8vo. $1.50. At the highest level of the author's genius.--_The Outlook._ SIELANKA, A FOREST PICTURE And Other Stories. With frontispiece. Crown 8vo. $1.50. They exhibit the masterly genius of Sienkiewicz even better than his longer romances. They abound in fine character-drawings and beautiful descriptions.--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._ LIFE AND DEATH AND OTHER LEGENDS AND STORIES Illustrated. 16mo. Decorated cloth, $1.00. WITHOUT DOGMA A Novel of Modern Poland. (Translated from the Polish by Iza Young.) Crown 8vo. $1.50. A human document read in the light of a great imagination.--_Boston Beacon._ LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS Transcriber's Notes: Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. The original text includes Greek characters. For this text version these letters have been replaced with transliterations. 
46454	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) Transcriber's Note: Text surrounded by _ was italic in the original, text surrounded by = was bold and in a different font. The (rare) oe ligatures were replaced by "oe". IN VAIN BY HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ _Author of_ "QUO VADIS," "WITH FIRE AND SWORD," "THE DELUGE," "PAN MICHAEL," "HANIA," ETC. _TRANSLATED FROM THE POLISH_ BY JEREMIAH CURTIN BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1899 _Copyright, 1899_, BY JEREMIAH CURTIN. _All rights reserved_. University Press: JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. INTRODUCTORY. "In Vain," the first literary work of Sienkiewicz, was written before he had passed the eighteenth year of his life and while he was studying at Warsaw. Though not included in his collected works by the author, this book will be received with much favor; of this I feel certain. The first book of the man who wrote "With Fire and Sword" and "Quo Vadis" will interest those of his admirers who live in America and the British Empire. These people are counted at present by millions. This volume contains pictures of student life drawn by a student who saw the life which he describes in the following pages. This student was a person of exceptional power and exceptional qualities, hence the value of that which he gives us. JEREMIAH CURTIN. Jerusalem, Palestine, March 8, 1899. IN VAIN CHAPTER I "And this is Kieff!" Thus spoke to himself a young man named Yosef Shvarts, on entering the ancient city, when, roused by toll-gate formalities, he saw himself unexpectedly among buildings and streets. The heart quivered in him joyfully. He was young, he was rushing forward to life; and so he drew into his large lungs as much fresh air as he could find place for, and repeated with a gladsome smile,-- "And this is Kieff!" The Jew's covered wagon rolled forward, jolting along on the prominent pavement stones. It was painful to Shvarts to sit under the canvas, so he directed the Jew to turn to the nearest inn, while he himself walked along by the side of the wagon. Torrents of people, as is usual in a city, were moving in various directions; shops were glittering with a show of wares; carriages were passing one after another; merchants, generals, soldiers, beggars, monks pushed along before the eyes of the young man. It was market-day, so the city had taken on the typical complexion of gatherings of that sort. There was nothing unconsidered there; no movement, no word seemed to be wasted. The merchant was going to his traffic, the official to his office, the criminal to deceit,--all were hastening on with some well-defined object; all pushed life forward, thinking of the morrow, hastening toward something. Above that uproar and movement was a burning atmosphere, and the sun was reflected in the gleaming panes of great edifices with just the same intensity as in any little cottage window. "This uproar is life," thought Shvarts, who had never been in Kieff before, or in any large city. And he was thinking how immensely distant was life in a little town from the broad scene of activity in a great city, when a well-known voice roused him from that meditation. "Yosef, as God lives!" Shvarts looked around, gazed some seconds at the man who called him by name; at last he opened his arms widely, and exclaimed,-- "As God lives, it is Gustav!" Gustav was a man small and thin, about twenty-three years of age; long hair of a chestnut color fell almost to his shoulders; his short reddish mustache cut even with his lip made him seem older than he was in reality. "What art thou doing, Yosef? Why hast thou come? To the University, hast thou not?" "Yes." "Well done. Life is wretched for the man without knowledge," said Gustav, as he panted. "What course wilt thou choose?" "I cannot tell yet; I will see and decide." "Think over it carefully. I have been here a year now, and have had a chance to look at things coolly. I regret much a choice made too hastily, but what is one to do afterward? Too late to turn back, to go on there is lack of power. It is easier to commit a folly than correct it. To-morrow I will go with thee to the University; meanwhile, if thou hast no lodgings, let the Jew take thy things to my room, it is not far from here. Thou mayst begin with me; when thou art tired of me, look for another man." Yosef accepted Gustav's offer, and in a few moments they were in the narrow lodgings of the student. "Ei, it is long since we have seen each other. We finished our school course a year ago," said Gustav, putting aside Yosef's small trunk and bundle. "A year is some time. What hast thou done this whole year?" "I have been with my father, who would not let me come to the University." "What harm could that be to him?" "He was a good man, though ignorant--a blacksmith." "But he has let thee come now?" "He died." "He did well," said Gustav, coughing. "The cursed asthma is tormenting me these six months. Dost wonder at my hard breathing? Thou too wilt breathe hard when thou hast bent over books as I have. Day after day without rest for a moment. And fight with poverty as one dog with another.--Hast money?" "I have. I sold the house and property left by my father. I have two thousand rubles." "Splendid! For thee that will be plenty. My position is poverty! Oh the cursed asthma! Oi! that is true. One must learn. Barely a little rest in the evening; the day at lectures, the night at work. Not time enough for sleep. That is the way with us. When thou enterest our life, thou wilt see what a University is. To-day I will take thee to the club, or simply to the restaurant; thou must learn to know our students immediately. Today, right away thou wilt go with me." Gustav circled about the room without intermission; he panted and coughed. To look at his bent shoulders, sunken visage, and long hair, one might have taken him rather for a man tortured by joyous life than by labor; but the printed volumes and manuscripts in piles, the poverty in the furnishing of the room, gave more proof than was needed to show that the occupant belonged to that species of night birds who wither away while bent over books, and die thinking whether a certain syllable should or should not be accented. But Yosef breathed the atmosphere of the chamber with full breast; for him that was a world at once new and peculiar. "Who knows," thought he, "what ideas are flashing through the heads of dwellers in fourth and fifth stories? Who knows what a future those garrets are preparing for science?" "Thou wilt make the acquaintance to-day of many of our fellows," said Gustav, drawing out from beneath his bed a one-legged samovar and putting a broken dish under it in place of the two other legs. "But let not this evening offend thee," continued the student, as he let charcoal drop into the samovar. "I will make tea. Let not heads partly crazy offend thee. When thou hast looked round about at the city, thou wilt discover that there is no lack of fools here as in other places; but it moves forward with no laggard steps. There is no lack among us of originals, though there is much that is empty and colorless. This last is ridiculous, and the dullest of all the stupidities. In some heads there are blazes of light, in other heads darkness like that out of doors at this moment." Silence reigned for a time in the chamber; there was no noise there save that made by Gustav while puffing and blowing at the samovar. In fact, night had been coming gradually, on the walls and ceiling of the room an increasing darkness was falling; the fiery circle reflected from the samovar widened or narrowed as Gustav blew or stopped blowing. At last the water began to sound, to hiss, to sputter. Gustav lighted a candle. "Here is tea for thee. I will go now to the lecture," continued he; "wait thou here, or better sleep on my bed. When thy time to pay money comes, thou wilt have also to look after lectures. The work is dreary, but there is no escape from it. Student life has its bitter side, but why mention this in advance? Our student world and the rest of society are entirely separate. People here neither like nor receive us, and we quarrel with all persons, even with one another. Oh, life here is difficult! If thou fall ill, no man, who is not a student, will reach a hand to thee. This is the fate of us poor fellows; moreover people are angry because we play no comedies, we call things by their names." "Thou seest objects in black," remarked Yosef. "Black or not black," answered Gustav, with bitterness, "thou wilt see. But I tell thee that thou wilt not rest on roses. Youth has both rights and demands. They will laugh in thy eyes at these rights, these demands; they will say that thou art not cooked enough, they will call thy wants exaltation. But devil take it, the name matters little if the thing it describes hurts or pains thee. As to that thou wilt see.--Pour tea for thyself, and lie down to rest. I shall be here in an hour; and now give me that hat, and good-by!" For a while the panting, puffing, and steps of Gustav were heard on the stairway. Yosef was alone. Those words of Gustav impressed his friend strangely. Yosef remembered him as different. To-day a certain disappointment and peevishness were heard in his voice, mental gloom of a certain kind broke through those words half interrupted, half sad. Formerly he had been healthy in mind and in body; to-day his breathing was difficult, in his movements and speech appeared wonderful feverishness, like that of a man who is exhausted. "Has life tortured him that much already?" thought Yosef. "Then one must struggle here, go against the current somewhat; but this poor fellow had not the strength, it seems. A man must conquer in this place. It is clear that the world does not lay an over-light hand on us. Devil take it! the question is no easy one. Gustav is in some sort too misanthropic; he must exaggerate rather easily. But he is no idler and must go forward. Perhaps this is only a mask, the misanthropy, under which he finds his position more convenient and safer. But really, if one must take things by storm or perish? Ha, then I will go through!" exclaimed the young man, with strength, though in this interjection there was more resolution than passion. An hour after this monologue panting was heard on the stairway a second time, and Gustav entered, or rather pushed in. "Now follow!" cried he. "Thou art about to enter the vortex of student life; today thou wilt see its gladder aspect. But lose no time!" While speaking, he turned his cap in his hand, and cast his eyes on every side; finally he went to a small table, and taking a comb began to arrange his long yellow, or rather his long faded hair. At last they went out to the street. At that time in Kieff there were restaurants where students assembled. Circumstances were such that it was not possible to live with the city society. Those various city circles were unwilling to receive young persons whom the future alone was to form into people. On the student side lack of steadiness, violence of speech, insolence, and other native traits usual to youth were not very willing to bend themselves to social requirements; as to the country, that furnished its social contingent only in winter, or during the time of the contracts. So the University was a body entirely confined to itself, living a life of books in the day, and leading a club life at night. For many reasons there was more good in this than evil, for though young men went into the world without polish, they had energy and were capable of action. Wearied and worn-out individuals were not found among them. Our acquaintances passed through the street quickly, and turned toward the gleaming windows of a restaurant. Under the light of the moon it was possible to distinguish the broad, strong figure of Yosef near the bent shoulders and large head of Gustav. The latter hurried on in advance somewhat, conversing with Yosef or with himself; at last he halted under a window, seized the sill, and drawing himself up examined the interior carefully. Finally he dropped down, and said, while wiping off whitewash from his knees,-- "She is not there." "Who is not there?" "Either she has been there or she will not come." "Who is she?" "What o'clock is it?" "Ten o'clock. Whom art thou looking for through the window?" "The widow." "The widow? Who is she?" "I fear that she is sick." "Is she thy acquaintance?" "Evidently. If I did not know her I should not be occupied with her." "Well, that is clear," answered Yosef. "Let us go in." He raised the door-latch; they entered. A smoky, hot atmosphere surrounded them. At some distance in the hall faces of various ages were visible. Amid clouds of smoke, which dimmed the light of the wall lamps, and outbursts of laughter, wandered the tones of a piano, as if wearied and indifferent. The piano was accompanied by a guitar, on which thrummed at intervals a tall, slender youth, with hair cut close to his skull and with scars on his face. He played with long fingers on the strings carelessly, fixed his great blue eyes on the ceiling, and was lost in meditation. The person sitting at the piano had barely grown out of childhood. He had a milk-white complexion, dark hair combed toward the back of his head, sweetness on his red lips, and melancholy in his eyes. He was delicate, of a slight build of body, and good looking. It was evident that he had played a long time, for red spots on both cheeks showed great weariness. With their backs to the light stood a number of men from the Pinsk region, all strong as oaks, and at the same time so eager for music of every sort given in the restaurant that they formed a circle around the player, drooped their heads, and listened with sighs or delight. Other young fellows were on benches or in armchairs; a few tender girls, of the grasshopper order who sing away a summer, circled here and there. It was noisy; goblets clinked in places. In the room next the hall some were playing cards madly, and through a half-open door the face of one player was visible. Just then he was lighting a cigar at a candle standing on the corner of a table, and the flame either smothered or rising for an instant shone on his sharply cut features. The woman at the refreshment counter examined near the light, with perfect indifference, the point of the pen with which she entered down daily sales; at her side, leaning on a table, slumbered her assistant in wondrous oblivion. A cat sitting on a corner of the counter opened his eyes at moments, and then closed them with an expression of philosophic calm and dignity. Yosef cast a glance around the assembly. "Ho! How art thou, Yosef?" called a number of voices. "I am well. How are ye?" "Hast come for good?" "For good." "I present him as a member of this respected society. Do thou on thy part know once for all the duty of coming here daily, and the privilege of never sleeping in human fashion," said Gustav. "As a member? So much the better! Soon thou wilt hear a speech.--Hei, there, Augustinovich, begin!" From that room of card-players came a young man with stooping shoulders and a head almost bald, ugly in appearance. He threw his cap on a table, and sitting in an armchair began,-- "Gentlemen! If ye will not remain quiet, I shall begin to speak learnedly, and I know, my dear fellows, that for you there is nothing on earth so offensive as learned discourses. In Jove's name! Silence, I say, silence! I shall begin to discourse learnedly." Indeed, under the influence of the threat silence reigned for a season. The speaker looked around in triumph, and continued,-- "Gentlemen! If we have met here, we have met to seek in rest itself the remembrance of bitter moments. ["Very well."] Some one will say that we meet here every night. ["Very well."] I come here nightly, and I do not dream of denying it; I do not deny, either, that I am here on this occasion! [Applause; the speaker brightens and continues.] Silence! Were I forced to conclude that every effort of mine which is directed toward giving a practical turn to our meetings is shattered by general frivolousness, for I can call it general ["You can, you can!"], not directed by the current of universal agreement which breaks up in its very beginning ["Consider, gentlemen, in its very beginning"] the uniform efforts of individuals--if efforts marked by the regular object of uniting disconnected thoughts into some organic whole, will never issue from the region of imagination to the more real field of action, then, gentlemen, I am the first, and I say that there are many others with me who will agree to oppose the sense of the methods of our existence so far [Applause], and will take other methods ["Yes, yes!"] obliging, if not all, at least the chosen ones [Applause]." "What does this mean?" asked Yosef. "A speech," answered Gustav, shrugging his shoulders. "With what object?" "But how does that concern any one?" "What kind of person is he?" "His name is Augustinovich. He has a good head, but at this moment he is drunk, his words are confused. He knows, however, what he wants, and, as God lives, he is right." "What does he want?" "That we should not meet here in vain, that our meetings should have some object. But those present laugh at the object and the speech. Of necessity the change would bring dissension into the freedom and repose which thus far have reigned in these meetings." "And what object does Augustinovich wish to give them?" "Literary, scientific." "That would be well." "I have told him that he is right. If some one else were to make the proposal, the thing would pass, perhaps." "Well, but in his case." "On everything that he touches he leaves traces of his own ridiculousness and humiliation. Have a care, Yosef! Thou in truth art not like him in anything so far as I know, but here any man's feet may slip, if not in one, in another way." Gustav looked with misty eyes on Augustinovich, shrugged his shoulders, and continued,-- "Fate fixed itself wonderfully on that man. I tell thee that he is a collection of all the capacities, but he has little character. He has lofty desires, but his deeds are insignificant, an eternal dissension. There is no balance between his desires and his strength, hence he attains no result." A number of Yosef's acquaintances approached; at the glass conversation grew general. Yosef inquired about the University. "Do all the students live together?" "Impossible," answered one of the Lithuanians. "There are people here of all the most varied conceptions, hence there are various coteries." "That is bad." "Not true! I admit unity as to certain higher objects; the unity of life in common is impossible, so there is no use in striving for it." "But the German Universities?" "In those are societies which live in themselves only. A life of feelings and thoughts, at least among us, should agree with practice; therefore dissension in feelings and thoughts produces dissension in practice." "Then will you never unite?" "That, again, is something different. We shall unite in the interest of the University, or in that which concerns all. For that matter, I think that the contradictions which appear prove our vitality; they are a sign that we live, feel, and think. In that is our unity; that which separates unites us." "Under what banner do you stand, then?" "Labor and suffering. We have no distinguishing name. Those who are peasant enthusiasts call us 'baker's apprentices.'" "How so?" "According to facts. Life will teach thee what these mean. Each one of us tries to live where there is a bakery, to become acquainted with the baker, and gain credit with him. That is our method; he trusts us. The majority of us eat nothing warm, but a cake on credit thou wilt get as long as thou wishest." "That is pleasant!" "Besides our coterie, which is not united by very strong bonds, there are peasant enthusiasts. Antonevich organized and formed them. Rylski and Stempkovski led them for a time, but today these are all fools who know not what they want, they talk Little Russian and drink common vodka--that is the whole matter." "And what other coteries are there?" "Clearly outlined, there are no more; but there are various shades. Some are connected by a communion of scientific ideas, others by a common social standpoint. Thou wilt find here democrats, aristocrats, liberals, ultra-montanes, frolickers, women-hunters, idlers, if thou wish, and finally sunburnt laborers." "Who passes for the strongest head?" "Among students?" "Yes." "That depends on the branch. Some say that Augustinovich knows much; I will add that he does not know it well. For connected solid work and science Gustav is distinguished." "Ah!" "But they talk variously about him. Some cannot endure him. By living with him thou wilt estimate the man best,--for example, his relations with the widow. That is a sentimental bit of conduct; another man would not have acted as he has. Indeed, it is not easy to get on with her now." "I have heard Gustav speak of her, but tell me once for all, what sort of woman is she?" "She is a young person acquainted with all of us. Her history is a sad one. She fell in love with Potkanski, a jurist, and loved him perhaps madly. I do not remember those times--I remember Potkanski, however. He was a gifted fellow, very wealthy and industrious; in his day he was the idol of his comrades. How he came to know Helena, I cannot tell you; it is explained variously. This only is certain, that they loved each other to the death. She was not more than eighteen years of age. At last Potkanski determined to marry her. It is difficult to describe what his family did to prevent him, but Potkanski, an energetic man, stuck to his point, and married her despite every hindrance. Their married life lasted one year. He fell ill of typhoid on a sudden, and died leaving her on the street as it were, for his family seized all his property. A child which was living when he died, died also soon after. The widow was left alone, and had it not been for Gustav--well, she would have perished." "What did Gustav do?" "Gustav did wonders. With wretched means he prosecuted the Potkanskis. God knows whether he would have won the case, for that is a family of magnates, but he did this much: to avoid scandal, they engaged to pay the widow a slight life annuity." "He acquitted himself bravely!" "Of course he did, of course he did! Leave that to him! What energy! And remember it was during his first year at the University, without acquaintances, in a strange city, without means. And it is this way, my dear: a rich man can, a poor man must, help himself." "But what obligation had he toward the widow?" "He was Potkanski's friend, but that is still little; he loved her before she became Potkanski's wife, perhaps, but held aloof; now he makes no concealment." "But she?" "Oh, from the time of the misfortunes through which she passed the woman has fallen into utter torpor; she has become insane simply. She does not know what is happening to her, she is indifferent to everything. But beyond doubt thou wilt see her on this occasion, for she comes here every evening." "And with what object?" "I say that she is a maniac. The report is that she made the acquaintance of Potkanski here, so now she does not believe, it seems, that he is dead, and she goes around everywhere, as maniacs do usually. In fact, were he to rise from the dead, and not go to her straightway, she would surely find him here, nowhere else. We remind her, perhaps, of Potkanski; many students used to visit them." "Does Gustav permit her to come here?" "Potkanski never would have permitted her to come, but Gustav does not forbid her anything." "How does she treat Gustav?" "Like a table, a bench, a plate, or a ball of thread. She seems not to see him, but she does not avoid him,--she is always indifferent, apathetic. That must pain him, but it is his affair.--Ah! there she is! that woman coming in on the right." When the widow entered, it grew somewhat silent. The appearance of that mysterious figure always produced an impression. Of stature a little more than medium, slender; she had a long face, bright blond hair, and dark eyes; her shoulders and bosom were rather slight, but she had the round plumpness of maiden forms; a forehead thrown back in a way scarcely discernible. She was pensive, and as dignified as if of marble. Her eyes, deeply set beneath her forehead, as it were in a shadow, were pencilled above with one delicate arch of brow. Those eyes were marvellous, steel-colored; they gleamed like polished metal, but that was a genuine light of steel. It was light and nothing more; under the glitter warmth and depth of thought were lacking. One might have said of those eyes, "They look, but they see not." They gave no idea of an object, they only reflected it. They were cold beyond description; we will add that their lids almost never blinked, but the pupils possessed a certain movement as if investigating, inquiring, seeking; still the movement was mechanical. The rest of the widow's face answered to her eyes. Her mouth was pressed downward a little, as might be the case in a statue; the complexion monotonous, dull, pale, had a swarthy tinge. She was neither very charming nor very beautiful; she was accurately pretty. This in the woman was wonderful, that though her face was torpid apparently, she had in her whole person something which attracted the masculine side of human nature inexplicably. In that lay her charm. She was statuesque to the highest degree, but to the highest degree also a woman. She attracted and also repelled. Gustav felt this best. It was difficult to reconcile with that cold torpor the impression which she produced, which seemed as it were not of her, but aside from her. She was like a sleeping flower; pain had so put her to sleep. In reality the blows which she had received were like strokes of an axe on the head. Let us remember that in the career of the woman brief moments of happiness were closed by two coffins. As a maiden she had loved; he whom she had loved was no longer alive. As a wife she had given birth to a child; the child was dead. That which law had given her, which had been the cause and effect of her life, had vanished. Thenceforth she ceased to live, she only existed. Imagine a plant which is cut at the top and the root; such was Helena. Torn from the past and debarred from the future, at first she bore within her a dim belief that a shameful injustice had been wrought on her. At the moment of her pain she threw out, it is difficult to know at whom, this question, as unfathomable as the bottomless pit: Why has this happened? No answer came from the blue firmament, or the earth, or the fields, or the forest; the injustice remained injustice. The sun shone and the birds sang on as before. Then that unfortunate heart withdrew into itself with its own pain and became deadened. No answer came, but her mind grew diseased--she lost belief in the death of her husband, she thought that he had taken the weeping child in his arms and gone somewhere, but that he might return any moment. Then, altogether incapable of another thought, she sought him with that bitter mechanical movement of the eyes. She went to the restaurant, thinking to find him there where she had made his acquaintance. Unfortunately she did not die, but found a valiant arm which strove to snatch her from error, and a breast which wished to give her warmth. The effort was vain, but it saved her life. Gustav's love secured her rescue and protection, as it were by the tenure of a spider-web which did not let her go from the earth. His voice cried to her, "Stay," and though there was no echo in her, she remained, without witness of herself, indifferent, a thing, not a human being. Such was the widow. She entered the room and stood near the door, like a stone statue, in gloomy majesty. It was warm and smoky around her, the last sounds of a song were quivering in the air yet. A little coarse and a little dissolute was the song, and on that impure background bloomed the widow like a water-lily on a turbid pool. Silence came. They respected her in that place. In her presence even Augustinovich became endurable. Some remembered Potkanski, others inclined their heads before her misfortune. There were also those who revered her beauty. The assembly assumed in her presence its seemliest aspect. Gustav brought up an armchair to Pani Helena, and taking her warm shawl went to a corner to Yosef, who, attracted and astonished, turned his gleaming eyes at the widow. Gustav began a conversation with him. "That is she," said he, in an undertone. "I understand." "Do not show thyself to her much. The poor woman! every new face brings her disappointment, she is always looking for her husband." "Art thou acquainted with her long?" "This is the second year. I was a witness and best man at Potkanski's wedding." Gustav smiled bitterly. "Since his death I see her daily." "Vasilkevich says that thou hast given her aid and protection." "I have, and I have not; some one had to attend to that, and I occupied myself with it; but such protection as mine--Do what is possible, work, fly, run--misery upon misery! so that sometimes despair seizes hold of a man." "But the family?" "What family?" "His." "They injure her!" cried Gustav, with violence. "But they are rich, are they not?" "Aristocrats! Hypocrites! They and I have not finished yet. They will remember long the injustice done to this dove. Listen to me, Yosef. Were a little child of that family to beg a morsel of bread of me from hunger, I would rather throw the bread to a dog." "Oh, a romance!" "Wrong me not, Yosef. I am poor, I waste no words. Potkanski when in the hospital regained consciousness just before death, and said, 'Gustav, to thee I leave my wife; care for her.' I answered, 'I will care for her.' 'Thou wilt not let her die of hunger?' 'I will not,' said I. 'Let no one offend her; take vengeance on any one who tries to do her an injury.' 'As God is merciful in life to me, I will avenge her,' said I. He quenched after that, like a candle. There thou hast the whole story." "Not the whole story, not all, brother!" "Vasilkevich told thee the rest. Very well! I will repeat the same to thee. I have no one on earth, neither father nor mother. I myself am in daily want, and she alone binds me to life." He indicated the widow with his eyes. And here Yosef, little experienced yet, had a chance to estimate what passion is when it rises in a youthful breast and adds fire to one's blood. That dry and bent Gustav seemed to him at that moment to gain strength and vigor; he seemed to him loftier, more manly; he shook his hair as a lion shakes his mane, and on his face a flush appeared. "Well, gentlemen," began Vasilkevich, "the hour is late, and sleep is not awaiting all of us after leaving this meeting-place. One more song, and then whoso wishes may say his good-night." He of the maiden face who sat at the piano struck some well-known notes, then a few youthful voices sounded, but afterward a whole chorus of them raised the song dear to students, "Gaudeamus" (Let us rejoice). Yosef went nearer the piano than others. He stood with his side face turned to the widow, under the light; but the lamp hanging near the wall cast his profile in one line of light. After a while the widow's eyes fell on that line, connecting it unquietly with her own thoughts. On a sudden she rose, as pale as marble, with a feverish gleam in her eyes, stretched forth her arms, and cried,-- "My Kazimir, I have found thee!" In her voice were heard hope, alarm, joy, and awakening. All were silent. Every eye turned toward Yosef, and a quiver ran through those who had known Potkanski. In the light and shade that tall, strong figure seemed a repetition of the dead man. "I was not careful," muttered Gustav, on his way home about daybreak. "H'm! well, her trouble has passed, but she was excited! He is really like him--The devils take it! But the cursed asthma stifles me to-day." CHAPTER II Yosef meditated long over the choice of his course. "I have given my clear word of honor not to waste myself in life, therefore I meditate," said he to Vasilkevich. And here it must be confessed that the University roused him in no common manner. From various points of the world youth journeyed thither, like lines of storks. Some were entering to satisfy their mental thirst, others were going away. Some hurried in to gain knowledge as bees gather honey. They assembled, they scattered, they went in crowds, they drew from science, they drew from themselves, they drew from life. They gave animation and they received it, they spared life or they squandered it, they pressed forward, they halted, they fell, they conquered, and they were broken with their lives. Bathing in that sea, some of them were drowned, others swam to shore. Movement, uproar, activity dominated immensely. The University was like a general ovarium where brains were to be propagated. It opened every year, giving forth ripe fruits, and taking in straightway new nurslings. Men were born there a second time. It was beautiful to see how youth, like waves of water, rolled forth to the world yearly, bearing light to the ignorant, as it were provisions to the human field. To such a sea the boat of life brought Yosef. Where was he to attach himself? Various courses of study, like harbors, enticed him. Whither was he to turn? He meditated long; at last he sailed in. He chose the medical course. "Happen what may, I must be rich," said he, deciding the question of choice. But this decision was only because Yosef, with his open mind, had immense regard for the secrets of science. Both literature and law attracted him, but natural sciences he looked on as the triumph of human thought. He had brought even from school this opinion of those sciences. In his school there had been a young teacher of chemistry, a great enthusiast, who, placing his hand on his heart, spoke thus one day to those of his pupils who were finishing their course,-- "Believe me, my boys, except natural science there is nothing but guesswork." It is true that the prefect of the school while closing religious exercises, affirmed that only the science of the Church can bring man to everlasting happiness. At this Yosef, whom the prefect had already called a "vile heretic," made such an ugly grimace that he roused the laughter of all who were present, but he drew down on his own head thunders partly deserved. So he chose the medical course. Vasilkevich influenced him in this regard. Vasilkevich, a student himself, had, rightly or wrongly, an immense influence on his comrades. It happened that at a students' talk a certain grammarian, a philologist, showed with less truth than hypocrisy that a man given to science should devote himself to it exclusively, forget the world, forget happiness, and incarnate himself in science,--be simply its expression, its basis, its word. In this deduction there was more of false enthusiasm and stiltedness than sincerity. "People tell us," continued the speaker, "that an Icelandic fisherman, who had forgotten himself in gazing at the aurora borealis, did not guard against currents. The waters bore him away to deep places, and he, with eyes fixed on those northern lights, became entirely ruddy in their gleams, till at last the spirit of the abyss bore him away and confined him under the glassy wave, but in the fisherman's eyes the lights remained pictured. "There is science and life!" added he. "The man who has once inclined his forehead before science may let the waves of life bear him to any depth, the light will remain with him." There are principles in the world which one does not recognize, but to come out against them a man needs no small share of courage. So among students one and another were silent, but Vasilkevich panted angrily and rose from his seat; at last he burst out,-- "Tfu! empty words! Let a German consort himself in that way with science, not us! In my mind science is for men, not men for science. Let the German turn himself into a parchment. Thy fisherman was a fool. If he had worked with his oar, he might have seen the lights and brought fish to his children. But again look at the question in this way: Poor people suffer and perish from hunger and cold, and wilt thou tear thyself free of the world and be for men a burden instead of an assistance? "Oi, Tetvin, Tetvin!" This was the name of the previous speaker. "Consider the sense, not the sound of thy words. Thou art able to unite folly with reason! To-day it seems to thee that thou wilt predict luck from a few faded cards. Not true! When the moment comes and thy breast aches about the heart, thou wilt yearn honestly for happiness in love. For example, in Lithuania, I have a pair of old people in a cottage, my father and mother, as white as doves, and one of them says to the other things of me which are beyond my merits, things which might be told of a golden king's son. What would my worth be were I to shut myself up in a book, not think of them, and neglect them in their old age? None whatever.--Well, I come here and I forget neither science nor them nor myself. And I am not alone. Every man who tills a field has the right to eat bread from it. That to begin with! Science is science; let not a scholar tear himself loose from life, let him not be an incompetent. A scholar is a scholar; but if he cannot button his shirt, if he does not support his own children, and has no care for his wife? Why not reconcile the practice of life with science? Why not bring science into one's career and enliven science itself with life?" Thus spoke Vasilkevich. He spoke and panted with excitement. The point is not in this whether he spoke truth or falsehood; we have repeated the conversation because Yosef, by nature inclined to be practical, took it to heart; he considered, meditated, thought, and chose the medical course. Happen what may, a man brings to the world certain tendencies. Yosef's mind was realistic by nature, in some way he clung rather to things than ideas--he had therefore no love for dialectics of any sort. He preferred greatly to see an object as it was, and had no wish to have it seem better than it was. The movement of mind in men's heads is of two sorts: one starts eternally from the centre of existence, the other refers each object to some other. Men of the first kind enter into things already investigated, and give them life by connecting them with the main source of existence by a very slender thread of knowledge. The first are the so-called creative capacities; the second grasp things in some fashion, compare them, classify them, and understand them only through arranging and bringing them into classes,--those are the scientific capacities. The first men are born to create, the second to investigate. The difference between them is like that between a spendthrift and a miser, between exhaling and inhaling. It is difficult to tell which is the better: the first have the gift of creating; the second of developing, and above all of digesting. In the second this is active; true, the stomach has that power also. A perfect balance between these powers constitutes genius. In such a case there is a natural need of broad movements. Yosef had the second capacity, the classifying. He not only had it, but he knew that he had it; this conviction preserved him in life from many mistakes, and gave a certain balance to his wishes and capacities. He never undertook a thing that for him was impossible. He calculated with himself. And, finally, he had much enthusiasm, which in his case might have been called persistence in science. Having a mind which was fond of examining everything soberly, he wanted to see everything well; but to see well one must know thoroughly. He was unable to guess, he wished to know. This was why he never learned anything half-way. As a spider surrounds a fly, he surrounded his subject of investigation diligently with a network of thought, he drew it into himself; it might be said that he sucked it out of the place where it was and finally digested it. His thoughts had also a high degree of activity. He desired, a natural attribute of youth. He was free of conceit. Frequently he rejected an opinion accepted by all, specially for this reason, that it had importance behind it. It must be confessed, however, that in this case he endeavored to find everything that was against it; when he did not find enough, he yielded. He had, besides, no little energy in thinking and doing. All this composed his strength, his weapon, partly acquired, partly natural. We forgot to say that he had in addition two thousand rubles. When he had estimated these supplies, he betook himself to medicine. But the greater the enthusiasm with which he betook himself to his specialty the more was he disenchanted at first. He wanted to know, but now only memory was required. In that case any man might succeed; at least it was a question of memory and will, not of reason. One needed a memory of the eyes, a memory of the hands; one had to put into the head seriously the first and second and tenth, from time to time like grain into a storehouse. That was well-nigh the work of a handicraftsman; the mental organism gained no profit from these supplies, for it did not digest nor work them over. Nutrition was lacking there. The philosophy of the physical structure of organisms may be compared in subtlety and in immensity of result with all others; but Yosef was only beginning to become acquainted with the organism itself; indications as to whether there existed any philosophy of those sciences were not given him thus far. But having once begun he had to wade farther. He waded. But the technical side of scientific labor was disagreeable, thankless, full of hidden difficulties and unexpected secrets, frequently obscure, often barely visible, most frequently repelling, always costing labor. One might have said that nature had declared war against the human mind at this stage. Yosef struggled with these moral difficulties, but he advanced. That technic had a gloomy side also in his eye: it had an evil effect morally. It disclosed the end of life without indicating whether a continuation existed. The veil was removed from death without the least hesitation. All the deformity of that subterranean toiler was exhibited with unconcealed insolence. That which remained of the dead was also a cynical promise to the living. Death appeared to say in open daylight, "Till we meet in the darkness!" This seemed an announcement bearing terrible proofs of the helplessness of man before an implacable, malicious, loathsome, and shameless power. This power when seen face to face, roused in young minds a violent reaction,--a reaction expressed in the following manner: "Let us lose no time, let us make use of life, for sooner or later the devils will take everything!" In such occupations delicacy of feeling was dimmed by degrees; indifference was degraded to coarseness, ambition to envy, love passed into passion, passion into impulse. Love was like the sun seen through a smoked glass; one felt the heat, but saw not the radiance. Yosef warded off these impressions; he shook himself free of them, he cast them away, and went forward. Finally, he had to be true to his principle. He who has confidence in one career has not in another; that which he has chosen seems best to him. In that which Yosef had chosen everything from the time of Hippocrates downward reposed on experience. Seeing, hearing, tasting, smelling, and feeling are the only criteria on which the whole immense structure stands even in our day. So men believe, especially young men, as the most different in everything from their elders. All that has come to science by ways aside from experience, is doubtful. Each man judges according to his own thought the ideas of others. The hypothesis of anything existing outside of experience, even if true, seems through such a glass frivolous. "Only investigated things have existence. The connection between cause and effect is a necessity of thought, but only in man. History is a chronicle more or less scandalous; law rests on experience of modes of living in society, speculation is a disease of the mind." Yosef did not ward off these thoughts, since they did not hinder him in advancing. As to the rest he worked on. CHAPTER III A month passed. The evening was fair, autumnal; the sun was quenching slowly on the towers of Kieff and on the distant grave-mounds of the steppe. Its light was still visible on the roof above Yosef and Gustav. Both were bent over their work and, sitting in silence, used the last rays of evening with eagerness. Gustav had returned from the city not long before; he was suffering and pale, he panted more than usual. On his face a certain uneasiness was manifest, vexation, even pain; this he strove to conceal, but still it was evident from the fever of his eyes. Both men were silent. It was clear, however, that Gustav wished to break the silence, for he turned to Yosef frequently; but since it seemed as though the first word could be spoken only with difficulty, he sank back to his book again. At last evident impatience was expressed on his face; he seized his cap from the table, and rose. "What o'clock is it now?" asked he. "Six." "Why art thou not going to the widow's? Thou goest every day to visit her." Yosef turned toward Gustav,-- "It was at her request that I went with thee to her lodgings the first time. Let us not mention the subject. I do not care to speak of that which would be disagreeable to both of us; for that matter, we understand each other perfectly. I will not see the widow to-day, or to-morrow, or any day. Thou hast my word and hand on that." They stood then in silence, Yosef with extended hand. Gustav, hesitating and disturbed by the awkward position, finally pressed the palm of his comrade. Evidently words came to both with difficulty; one did not wish to use heartfelt expressions, the other heartfelt thanks. After a while they parted. Men's feelings are strange sometimes, and the opposite of those which would seem the reward of noble deeds. Yosef promised Gustav not to see Pani Helena, the widow. Whether he loved her or not, that was a sacrifice on his part, for in his toilsome and monotonous existence she was the only bright point around which his thought loved to circle. Though thinking about her was only the occupation of moments snatched from hard labor and devoted to rest and mental freedom, to renounce such moments was to deprive rest of its charm, it was to remove a motive from life at a place where feeling might bud out and blossom. Yosef, after thinking a little, did this without hesitation. He made a sacrifice. Still, when Gustav had gone from the room, there was on Yosef's face an expression of distaste, even anger. Was that regret for the past, or for the deed done a moment before? No. When he extended his hand to Gustav, the latter hesitated in taking it. Not to accept a sacrifice given by an energetic soul is to cover the deed of sacrifice itself with a shadow of ridicule; and this in the mind of him who makes the sacrifice is to be ungrateful, and to cast a grain of deep hatred into the rich field of vanity. But to accept a rival's sacrifice is for a soul rich in pride to place one's own "I" under the feet of some other man morally; it is to receive small coppers of alms thrust hastily into a hand which had not been stretched forth for anything. Pride prefers to be a creditor rather than a debtor. Therefore Gustav when on the street twisted his mouth in bitter irony, and muttered through his pressed lips. Better and better. Favor, favor! Bow down now to Pan Yosef daily, and thank him. A pleasant life for thee, Gustav! And he fell into bitter, deep meditation. He ceased even to think of himself, he was merely dreaming painfully. He felt a kind of gloomy echo in his soul, while striving to summon up the remembrance of even one happy moment. That echo sounded in him like a broken chord. The mind and soul in the man were divided. One tortured half cried hurriedly for rest; the other half, energetic and gloomy, strove toward life yet. One half of his mind saw light and an object; the other turned moodily toward night and nothingness. To finish all, there was something besides in this sorrowing man which made sport of its own suffering; something like a malicious demon which with one hand indicated his own figure to him, pale, ugly, bent, and pointed out with the other, as it were in the clouds in the brightness of morning, Helena Potkanski, in marble repose, in splendid beauty. Torn apart with the tumult of this internal battle, he went forward alone, almost without knowing whither. Suddenly he heard behind a well-known voice singing in bass the glad song:-- "Hop! hop! hop! hop! And the horseshoe firmly fastened." He looked around--it was Vasilkevich and Augustinovich. "Whither art thou hastening, Gustav?" asked the first. "I? Ha! whither--" He looked at his watch. "It is too early to visit Pani Helena. I am going at present to the club." "Well, go straight to the widow." "What? Why?" "Woe!" exclaimed Augustinovich, raising his hand toward heaven; and without noticing passers-by, he fell to declaiming loudly:-- "The castle where joyousness sounded Is shrouded in mourning to-day; On its wall the wild weeds are growing, At its gate the faithful dog howls." "Thou hast no reason to visit the club," added Vasilkevich. "What has happened?" "Gloom is there now incubating a tempest," replied Augustinovich. "But say what has happened." "Misfortune." "Of what sort?" "Ghastly!" "Vasilkevich, speak in human fashion!" "The University government has closed our club. Some one declared that students assemble there." "When did this happen?" "Two hours since." "We must go there and learn on the spot." "I do not advise thee to do so. They will put thee in prison." "They will bind thy white palms with a rope--" "Augustinovich, be quiet! Why did they not do this in the evening? They might have caught us all like fish in a net." "Well, they cared more for closing the club than for seizing us; but were a man to go now, beyond doubt they would seize him." "But whither are ye going?" "We are going with a watchword of alarm; the clans send a fiery cross--" "Speak low, I beg thee!" "Yes, valiant Roderic." "True, true," interrupted Vasilkevich; "we are on the way to warn others, so farewell, or go with us." "I cannot." "Where wilt thou go?" "To Pani Helena's." "Farewell." "Till we meet again!" When he was alone, Gustav rubbed his hands, a smile of satisfaction lighted up his gloomy face for a moment. He was pleased with the closing of the club, for he ceased to fear that Helena, on learning of Yosef's decision, might wish to visit the club to see him there. His fears were well founded. Gustav remembered that despite prayers and arguments he had barely, by the promise of bringing Yosef to her lodgings, been able to restrain her from this improper step. Now he had no cause for fear. After a while he pulled the bell at the widow's dwelling. "How is thy mistress?" asked he of the servant girl. "She is well, but walking in the room and talking to herself." Gustav entered. Pani Helena's dwelling was composed of two narrow chambers, with windows looking out on a garden; the first chamber was a small drawing-room, the second she used as a bed-chamber, which Gustav now entered. The upper part of the window in the bed-chamber was divided by a narrow strip of wood from the lower part, and had colored panes arranged in the form of a flower, blue and red alternately. In one corner stood a small mahogany table covered with a soft velvet spread. On the table stood two portraits; one in an inlaid wooden frame represented a young man with a high forehead, blond hair, and handsome aristocratic features,--that was Potkanski; the other was Pani Helena. On her knees was her little daughter dressed in white. Before the portraits lay a garland of immortelles entwined with crape and with a sprig of dry myrtle. At the opposite end of the room, between two beds divided by a narrow space, was a small cradle, now empty, once filled with the twittering and noise of an infant. Its cover, colored green by the light of the panes, seemed to move slightly. One might have thought that a little hand would be thrust out any moment, and a joyous head look at its mother. Silent sadness was in the atmosphere of the place. The leaves of the acacia which looked in through the window were outlined darkly on the floor, and, moved by the wind, yielded to the quivering light and returned again. Near the door was a small statuette, representing the angel of baptism with hands extended as if to bless; at its feet was a holy-water pot. At the moment of which we are speaking the head of the angel was bright in colored gleams, as if with a mild glory of sweetness, of repose and innocence. There was, moreover, great silence in the chamber. The sorrow of that day equalled former gladness. What delight and prattling when Potkanski, returning in the evening tired with toil, embraced his wife with one arm, and putting back her golden hair, kissed her forehead, which at that time was calm and serene. How much quiet, deep joy when they stood in silence breast to breast and eye to eye, like statues of Love! Afterward they ran to the cradle where the little one, twittering with itself in various ways, and raising its tiny feet, laughed at the happy parents. Now the cradle was empty. Marvellously affecting was that cradle. It seemed that the child was there. More than once, in the first period of her misfortune, the widow, when she woke in the night, put her hand carefully into the cradle with the conviction that God must have pitied her, and, removing the child from the coffin, placed it back in the cradle. In a word, those walls had seen much joy, lulled by the happiness of serene love, then tears as large as pearls, then despair, which was silent, deathlike, and finally stubborn, mad. Such was the sleeping-room of that widow, and such were the thoughts which were roused at sight of the apartment. The little drawing-room, like all of its kind, had a sort of slight elegance and much emptiness. In that chamber, too, the echoes of past moments seemed to wander. It was well lighted, clean, but common; the room of the servant adjoined it,--a small dark closet with an entrance on the stairway and a wooden partition. Such was the former residence of Potkanski. After his death it was difficult to understand whence the means came to keep up such lodgings; this, however, pertained to Gustav, he knew what he was doing. There were no claims on the part of the owner; how this was managed we shall explain somewhat later. As often as Gustav entered that dwelling he trembled. In a place which was full of her presence, where everything that was not she was for her, he felt always a kind of weight on his breast, as if some hand were pressing his heart down more deeply. But that pressure was for him delightful. It was a contraction of his breast as if to inhale more air. To be pressed down by a feeling of happiness is almost to be happy, except that beyond it lies an immense shoreless space of desires. It inundates the whole man then, enters into his blood, manifests itself in the trembling of his words, in the glitter of his eyes. That desire itself does not know what it wants. Between too little and too much there is no boundary in the present case. This is the bashful desire of everything. A man is more daring externally than internally; his own words frighten him; it seems to him that some one else is saying something, he guards his own glances, he wants to laugh spasmodically or to burst out sobbing. He loves, he honors, he makes an angel of a woman, and then desires that same angel as a woman. Gustav experienced this when he entered the widow's apartments. Every kind of desire which spirit and blood joined together can summon, flew to him from all sides, like flocks of winged creatures. She stood before him. She was pale; on her lips appeared a slight trace of ruddiness. Her delicate profile was outlined on the background of the window like a silhouette. She held a comb in her hand, and, standing before the small silver-framed mirror, was combing her hair. Luxuriant tresses wound like waves around her pale forehead. That golden mass flowed down over her shoulders and breast, and seemed to drop like amber. Seeing Gustav, she greeted him with her hand and with a barely perceptible smile. The widow had emerged from her former lethargy. That sudden and violent shock which the sight of Yosef at the restaurant had called forth roused her, enlivened her. She began to think. One thing alone was she unable at first to explain. Yosef's form was so confounded in her mind with that of Potkanski that she did not know herself which was her former husband. That was the remnant of her insanity. But soon a ray of light returned to that beclouded mind. She begged Gustav to let her see Yosef. Gustav, though unwilling, agreed to this. With yearning did she wait for the evening when she was to look at that reminder of her former happiness. Not Yosef was she seeking, but the reminder; hence he was for her an absolute necessity. Then gradually and quite imperceptibly the past changed into the present, the dream into a reality. Yosef, noting this, had promised Gustav not to visit her; to prepare Helena and announce this news to her pertained to Gustav. It was easy to foresee the impression which this would make. She clasped her hands and threw back her head. A torrent of hair covered her shoulders with a rustle. "Where shall I see him?" asked she, insistently. Gustav was silent. "I must see him here or elsewhere. He is so like Kazimir--My God, I live entirely by that memory, Pan Gustav." Gustav was silent. He was made almost indignant by that blind egotism of Pani Helena. The drama began to play in him again. She begged him to do everything to undermine his own happiness. No! to act thus he would have to be a fool. But on the other hand--it was Helena who made the prayer. He bit his lips till the blood came, and was silent. Moreover, something belongs to him even from life. Everything that in him made up the man opposed her prayers with desperate energy. Meanwhile she continued to urge,-- "Pan Gustav, you will arrange so that I shall see him? I wish to see him. Why do you do me such an injustice?" Cold sweat covered Gustav's forehead; he stretched his hands to his face, and in a gloomy voice answered,-- "I do you no injustice, but"--here his voice quivered, he made an effort not to fall at her feet and cry out, "But I love thee, do not torture me!"--"he does not wish to come here," concluded he, almost inaudibly. He would have given much to avoid this moment. Helena covered her face with her hands and dropped into the armchair. Silence continued for a while, and the rustling of leaves was heard outside the window; inside the soul of a man was writhing in a conflict with itself. To bring Yosef, to take Helena from him, was for Gustav to unbridle misfortune. The struggle was brief; he knelt before Helena, and putting his lips to her hand, said in a broken voice,-- "I shall do what I can. He will come here. What am I to any one? He will come, but I cannot tell when--I will bring him myself." Soon after, in leaving the widow's lodgings, he muttered through his set teeth,-- "Yes, he will come; but it is not I who will bring him--he will come in a month--in two months--perhaps I shall be at rest." An attack of coughing interrupted further meditation. Gustav wandered through the streets for a long time; when he returned home, it struck two in the church belfry. Yosef was sleeping; he was breathing uniformly, quietly; the light of the lamp fell on his high forehead and open breast. Gustav looked feverishly at that breast. His eyes gleamed with hatred. He sat thus about an hour. All at once he trembled, he came to himself. A sensation was roused in him entirely opposite to any which he had felt up to that moment, a sensation of hunger; he went to the book-shelves, and taking a piece of brown bread, fell to eating it hastily. CHAPTER IV Autumn was approaching. It was cold in the rooms of the poorer students. Wrapped in their blankets and wearing caps, they warmed themselves with study. The rooms of those who had something with which to heat their stoves were swarming with comrades. No one visited the club any longer. At first there were efforts to select some other place for a club, but it ended in nothing, because Gustav on the one hand, and on the other Yosef, who had acquired considerable influence among students, resisted together; more especially Yosef, who held that clubs consumed too much time and were of small utility. He desired to introduce reform in this regard, and at last he succeeded. In spite of all opposing opinions he combated for that idea in the University, and especially at Vasilkevich's rooms, where students met with more willingness than elsewhere. Vasilkevich roomed with Karvovski, or rather the latter with Vasilkevich, for though Karvovski was very wealthy (he was that pale youth who had played on the piano to his comrades in the club) and paid by far the greater part of the rent for their lodgings, the soul and the pivot of this male housekeeping was our Lithuanian. The friendship between these two young men deserved admiration and even envy. One, delicate, pampered, beautiful, with a head full of the loftiest dreams, mild-mannered and beloved of all, slipped lightly through life in comfort and plenty. The other, a genuine Lithuanian; ugly in appearance, pock-marked, with closely cut hair and flashing eyes, vivacious, laborious, energetic, and profoundly instructed, was for the first as a guardian or elder brother. Vasilkevich possessed a warm heart, and was made, as the phrase runs, for the palm of the hand. Once when Karvovski fell dangerously ill, he nursed him night and day with real unparalleled self-denial, and when at last he recovered, the Lithuanian wept and scolded him from delight. "Oh, thou jester," said he, "what a trick for thee to fall ill; but just try it a second time!" The students called them a chosen pair, and an old blind grandfather (minstrel) of the Ukraine who begged not far from their lodgings and to whom they gave frequent alms, spoke of them as the "kind-hearted young lords." Many circumstances united them, but especially one which we shall mention immediately. They spent a summer vacation in the country at Karvovski's. Karvovski had a sister, weakly and not comely, but with wonderful kindness of heart, quiet, calm, a genuine angel, with a sunburnt little face and a fragile figure. That young maiden was loved by Vasilkevich; he loved her in his own way, very deeply, with faith in her and in his love, and, what is more, she loved him. Her parents did not know much of the matter, or if they did know they had no wish to hinder the young people. The maiden was ill-favored, he was honest and reliable; these facts balanced the small inequality of social position. Moreover, they did not wish to deprive their son of a society which in every regard could be only of use to him. This Lithuanian had another good side; he loved his parents beyond everything,--the "old people," as he called them. These old people lived in remotest Jmud, near Livonia; they were poor, their son helped them. His father was a forester. The old man had a small home in the wilderness; round about him the forest sounded and the wave plashed; beyond the forest and the wave were other forests and other waves,--a remote corner it was behind the lakes. The devil lived there, according to local traditions, but somehow that devil did not trouble the old people. Such was the place in which Vasilkevich first saw the light of day. When as a boy he went fishing, he met ducks beyond the lake, he found nests in the swamps. He was of a healthy and active disposition. Nature had cradled him; he was taught by birds, water, and trees. From the fern of the forest to the birch which knew not where in the heavens to put its head, all was for him a book the first words of which he himself learned to read. The birds of the Commonwealth explained their laws to him; once he saw how beavers made dams with their tails in the rivers; he knew that by following the voice of the bee-eater he could find hidden bee-nests; he knew how to take their young from the badgers. He even brought home young wolves to the house with him. When he had grown up sufficiently, his father taught him to read; the old man drew out of a box some rusty coins, and sent the boy to school; then difficult times set in. There was need to learn; so he learned. It would be a long tale to tell how much and what he passed through before he reached the University and began to be the man whom we know at present. His parents returned his love a hundred-fold. In truth, they were a pair of doves whitened by age, loving each other, in agreement and happiness. Happiness and peace dwelt in that cottage. Such bright spots on the earth are met with, though rarely, like oases in a desert. The old people enjoyed each other, and went side by side as in the first days after marriage; they called each other falcon and berry. What joy there was when that son came home for vacation, no tongue can tell, no pen can describe. With Vasilkevich came Karvovski. The old people loved and petted him also, but he was not for them as their Yasek, whom they simply called "Ours." Often when the young men were tired from racing a whole day through the wilderness, the old people after going to bed talked in a low voice about them. This is what Karvovski heard once through their chamber partition,-- "He is a handsome boy, that Karvovski," said the old man. "But ours is handsomer," answered the old woman. "Oh, handsomer, handsomer!" Meanwhile that "Ours" was what is called ugly, but through the prism of parental love he seemed the most beautiful on earth. It is not reality itself, but the heart with which we approach it that gives things their form and color. But let us return to Kieff and to our acquaintances. It is nothing wonderful that with such hosts as Vasilkevich and Karvovski their dwelling, in which among other things stood a perfect stove, became a centre for many students. Even the intelligence of the University assembled there; literary evenings were established. All who felt a vein for letters made public their productions in those rooms. The long autumn evenings were turned into genuine literary sessions. It would be difficult to enumerate the burning thoughts which were uttered there by youthful lips. Vasilkevich, Karvovski, Yosef, in a little while Gustav, and especially Augustinovich, took the lead in those meetings. Yosef tried his creative powers, but somehow he did not succeed, he had not the talent, simply; he did not know how to fashion, how to create, how to attach his own ideas to that golden thread of fantasy which bathes all things in rainbow tints before it gives them to the world warmed and illuminated, or bright as a summer night's lightning. But in recompense he had another kind of power. He judged soundly, and what is more, with keenness. After he had read a production of his own he analyzed it in presence of all; joyous laughter continued till late in the apartments. In like manner did he treat the productions of others; if he ridiculed the chips flew from those first offerings placed on the altar of art. He was able so to arrange his voice and expression of face to the current of his words that when he wished the gloomiest subject roused the most laughter. This obtained for him great consideration. Those who, feeling a sympathy for the moon, struck the sentimental chords of their hearts, dreaded him as they might have dreaded Satan. Vasilkevich described his Lithuanian lakes and forests pithily. From time to time Karvovski permitted himself lyric verses in which dew, tears, lilies of the valley, and sighs spoke with each other in the manner of people. In this case it was not a question of judgment, but of the love of a village shepherd for a birch of the field which after his death "took up and withered," according to the words of those pathetic verses. There were better and worse things in that assembly; humor appeared often, but at times something superior which was worth listening to, especially since by degrees through exercise and criticism capacities of greater or less power were manifested. But Augustinovich towered above every one at all times. It happened more than once, God forgive, that he came drunk to the meeting, his manuscript crushed, soiled, and written fragmentarily on anything; but when he began to read all else was forgotten, the soul clung to his words. More than one student used hands and head, drew out of himself all that was best, wrote a thing that was more or less good, but common. "That lurking soul" caught up a pen right there in the room amid noise and conversation, but sheets and sheets flew from his hand and dropped under the table. When he had finished writing he picked up the sheets, arranged them, and sat down with indifference; but all listened, and more than one man envied him secretly. His figures were as if living, so complete were they; under the wave of his words thought flowed in a hundred colors, like a serpent glittering with jewels. When he spoke of love you felt the beating of a beloved heart on your own; when he rose with the strength of enthusiasm, the thunder of words roared, and the mind dazzled by lightning flashes quivered in fear; when in the low fall of words he depicted some feeling touchingly, the odor of roses and myrtle was discovered in the air, the fern blossomed in the moonlight, from some place beyond the forest and the pine wood, the song of a maiden floated out on the dew. Ah, he was gifted! Beautiful words and beautiful thoughts fell from him of themselves, not having apparent connection with the man. Those were blossoms on a quagmire. Revelations of humor, in which moral fall accompanied cynicism, testified best of all to this. "Ei, Augustinovich! Augustinovich!" said the students to him then, "with thy gifts, were there not such a devil in thee, what couldst thou not do, O thou scapegrace!" "For this very reason I wish to drown him. Have ye not something here to drink?" replied he. Gustav had been present at those meetings a few times; but he did not like Karvovski, simply because all liked him. The more difficult his career was, the more clouds obscured the horizon of his love, the more irritable and embittered did he become. Passionate and unsuccessful attachments have this peculiarity, that they develop hatreds just as passionate. Such a hatred not directed to any person or thing yet had occupied Gustav's breast and was resting like rust in it. He hated all who had what he lacked. He felt as if wronged, and for every wrong such natures are accustomed to pay, even though they pay only in theory. He withdrew, therefore, from the society of students, though among them alone existed hearts which could beat for him. He knew this, and in spite of his hatred for all men he loved students; still he shut himself up within his own bosom. Sympathy humiliated him. He suspected the existence of pity in all places, and was afraid of it. Finally, they learned this, that Yosef had promised him not to visit Helena. This information had not come from Yosef, but from Gustav himself; he had told it in a moment of irritation. Naturally this raised Yosef in the opinion of his comrades. Gustav was angry. Between him and Yosef a dark cloud of dislike had intervened. The widow spoke to him of Yosef with greater and greater insistence, with increasing force, with rising passion. A process of ill-omen for Gustav, as Gustav himself thought, took place in her. The deceased Potkanski became more and more incarnate in Yosef; in this new figure Potkanski was dissolved and lost. By degrees, and just through long separation, the enthusiastic heart of Helena remembered Yosef more and more, but now for the sake of himself. A new epoch of resuscitated happiness for the widow, of dying hope for Gustav, emerged gradually, urged on by the rude hand of necessity,--an epoch born of tears, chance, and pain. "I may not, I may not be long in peace!" thought he. "But happen what may, I will not bring him here a second time." Every one will divine easily what was hidden under a reflection of that sort. Gustav judged that he would be able to stifle himself by work,--he was more and more wearied; happy moments he had only in sleep. Once he dreamed that he was at Helena's knees and kissing her hands; he felt distinctly her dear palms on his heart. Then in the dream excitement of passion he found her lips with his lips, and almost suffered from excess of delight. After that came awakening. He saw her daily,--he was so near to her and always so distant. He grew thinner and more emaciated; in his eyes shone feverish gleams of unbending will. That fever exhausted him, but kept him on his feet. "I am curious to know what will come of this," muttered he through his parched lips. But there was one side almost sublime in this gloomy exertion of suffering. Gustav was not dreaming. He took life as it was, not as it might be. In spite of the sad condition of his health, he knew how to work, and worked more than ever. To come from Pani Helena and sit down to toil needed no common strength,--such victories he won over his own nature daily. He gathered about him a number of the most capable men, and as it were to compare them with the assemblies at Vasilkevich's, he organized a circle laboring only scientifically. He and two fellow-students were writing a grammar of the Lettish languages; in spite of continual disputes with his co-workers, he stood at the head of this labor, and what he stole from suffering he gave to it. CHAPTER V Nothing could be more irritating than the relations of these students. They lived together. At last Gustav on returning one day from Pani Helena's found Yosef's effects packed. Yosef himself was occupied in arranging his books and linen. Both were silent till all was ready; then Yosef said,-- "Gustav, farewell! I am moving out." Gustav reached him his hand without saying a word. They parted coldly. On the road Vasilkevich met Yosef. "Ho! What is this?" inquired he. "Art thou moving?" "Thou knowest my relations with Gustav, judge thyself if I can live with him longer." "But this is clear, it was not well for thee to leave him in his present condition of health." "I understand, but I assure thee that I can only irritate him. Thou knowest what I have done for Gustav; he has no real reason to dislike me; but still--" Vasilkevich pressed his hand. Yosef's new lodgings were in a house of several stories. They consisted of two large and good-looking rooms. Besides the money which he had brought from home, Yosef immediately after his arrival found means which permitted him to save his capital to the utmost. He began to think then of a more comfortable mode of life, and at last arranged things far better really than at the beginning. From the first glance one might note ease and plenty in the new dwelling. The bed was made in good order every day, the floor swept, and in the small porcelain stove a cheerful fire burned daily, toward evening--it was so comfortable there that the soul rejoiced! For that matter, the whole house was far better arranged than the other, it was even elegant. On the first story lived some general with his wife and two daughters, as ugly as two winter nights; on the second story lived Yosef, and a French engineer from whom the rooms were hired; and on the third some reduced count, a man immensely rich on a time, perhaps, but at that moment bankrupt; he lived in three or four rooms with his grown-up daughter and two or three servant-maids from the Ukraine. Such were Yosef's neighbors. Soon they gave evidence of themselves, for all day in the engineer's rooms groaned a piano at which children were learning to play all the contra-dances ever danced up to that time in any land; at the general's were continual amusements, dances, and evening parties. Whole nights through there was stamping there, as in a mill, servants moving about on the stairway; there was no lack of noise and rattle. The count alone lived quietly. There is nothing wonderful in this, that he and his daughter sat there meditating sadly over their own ruin like Jews over the ruins of Jerusalem. Yosef of course did not know them yet, but at times about dusk, by the clatter on the stairs and the heavy tread, he divined that the old count was taking his daughter to walk; but not being fond of titles or coronets, he had in truth no curiosity to look at them. Once, however, he saw something which interested him more. A certain day, while going to his room, he saw between the first story and the second a certain bust bent over the banisters with a head altogether shapely, blue eyes, and dark hair. Those eyes, shaded by a hand, were looking carefully for something in the half light of the passage. Seeing Yosef, the head pushed forward, and with it the body, and when the student hurried on, wishing to see the young lady more nearly, he saw only two small feet in black boots and white stockings. The feet were fleeing upstairs with all speed. "Ah, that is the countess then!" thought he. The countess roused his curiosity. He did not know himself why in the dusk sitting in front of the fire he saw definitely before him that pair of eyes covered with the hand, the white forehead surrounded with curls of dark hair, and the feet in black boots. A couple of evenings later when at an advanced hour he had put out the light and lain down in bed, he heard some voice singing a melancholy song in Italian. The passage and Yosef's room also were filled with those tones, youthful, resonant, sympathetic; the fond and passionate adjurations and reproaches were given out with a marvellous charm; in the stillness of night the words came forth clearly. "Ah! the countess is singing!" murmured Yosef. Next morning early, he knew not why, while dressing and rubbing his hands with soap stubbornly, he sang with much pathos as if to lend himself energy. But soon he ceased; the widow came to his mind instead of the countess. "That woman either loves me already, or she would love me very soon," thought he. He wished the return of those moments during which he had looked into her eyes. "What a strange woman!" thought he. "How that Potkanski must have loved her--ha! and Gustav!" He frowned. "If I go there, will he not grieve to death, will he not poison himself? That love will ruin him--h'm! Each answers for himself. But I am curious to know what she says since I do not visit her." Thenceforth that moment recurred to his mind frequently when she, so pale and with outstretched arms, exclaimed, "I have found thee, my Kazimir!" If only he wished, he could go to her, love her, and be loved by her. This plan of probable love did not let him sleep. Like every young man, he felt the need of love; his heart beat violently, as if it wanted to burst, broken by its own strength. And so far he knew no woman except the widow. The black boots and white stockings of the countess passed before his eyes, but that slight imagining vanished into nothingness. He remembered meanwhile how on a certain time during conversation he had held the widow's hand; he remembered what a wish he had had to kiss it, but he remembered also how ominously Gustav's eyes were glittering at that moment. Jealousy seized him. Occasionally a scarcely visible cloud, regret for a premature promise, sped past in his soul and hid somewhere in its darkest caves. Then he repeated in a very tragic tone, "I have promised, I will not go." One thing more angered him,--to people respected and more advanced in life this would seem a paradox,--the quiet of life angered him. Science came to him easily, he did not expend all his powers, and this roused distaste in him. Fresh, active natures, like young soldiers, feel a need of bathing in the fire of battle. This desire of his to fight which at a more advanced age seems to us improbable, becomes in certain years, and quite seriously, one of the needs of the spirit. Let us remember Yosef's monologue in Gustav's room, the first day of his coming to Kieff. He wanted then to throw down the gauntlet in the name of science or the name of feeling, before the whole world. Young eagles try to fly with a cloud above them and an abyss underneath. Even the most common man, before learning that he is a turtle, has moments in which he thinks himself an eagle. In such a condition was Yosef, and in this case there was simply no one with whom to be at sword's-points. In the University he had a greater or less number of adherents, a field in the wide world might open, but Yosef did not know this wide world yet. Suddenly something happened which snatched him from his lethargy. Augustinovich had acted in a way that offended the honor of students. They determined to expel him. That was not his first offence, but the students had always passed those matters over among themselves, not wishing to be compromised in public opinion; now the measure had been exceeded. We will not acquaint the reader with the offence; what concern have we with foulness? It is enough that a court composed of students had decided to expel the offender. From such decisions there was no appeal, for the University authorities always confirmed them; an appeal would only make it more widely known. Indignation among students was great; no one took the part of Augustinovich except Yosef, who rousing half the University exerted his power to save the man. "You wish to expel him," said he, at a very stormy meeting. "You wish to expel him? But do you think that after he has left the University he will not bring shame to you? What will he do with himself? Where will he go? How will he find means of living? How will he maintain himself? And do you know why he fell? No!--Ask him when he has eaten a dinner. We are among ourselves. Raise either of his feet, the right or the left, all the same! If under his boots you find one sound sole, expel him. As to me I declare, and may the thunderbolts split any one who will say otherwise, that we ought to save, not to ruin him. Give him salvation, give him bread--take him on your own responsibility!" "Who will answer for him?" asked one of Augustinovich's opponents. "I!" shouted Yosef in a thundering voice; and he threw his cap on the floor. There was uproar and confusion in the room. Vasilkevich supported Yosef with all his influence, others insisted on his expulsion, there was no "small uproar." Yosef sprang onto a bench, and turning to Augustinovich shouted,-- "They forgive thee! Come with me." He left the room, rubbing his hands with internal delight, and cried,-- "It would be a pity to lose such a head! Besides, let them eat the devil if they act without me now!" "Why didst thou save me?" inquired Augustinovich. Yosef turned a severe face toward him and said,-- "To-day thou wilt move into my lodgings." Meanwhile another drama was played in Pani Helena's lodgings. She was a most peculiar person; she could not exist, she knew not how to exist, without attaching her life to some feeling. Her first chance had been fortunate; she proved a model wife and mother. It had seemed to her that she found salvation in Yosef, and now months had passed since she had seen him; and she desired him the more, the more persistently Gustav resisted. The last struggle of these directly opposing forces had to come. "If thou wilt not return him to me," said the widow in tears, one evening, "I will go myself to find him. I am ready to kneel down before thee and beg on my knees for him, Gustav! Thou sayest that Kazimir begged thee to have care over me; so I implore thee in his name. O God, O God! Thou dost not understand that it is possible to suffer; thou hast never loved, of course." "I, Pani! have never loved?" repeated Gustav, in a very low voice; and in his eyes real pain was evident. "Perhaps thou art speaking the truth. Then thou hast observed nothing, hast seen nothing? I know not myself that I have loved any one except--O God, what do I utter!--except thee alone." He threw himself at Helena's feet. Great silence followed. One might have said that the two persons had become stone,--she bent backward, with her hands over her face, he at her feet. They continued in this posture, both oblivious of everything around them. But a moment comes when the greatest pain is conquered. He rose soon, a new man; he was very calm. He roused her, and spoke in a low voice, interrupted through a lack of breath. "Pardon me, Helena! I should not have done this, but thou seest I have been suffering so long. This is the third year since I saw thee the first time--I saw thee in a church; the priest was just elevating the chalice, and thou wert inclining--I visited that church afterward, I saw thee more frequently, and, pardon me! I myself cannot tell how it happened. Afterward thou didst become his wife--I said nothing. And this time I did not wish to offend or annoy thee, but thou sayest that I have never loved. Thou seest that that is not true. How hard it is to renounce the last hope! Pardon me! Pan Yosef will come to-day to thee--he is a man of noble nature, love him, be happy--and farewell." He bent toward her, and raising the hem of her garment, with gleaming upturned eyes, he kissed the cloth as though it were sacred. After a while the widow was alone. "What did he say?" whispered she, in a low voice. "What did Gustav say? He said, I remember it, that _he_ would come again to me. Am I dreaming? But no, _he_ will come." CHAPTER VI Meanwhile Augustinovich went to live permanently with Yosef. How different was his former from his present life! Formerly he had had no warm corner, now Yosef gave him a warm corner; he had had no bed, Yosef bought him a bed; he had had no blanket, Yosef bought him a blanket; he had had no clothes, Yosef got clothes for him; he had been without food, Yosef divided his own dinner with him. He found himself in conditions entirely different. Warmed, nourished, in a decent overcoat, combed, washed, shaved, he became a different man altogether. He was, as we have said, a person with a character unparalleled for weakness; conditions of life always created him, he was merely the resultant of forces. So under Yosef's strong hand he changed beyond recognition. He began to enjoy order and plenty, abundance in life. As he had not been ashamed before of anything, so now he began to be ashamed of everything which did not accord with elegant clothing and gloves. The most difficult thing was to disaccustom himself from drinking; but he had no chance to resume his former vice, for Yosef, who guarded him as the eye in his head, did not let him out of sight; he bought vodka for him, but did not let him have money. It would be difficult to describe the impatience with which Augustinovich waited for the moment when Yosef opened the cupboard to pour him a glass. How much he dreamed in that moment, how he represented the taste of the drink to himself, the putting of it to his lips, the touch of it on his tongue, the swallowing through his throat, and finally the solemn entrance of it into his stomach! But Yosef, to deprive this treat of its humiliating character, drank to him usually. In the course of time he treated him better; he began to associate him with various affairs of his own and the University, and finally with his own way of thinking. There is no need of saying that Augustinovich took all this to himself, that he repeated Yosef's words where he could preface them usually with, "I judge that, etc." Who would have recognized him? He, for whom nothing had been too cynical, said now in student gatherings when the conversation took too free a turn, "Gentlemen, above all, decency." The students laughed; Yosef himself smiled in silence, but so far he was content with his own work. We need not add that Yosef attending the same faculty with Augustinovich studied with him evenings. He had then the opportunity of estimating his capabilities to the full. For that mind there was no such thing as more difficult or easier; a certain wild intuition took the place of thought and deliberation. His memory, not so retentive as it was capacious, took the place of labor. Vasilkevich was a frequent visitor of theirs. At first he came with Karvovski, then he came alone daily at his own hour. His conversations with Yosef, circling about the most important questions of life and science, became more confidential. Those two men felt each other, and each divined in the other a powerful mind and will. A relation founded on mutual esteem seemed to herald a permanent future. Both seized in their hands the direction of youth in the University; the initiative of general activities started only with them, and since they agreed there was agreement in the University; comradeship and science gained most by that friendship. "Tell me," inquired Yosef on a time, "what do they say of my action with Augustinovich?" "Some pay thee homage," answered Vasilkevich; "others laugh. I visited one of thy opponents on behalf of our library; I found there no small crowd, and they were just speaking of thee and Augustinovich. But dost thou know who defended thee most warmly?" "Well, who was it?" "Guess." "Lolo Karvovski." "No, not he." "As God lives, I cannot imagine." "Gustav." "Gustav?" "Ah, he told those who were laughing at thee so many agreeable facts--they will not forget them soon, I guarantee that. Thou knowest how well he can do such things. I thought that the deuce would take them." "I should not have expected this of Gustav." "I had not seen him for a long time. Oh, he has sunk in that wretched love to the ears. But he is a strong fellow--and I am sorry for him. Tell me, thou art more skilled in this than I am: is he very sick?" "Oh, he is not well." "What is it? asthma?" Yosef nodded. "Excessive work, grief." "Too bad." All at once steps were heard on the stairs, the door opened, Gustav walked in. He was changed beyond recognition. The skin on his face had become wonderfully white, it had grown transparent. From his face came a certain coldness, as from a corpse; a yellowish shade shone from his forehead, which seemed to be of wax. His lips were white; his hair, beard, and mustache looked almost black as compared with that pallor. He was like a man who had passed through a long illness, and on his face had settled certainty concerning himself and a kind of despairing resignation. Yosef, a little astonished, a little confused, did not know perhaps how to begin. Gustav brought him out of the trouble. "I have come to thee with a prayer," said he. "Once thou didst promise not to visit the widow; withdraw that promise." Yosef made a wry face with a kind of constraint. But he only answered,-- "It is not a custom with me to break my word." "True," answered Gustav, calmly; "but this is something entirely different. If I were to die, for example, the promise would not bind thee, and I, as thou seest, am sick, very grievously sick. Meanwhile she needs protection. I cannot protect her now, I cannot watch over her. I must lie down to rest, for I am wearied somewhat. For that matter, I will tell the whole truth to thee. She loves thee, and beyond doubt thou lovest her also. I have stood in thy way and hers, but now I withdraw. I do so perforce, and I shall not represent this as a sacrifice. I loved her much, and I had a little hope that she would love me some day; but I was mistaken." Here his voice fell an octave lower. "No one has ever loved me. It has been very gloomy for me in life--But what is to be done? Of late I have passed through much, but now that is over. To-day my concern is that she be not left alone. Had I been able to decide on a sacrifice, thou wouldst be her protector to-day. Canst thou do this for me, Yosef? Thou hast energy, thou art rich, and she, I say, loves thee, so thou wilt not end as I have. Oh, it has been hard in this world for me--But never mind. I should not like to do her an injury--I love her yet. I should not wish her to be alone because of me. At times, seest thou, it is not proper to refuse people anything. Go, go to her! Thou and I lived together once, we fought the same trouble, hence thou shouldst do me this favor; for, I repeat, I am sick and I know not whether I shall see her or thee again." A tear gathered in Vasilkevich's eye; he rose and said, turning to Yosef,-- "Thou shouldst do all that Gustav asks of thee." "I will go to her, I will protect her," answered Yosef, decidedly. "I give my word of honor to both of you." "I thank thee," said Gustav. "Go there now." A little later he was alone with Vasilkevich. The Lithuanian was silent for some time, he struggled with his own heart; finally he spoke in a voice of heartfelt sympathy,-- "Gustav, poor Gustav, how thou must suffer at this moment!" Gustav made no answer. He drew the air into his mouth with hissing, gritted his teeth, his face quivered convulsively, and a sudden sobbing tore his breast, strength left him completely. * * * * * Three days later Yosef and Vasilkevich were sitting in Gustav's lodging. The evening was bright; bundles of moonlight were falling into the room through the panes. At the bedside of the sick man a candle was burning. The sick man himself was still conscious. Almost beautiful was his face, which had grown yellow from suffering, with its lofty forehead, as it rested on high pillows. One emaciated hand lay on the blanket, with the other he pressed his bosom. The light of the candle cast a rosy gleam on that martyr to his own feelings. The opposite corner of the room was obscure in the shadow. Gustav was giving an account of how he had cared for Helena. From time to time he answered, though with difficulty, now to Yosef, now to Vasilkevich, who, standing at the head of the bed, wiped away the abundant perspiration which came out on the forehead of the sufferer. "I wish to forewarn thee," said Gustav. "They send her two thousand zlotys yearly (about $250), but she needs from five to six thousand. I earned the rest for her--Push away the candle, and moisten my lips--I took from my own mouth, I did not sleep enough--Sometimes I did not eat a meal for two days--Raise me a little, and support me higher, I cannot speak--There are thirty rubles more for her in that box--It is dark around me--Let me rest--" A mouse made a piece of paper rustle in one corner; except that, silence held the room. Death was coming. "I should like to finish our work," continued Gustav. "Tell my associates not to quarrel--Cold is seizing me--I am curious to know if there be a heaven or a hell. I have never prayed--but, but--" Vasilkevich inclined toward him and asked in a low voice,-- "Gustav, dost thou believe in immortality?" The sick man could speak no longer; he nodded in sign of affirmation. Then low tones of enchanting music seemed to be given forth in that chamber. Along the rays of the moonlight a legion of angels pushed in from the sky; the room was filled with them, some with white, others with golden or colored wings. They came quietly, bent over the bed. The rustle of their wings was audible. The spirit of Gustav went away with that low-sounding orchestra. The funeral took place with great solemnity. The whole University in a body was present around the coffin. Then they spoke for the first time of the accurate knowledge, the toil and sacrifices of the deceased. It appeared from the accounts which Yosef examined that Gustav had earned about four thousand zlotys ($500) yearly. All of this went to the widow; he lived himself like a dog. This voluntary but silent heroism made for him an enduring monument in the hearts of the young men. They discovered also various labors of the deceased which indicated solid acquirements, nay, talent. They found his diary, which was a confession in simple and even blunt words of all the dark side of his life of privation, a kind of apology for the passionate outbreaks of youth, those imaginary but still real sufferings, those struggles, those pains, those internal storms, and conversations held with self. The inner life of enthusiastic natures was unveiled there in all its dark solemnity. It was a terror to look into that chaos which is not to be known in every-day life, in that "so devilishly gilded world," as the poetess calls it. The memoirs were read at Vasilkevich's rooms; there was even a proposition to print them, though it was not brought into effect somehow. But Augustinovich wrote a paper after Gustav's death. Very eloquently did he describe the man's career. He showed him from years of childhood, when he was still happy. The charm of the description of those spring moments of life was so great that it seemed as though the sun of May had shone upon the writer. Then the picture grew sombre. It was seen how the deceased had left his native cottage; how the dog, the old servant, ran after him howling. Then still darker: life hurled him about, tossed him, rent him. Again a ray shone as if on a cloud. In rainbow form Pani Helena appeared to him--he stretched his arms toward that light. "The rest you know," wrote Augustinovich. "Let him sleep now, and dream of her. The field swallow will sing her name above his grave. Let him rest in peace. The spark is quenched, the bowl is broken--that is Gustav." But it happens usually that people after his death speak much of a man whom during life they almost buffeted. Let us give peace then to Gustav, and follow the further fortune of our acquaintances, and especially of Yosef, the hero of this volume. With him nothing had changed, but he himself from the time of his first visit to Pani Helena went about as if in meditation and was silent. Augustinovich accustomed himself more and more to the new condition. At the general's the guests danced as before. At the engineer's they pounded on the piano. The countess sang in the evening. Gustav's room was occupied by a shoemaker who had two scrofulous descendants and a wife with a third misery. In the place where thoughts from a noble head had circled and words of warmth had dropped, were now heard the thread and the shoemaker's stirrup. The widow did not hear of Gustav's death immediately; Yosef concealed it, fearing too violent an impression. Later he was astonished to find that she received the news with sadness, it is true, but with no sign of despair. We have much to tell of those new relations; in the succeeding part we shall pass to them directly. CHAPTER VII Yosef, according to his promise given Gustav, visited Helena, and after the second visit went away in love. He returned late at night. The stars were twinkling on a serene sky; from the Dnieper came the cool, but bracing breath of water. Light streaks of mist wound in a long line on the east. There was music in the air and music in Yosef's breast. He was in love! It seemed to him that the serene night had visited his betrothal with happiness. Full happiness is both a remembrance and a hope. Yosef felt yet in his palms the small hands of Helena; he remembered that moment, thought of the tenderness of the morrow, looked forward to that moment. A wonderful thing! She took farewell of him with the word, "Remember;" but who could forget happiness, especially when the future is smiling with it? He loved! Pressed by the power and the charm of the night, the trembling of the stars and the majesty of dark expanses, he cast a look full of fire to the remotest borders of heavenly loneliness, and whispered with quivering lips,-- "If Thou exist! Thou art great and good." Notwithstanding the condition set up before this statement, that for Yosef was very much. He recognized greatness and goodness. He said, "If Thou art." If those words had been spoken about some being, they would be conditional; spoken to some being they were an affirmation of existence: "Thou art." In spite of all his realism let us not wonder so much at these words. The lips which pronounced them had drunk freshly from the cup of ecstasy. When Yosef reached home, Augustinovich was sleeping in the best fashion possible; his snoring was heard even on the stairway. He drew out the song of slumber, now short, now long, now lower, now higher, now puffing, now blowing, now whistling. Yosef roused him. He determined finally to embrace him. Augustinovich stared at him with astonished eyes, and at the first moment cried,-- "Go to the--" Yosef laughed joyously. "Good-night!" said Augustinovich. "I will tell thee to-morrow where thou art coming from--now I wish to sleep--good-night." The next day was Sunday. In the morning Yosef poured the tea; Augustinovich, lying in bed yet, and looking at the ceiling, was smoking a pipe. Both were thinking of the day previous. Finally Augustinovich was the first to speak,-- "Dost thou know what has come to my head?" "No." "Then I will tell thee. I will tell thee that it is not worth while to attach one's life to the first woman that comes along; as I wish well to Jove, it is not! There are better things in this world." "Whence did those ideas come to thee?" "Straight from the pipe. A man so binds himself to an idea, grows one with it completely, and then something comes and, behold! of those palaces as much remains as of the smoke which I blow out at this moment." An immense roll of smoke rose up from Augustinovich's lips, and striking the ceiling was scattered on all sides. The conversation was stopped for a while. "Yosef, hadst thou been in love before knowing Gustav and Pani Helena?" "Had I lo-v-ed?" drawled Yosef, looking at the light through his glass of tea. "What? had I loved? Yes, I turned my head for a moment, but that did not push me out of life's ordinary conditions, it did not lead me out of the order of the day. I will say sincerely, though, that I have not been in love." Augustinovich, raising the stem of his pipe, began to declaim with solemnity,-- "O woman! helpless down! O giddy creature!" "Well, what is it?" asked Yosef, laughing. "Nothing, my reminiscences. Ei, it was different with me. I was as mad as a maniac a couple of times. Once, even in spite of misery, I tried to be an orderly person; it was difficult, but I tried." "And how did it end?" "Prosaically. I was giving lessons in a certain house. There were two children, a little son and a grown-up daughter. I taught the son and fell in love with the daughter. I told her this one evening, and tears came to my eyes. She was confused a little, and then she laughed. Thou wilt not believe, Yosef, what an ugly laugh that was, for she saw how much the confession had cost me, and besides she had enticed me on, to begin with. She went at once with a complaint to her 'mamma.'" "Well, what did the mamma do?" "The 'mamma' told me first that I was a scrub, whereupon I bowed to her; second she told me to go my way, and third she threw a five-ruble note on the floor before me. I picked up the note, for it belonged to me, and from it I got drunk that evening and next morning also." "And then?" "Then the next evening and the third morning." "And so on?" "No. On the fourth day I had an immense cry, and later, when I had cured myself a little, not of drinking, but of love, I tried to fall in love with the first woman I met; but I could not love any more, I give thee my word of honor." "And hast thou no hope for the future?" Augustinovich thought a moment, and answered,-- "No, I have no respect now for women. As much as I believed in them before, as much as I honored and loved them as the highest reward of toil and effort, that much do I like them now, dost understand? That excludes love." "But happiness." "Not a word about happiness. So to-day I whistle when I want to cry, and therefore envy thee." Yosef looked quickly at Augustinovich. "What dost thou envy me?" "Thy relation with Pani Helena. Do not frown, and do not wonder that I know those things well. Ho, ho! we have had a little experience. For that matter I will tell thee that I wanted myself to fall in love with Pani Helena. I prefer such women. Though, on the other hand--But do I know that thou wilt not be angry?" "Talk on." "I was afraid to fall in love with her. There is no denying that she is an unhappy woman, but, by the beard of the Prophet! what is that to me? I know only that the inheritance goes from hand to hand, and that whoso approaches her is happy for the ages. B-r-r! By my honor I should not wish to be the heir to such a legacy, even for a friend." Yosef put the glass of partly drunk tea on the table, and turning to Augustinovich said coldly,-- "Yes; but since I am the executor of the will, be so kind as to speak of the inheritance more considerately." "Well, I will tell thee in perfect seriousness not this, who or what the widow is, but what thou shouldst do. I speak disinterestedly. I speak even to my own harm. The affair is of this kind." Augustinovich sat up in bed. "I know thee, I know her; she will rush into thy arms herself. Initiative on the part of a woman--Ho! that is not good! Love must be a conquest. In a month thou wilt be sick of her, thou wilt be tortured and throw her to the devil. Yosef, I wish thee well--marry Helena while there is time." Yosef frowned more than before, and answered abruptly,-- "I will do what I think is proper." And really that little word "marry" had not come to his head yet. While kissing the widow's hands he had not thought of the consequences of the kisses. He was angry at himself, and at this more especially, that some one had reminded him of duties of conscience. A day later, two days later, he would have reminded himself of them beyond fail. The reminder coming from another took away from this thought the charm of spontaneous action which flows from love and made it constraint. The evening of that day Augustinovich met Vasilkevich. "Knowest thou that Yosef visits the widow now?" asked he. "What wonder?" "The woman is in love with him to distraction. Think what will come of that, and judge what Yosef ought to do." "He ought to love her too," answered Vasilkevich, with his usual decision. "Yes; and then?" "Then let them marry." Augustinovich waved his hand impatiently. "One other question. How wouldst thou act with Pani Helena?" "If I loved her?" "Yes." "I should marry her without hesitation." Augustinovich stopped him, and with his hand on his heart began to speak in a tone of deep conviction,-- "Seest thou, I am much indebted to Yosef, for that matter thou knowest this best of all, I should like then to pay him honestly,--yes, to pay him with advice. He is in a strange position, and still, dost understand, there are certain laws of honor which we are not permitted to break. I should not wish that any man at any time could say to Yosef, 'Thou hast acted dishonorably.' I say openly I should not wish that. Thou canst do much, thou hast influence over him." Vasilkevich, instead of letting himself be persuaded, grew angry. "But why push into affairs which are not thine? Leave him freedom. It is only a little while since he began to visit her. Ei! Augustinovich, does this come from thy heart? If Helena is anything to thee, then may I--But this is interfering--thou lovest to pose and speak well-sounding words. Play no comedy! Thou art making a sacrifice as it were by losing lodgings through Yosef's marriage, but that is mere levity. Thou art deceiving thyself without knowing it. Have no fear as to Yosef; if thou wert like him, no more would be needed. What hast thou to do with this matter? Thou hast not tact to the value of a copper." "Keep these lessons for thy own use! Then thou wilt not interfere between them?" "If this undefined relation were to last long, I should be the first to try and persuade, and finally to force Yosef to marry her; but to interfere to-day would be stupid." Augustinovich went home, greatly confused; a feeling of truth told him, however, that the Lithuanian was right, and that on his part it would be really meddling and a desire for posing, nothing more. CHAPTER VIII A couple of months had passed, winter had passed, spring had passed, summer had come, and those relations had not changed. Yosef loved Helena, she loved him, and their life flowed on in mutual forgetfulness of the future. But there was a shadow between them, a shadow thrown by chance. One summer day the widow tied under her chin the ribbons of a dainty blue hat, and covering her shoulders with a cape, she took Yosef's arm and they went out to walk. The sun was shining, there was a little dust in the air, and the heat made itself felt on all faces, though the hour was about six in the afternoon. Multitudes of people were on the streets; many acquaintances greeted Yosef with a friendly nod; some, and among them strangers, looked around at our couple. Really they were a beautiful couple. Yosef had grown, he had become manly; his chin and the sides of his face were covered now by a splendid, ruddy growth, and his face had a serious expression, with a certain tinge of pride. The widow looked exactly like a young betrothed. The wind blew apart the ribbons of her dainty hat, played with her white dress, and bearing apart the cape, showed her slender form. Leaning on Yosef's arm gracefully, she delighted in him and the sun and the air, and was as if born into the world a second time. Yosef looked more at her than at the people around. We will not undertake to repeat the words in that twittering of lovers, without meaning for others, full of charm for themselves. But there was more serious conversation; she, for example, begged him to take her to Potkanski's grave. "In the summer," said she, "there is much shade even in the cemetery. And it is so long since I was there; still I cannot forget him. Thou takest his place, Yosef, but permit me to pray for him sometimes." It was all one to Yosef for whom or for what Helena prayed; so he answered with an indulgent smile,-- "Very well, remember thy dead; but love the living," added he, inclining his head toward her face. A slight pressing of Yosef's arm to her breast was Helena's answer. She looked him in the eyes, then blushed like a girl. Yosef covered with his palm the little hand resting on his arm, and--was perfectly happy. They went to the cemetery, and on the way met Augustinovich; he was smoking a cigar and walking with two ladies, a mother and a daughter. Augustinovich had the daughter on his arm, the mother hurried on a little at one side; plumpness and finally the heat hindered her haste somewhat. Augustinovich was eloquent evidently, for the young lady restrained her laughter at moments. While passing Yosef he blinked with one eye; this was to signify that he was content with the world and the order of the earth at that moment. Yosef asked Helena about Augustinovich. "I know him, though I do not know his name. When Kazimir died, I saw him near me, then he disappeared somehow from my eyes." "He is the most gifted scapegrace whom I know," added Yosef. "But he told me that he was in love with my lady." "Why tell me that?" "Without an object, but it is a wonder how all are attracted to thee." "My dear Yosef, that is the one thing that I brought to the world with me. Thou wilt not believe how sadly the years of my childhood passed. Thou knowest not my history. I was reared in a wealthy family, where the master of the house treated me as his own daughter. After his death I was tormented in that house with every rudeness, till at last I fled and came to Kieff, where an old and very kind man took me into his care. He called me Helusiu always, and petted me as if I had been his own daughter. But afterward he too died, without leaving me means of living. Then I made the acquaintance of Kazimir. Thou wilt wonder how I went to a students' club? I lacked little of dying from shame, I assure thee, when I entered the first time; but wilt thou believe? I was hungry. I had put nothing in my mouth for two days. I was chilled through, I knew not what I was doing, and what it would lead to. "Then Kazimir approached me. Oh! he did not please me that time. He laughed and was glad, but it grew dark in my eyes. He asked at last if I would go with him. I answered 'Yes.' On the road he put a warm fur around me, for I was shivering from cold, and finally he took me to his lodgings. There, when warmth had restored presence of mind to me, I saw where I was, and I wept from disgrace and shame. For, seest thou, I was alone in the lodgings of a man, I was in his power. He seemed to be astonished at my weeping; then he was silent and sat near me, and when again I looked at him he had tears in his eyes, and was different entirely. He kissed my hands and begged me to calm myself. "I had to tell him everything, everything. He promised to think of me as a sister. How good he was, was he not? From that moment of knowing him I knew no more of want. At parting he kissed my hand again. I wished to kiss his, my heart was straitened, I pressed it with my hands and wept real tears. Oh! how I loved him then! how I loved him!" Helena raised her eyes, in those eyes gleamed great tears of gratitude. She was as beautiful as if inspired. Yosef's expression, however, was severe; his brows had come together on his forehead. The thought that he owed that woman's love to empty chance, to a vain resemblance, covered his face with a gloomy shadow. Potkanski had gone to her by another road. That comparison pained Yosef. He recalled Augustinovich's words, and conducted Helena farther in silence. They reached the cemetery. Among the trees were white crosses, stones, and tombs. The city of the dead in the shade of green leaves slept in silent dignity. A number of persons were strolling among the crosses; among the branches a bird from time to time sang half sadly, half charmingly. The figure of the cemetery guard pushed past at intervals. Helena soon found Potkanski's grave. It was a large mound surrounded by an iron railing; at the foot of the mound was a small grass-covered hillock. Under these lay Potkanski with Helena's child. A number of pots with flowers adorned the graves, at the sides grew reseda; in general, the grave kept neatly and even with ornament indicated a careful hand. Yosef called the guard to open the railing. Helena knelt there with prayer on her lips and tears in her eyes. "Who keeps this grave?" asked Yosef of the guard. "This lady came; a gentleman with long hair came also, but now he comes no longer. He always paid for the flowers, and he also gave command to erect the iron grating." "That gentleman is here now--last year they buried him," answered Yosef. The guard nodded as if to say, "And thou too wilt dwell here." "But this I beg to tell the gentlemen. In the city out there are trouble and suffering, but when any one comes here he lies peacefully. I think often to myself: 'Will the Lord God torture souls in that other world also? Is it little that man suffers here?'" After a time Helena finished praying. Yosef gave her his arm again. Yosef was silent; evidently something was weighing on his heart. By design or by chance he led Helena along a path different from the first one. All at once, when near the gate, he pointed to one of the graves, and said in a kind of cold voice,-- "See, Helena, that man there loved thee during his life more than Potkanski, and still thou hast not mentioned him." The day was inclining. Helena cast her eye on the object which Yosef had indicated. At the grave stood a black wooden cross, and on it were written in white the words: "Gustav--died year--day." The evening rays painted the inscription as it were in letters of blood. "Let us go from here; it is getting dark," whispered Helena, nestling her head up to Yosef's shoulder. When they entered the city, darkness was beginning in earnest, but a clear night was coming. A great ruddy moon was rolling up from beyond the Dnieper. In the dense alleys of the police garden steps were heard here and there, from an open window in an adjoining pavilion came the tones of a piano; a youthful, feeble voice was singing a song of Schubert, the tones quivered in the warm air; far, far out on the steppe some one was sounding the horn of a post-wagon. "A beautiful night," said Helena, in a low voice. "Why art thou gloomy, Yosef?" "Let us sit a little," said he. "I am tired." They sat there, and leaning shoulder to shoulder were both somewhat pensive. They were roused on a sudden from meditation by a youthful, resonant voice, which said,-- "True, Karol! The greatest happiness is the genuine love of a woman, if it is an echo to the voice of a real manly soul." Two young people arm in arm passed slowly near the bench on which Yosef and Helena were sitting. "Good evening!" said both, removing their hats. They were Vasilkevich and Karol Karvovski. When Yosef parted with the widow that evening, he held her hand to his lips for a long time, and went home late, greatly agitated. CHAPTER IX But next day Yosef after a perfect sleep was quite calm; he even laughed at the previous day and at his own alarms and fears. "Many pretty phrases are uttered," said he to himself, "but are they reality? Only a fool regrets happiness. Gustav is the best proof of this. What good is feeling, though the strongest, though the most manly, when purchased at the cost of life? Besides, I am little fitted for tragedy. I love Helena, and she me. What is that to any one? Augustinovich, rise, O scapegrace! tell me what hundred-tongued Satan has turned the head of some brown parasol by means of thee?" "Didst thou see her face?" inquired Augustinovich, forcing himself to sigh. "I did, and by Jove, it was like a freshly plucked radish--the mother looked like a bowl of sour milk. Well, art thou in love, old man?" "Be quiet! those are very rich ladies." "Both? How much has the daughter?" "Who has counted such a treasure--but she will be richer yet." "Richer--by a husband and children?" "No; but the mother has come on a lawsuit, and dost know whom she is suing? Our neighbor the count owes her several thousand zlotys." "From whom dost thou know all this? Art long acquainted with the ladies?" "Only since yesterday. I became acquainted by chance: they inquired for the street--whither? I did not mind, 'pon my honor, but I told them that the weather was very beautiful, and asked if they would not walk with me. The old lady loves conversation dearly. I learned immediately who they were, and why they had come to the city. She asked me if I knew the count. I answered that I visit him daily, and that I would use my influence on the old man to pay what he owes her. I said also that I was a doctor of medicine, theology, and many other sciences and arts; that I have an immense practice in Kieff. Then the mother began to tell into my ear her troubles and the troubles of her daughter. I promised to visit them and to examine their case carefully." "Of course. What did the daughter say to that?" "She hung out the red flag on her face, but the mother scolded her for doing so, called on all the saints, and assured me of the unanimous assistance of those saints at the day of general judgment. Thou seest what I have won." "Thou art an innocent." "I shall visit them to-day." "Whom? all the saints?" "No, my new acquaintances. I will advise them both to marry." "The youngest thee?" "What dost thou wish, my dear? A man grows old; moreover, I think that we shall greet thee soon with a hairy palm." "I have begged thee not to interfere between me and Helena." "Very well. I will say only that Pani Helena is beautiful." "Surely!" answered Yosef, with ill-concealed pleasure. At that moment Vasilkevich appeared. "I have run in a moment," said he. "Karol is waiting downstairs for me; we are going to the country together. Yosef, I have business with thee. Briefly, I did not wish to mix in thy love affairs, notwithstanding Augustinovich's prayers, but this is dragging on too long. Tell me, what dost thou think of doing with the widow?" Yosef had a pipe in his hand; this he hurled violently into the corner of the room; then he sat down and looked Vasilkevich in the eyes. "Question for question," said he. "Tell me, what hast thou to do with the matter?" Vasilkevich frowned, became somewhat angry; still he answered calmly,-- "I ask as one comrade may ask another. Helena is not of that class of women who love one day but not the day following. Besides, through the memory of Potkanski each of his colleagues has the right to expect an answer to such a question." Yosef rose; in his eyes blazes of anger were flashing. "But if I give no answer, then what?" cried he. Vasilkevich burst out in his turn,-- "Then thou thinkest, my bird, that we are going to let thee dupe this poor woman, and not ask what thy meaning is? Satan take thee! Thou must answer to us for the honor of Potkanski's widow. I am not the only man who will inquire about it." They stood some time face to face, eye to eye, each with a storm on his forehead, as if testing each other. Finally Yosef, though trembling with anger, was the first to regain self-mastery. "Hear me, Vasilkevich," said he. "If some other man had done this, I should have thrown him out of doors. I am not of those who let themselves be regulated, and I do not understand why thou and others mix in affairs not your own. In every case this offends me. I will answer, therefore, thee and all who wish to mention the honor of Helena, that I will give account of that honor only to myself, that I shall not permit any man to meddle with my acts, and that thou and thine are committing a brutal, and for Helena a harmful stupidity, in no way to be explained by your taking her part. I have done speaking and I am going out, leaving thee time to meditate over what thou hast done." Vasilkevich remained with Augustinovich. "Well? Did not he give thee a head-washing?" inquired the latter. "He did." "Hei! wilt thou say, then, that he gave thee a head-washing?" "He did." "Thou hast acted stupidly; with him mildness was needed--that is a headstrong fellow." Yosef went straight to Helena. He was excited in the highest degree; he could not explain Vasilkevich's act, but he felt that that third hand, interfering between him and Helena, pushed them apart instead of bringing them nearer. When he entered Helena's lodgings, the door of her chamber was closed; the maid could not tell him what her mistress was doing. He opened the door. Helena was sleeping, leaning against the arm of a large easy-chair. Yosef stood in the doorway and looked at her with a wonderful expression on his face. She did not waken; her rounded breast rose and fell with a light measured movement. There is nothing gentler than the movement of a woman's breast; resting on it, it is possible to be rocked to sleep as in a cradle, or in a boat moved lightly by the waves. Every man has passed through that sleep on his mother's breast. The secret kingdom of sleep is revealed in woman by this movement only, which may be called blessed, so many conditions of human happiness move with it in the regions of rest. The movement of angels' wings must be like it. It lulls to rest everything, from the cry of the infant, to the proud thoughts of the sage. The head of a sage, sleeping on the breast of a woman, is the highest triumph of love. Such thoughts must have passed through Yosef's head, for, looking at the slumbering Helena, he grew milder and milder, just as night passes into dawn; he inclined toward her, and touched her hand lightly with his lips. Helena quivered, and, opening her eyes widely, smiled like a little child when the velvety kiss of its mother rouses it from sleep. That was the first time that Yosef came to her with a fondling so gentle and delicate; usually he came, if not severe, dignified; but to-day he had come to wipe out and forget at her feet the bitter impressions of the quarrel with Vasilkevich. He was seized gradually by the marvellous power of woman, under whose influence the muddy deposit of the soul sinks to the bottom of oblivion. But he was too greatly agitated not to let some of the bitterness which he felt a few moments earlier press through his words. He raised his head, looked into her eyes, and said,-- "Helena, it seems to me that I love thee very deeply; but the folly of people irritates my personality, challenges me. I should like to find strength in thee. Trust me, Helena, love me!" "I do not understand thee," replied she. He took her hand and spoke tenderly,-- "Still, thou shouldst understand me. I flatter myself that I am not second to Potkanski in love for thee, or in labor for thy happiness. But there is a difference between us. He was the son of a magnate, he could give thee his hand at once, surround thee with plenty. I am the son of a handicraftsman, I must labor long yet over thy happiness and my own. I will not desert thee now, but I do not wish that thou as my wife shouldst touch the cold realities of poverty, from which he disaccustomed thee. But I need thy love and thy confidence. Speak, Helena." Helena said nothing; but she approached Yosef, and, putting her head on his breast, raised on him eyes full of childlike confidence. "This is my answer, my good Helenko," said Yosef; and with a long kiss he joined her lips to his. "This may be egotism on my part," continued he, "but forgive me. I did not win thee by service or suffering, I have done nothing whatever for thee. The vision of wealth with which Potkanski surrounded thee on the one hand, the devotion of Gustav on the other, would stand forever between us. Let me deserve thee, Helena. I have energy and strength sufficient, I will not deceive thee." Perhaps it seemed to Yosef that he was speaking sincerely; but how much offended vanity there was in his words each person may divine easily after casting an eye on the conditions in which Helena had lived up to that time. If he had asked for her hand immediately, those conditions would have changed very little, and certainly not for the worse, since in that case, sharing his lodgings with her, he would have rid himself of Augustinovich and all the outlays connected with that man. On the other hand, it is proper to acknowledge that he kept the word given Gustav with complete conscientiousness. Nothing had changed with reference to Helena. Yosef would have taken her at that time in the same conditions in which she had been for two years past. Beyond doubt one half was true in what he had told her of his ambition; more meaning still was there in his wish to throw down the gauntlet to opponents; but perhaps the weightiest reason of all why he did not marry Helena was found in the relations, of great intimacy between them of people not united by bonds which give more than the right to fondling and kisses. The cup was half drunk. Legalization would lessen the charm of forbidden fruit, would decrease sweetness already tasted, more than it would promise new. It will appear that Augustinovich was right in some degree. Yosef perhaps did not acknowledge to himself that his reason for not desiring to change those relations was because he lived agreeably in them. Did he not love Helena, then? He loved her; otherwise he would not have visited her daily, he would not have kissed her lips, her forehead, her hands; but let us remember that this met just half the desires which in other conditions we satisfy through the way of the altar. The idea of a betrothed is that of a woman disrobed behind a thin veil, we go to the altar to remove the veil; when the veil disappears a part of the charm is lost. Honest human nature recompenses the loss by the idea of attachment; when attachment fails, habit, a thing still less enticing, appears in the place of it. But life rolls on. Yosef had touched the veil; two ways led to its removal,--one the way of the altar; the other a momentary oblivion of self, a victory of passion over honor,--a less honest, in fact a dishonest, way, but short and alluring. The first was difficult; to the second every moment was a temptation, every kiss an incitement. To the first the unfortunate guardianship over Helena disinclined him; selfishness counselled the second. But the first was honorable, the second was not. Yosef stood at the parting of the roads. It might be said, indeed, that an honest man should not hesitate; but we may also inquire how an honest man is to act when the powers of temptation are absolutely greater than his powers of honesty. Helena loved Yosef; she answered nervously to his kisses. She was unable to turn the balance consciously; unconsciously she added to the weight of that defect which in Yosef's soul weighed against honesty and honor. How many great and small battles, torments and terrors, that magic little word _love_ brings with it sometimes! A whole rabble of wishes with outbreak and uproar, armed with goads and bells, a rabble capricious, violent, flies up from every direction, plays with the human heart as with a ball, hurls it to the lofty stars, or tramples it on the earth. Then, O man, all the dens of thy soul are thrown open. Thou hadst not even dreamed of what dwelt in them. All the seven deadly sins, and all the virtues of which the catechism makes mention, are fighting each other to win thee; thou seest thyself to be different from what thou hadst supposed up to that time; thou ceasest to trust thyself, suspectest thyself at every step, losest control of thyself. Passions rise up then like flames from the depth of thy being, and like hidden currents in a swamp, advance, creep, circle about, flow up, and then vanish. The night of thy soul is rent by the flame of passions. In their colors thy own interior is shown to thee. Thou performest the rôles both of actor and audience. Thou art like a boat, without a rudder in billows of fire. Then, on a sudden, one thunderbolt finishes everything; the flames vanish like fireworks, and thou art dreaming, like Dante, of heaven and hell. It is gloomy when after the awakening there is no one to give back the moments through which thou hast suffered. Calmness returns, but happiness returns not. An amputated arm gives no pain, but it does not exist. It may be that Augustinovich had some truth on his side, when he said that it was not worth while to give life for a single feeling. Perhaps a man should not break himself against the narrow walls of personal whims and desires. Above and around us is a broad world; waves are roaring there which have been raised by the whole of humanity. Is it not better to weigh anchor and push one's ship forth from the shore, quiet the weeping heart, and sail out into a future, without happiness but with labor, without faith but with thought? It is certain that till the time of such a fiery test comes it is not possible to speak of the nobility of the metal out of which the soul of a given man has been cast. We can offer no guarantees, therefore, for the future acts of Yosef. He passed through various temptations, we know that; we guarantee that he fought with them according to his power; but how it ended, whether he or they proved the stronger, will be told later on. CHAPTER X On reaching home Yosef met the old count and his daughter on the steps at the door. The young lady cast a glance of inquiry on him, and when she had gone a couple of steps, she looked around and smiled. Yosef noticed that she was very shapely, and with genuine satisfaction he heard her say to her father, "That is the young doctor, papa, who lives in the rooms under ours." It is true that he lacked little of finishing his course at the University; still he was glad that they considered him a doctor already. Yosef's lodgings were open; the house guard was putting them to rights. From him Yosef learned details of the old count and his daughter. This man did not like either of them; he emphasized their stinginess, though he imagined that they must be very poor, because they did not pay room rent very regularly. "The young lady is haughty," said he; "all day she does nothing but play and sing. It is hard for her without a husband, but what is to be done?" He did not advise Yosef to make their acquaintance. "How proud these people are," said he; "but in their pockets, dear lord, there is emptiness." "And is the old countess long dead?" inquired Yosef. "About three years. They have been rich, I suppose, but he lost his property in wheat which, as they say, he had to furnish in company with others at Odessa. That business impoverished many people. The old countess was better than others of her family. She was an honorable lady, but she fell to grieving, and died. They have lived here five years." "Do they know many people?" "It must be that they do not, for I have not seen any one visit them." Yosef, while waiting for Augustinovich, lay down on the bed, and when he commanded to bring him a glass of tea, he fell asleep quickly. When he woke up, he felt a trifle ill. Augustinovich had not come yet, though it was quite dark. He arrived at last in perfect humor. The lady with whom he had become acquainted, Pani Visberg, had a daughter Malinka. Augustinovich examined them both by auscultation. He prescribed dancing for the daughter and horseback riding for the mother. Besides, he promised to visit them and to bring Yosef. "The old lady said that the summons to the count was ready, which does not concern me," said Augustinovich. "She has even visited the count, but found only the countess, who pleased her. The countess was much frightened when she learned the object of the old lady's visit. I asked Pani Visberg why she claimed a miserable two thousand when she represented herself as the wife of a Croesus. She answered that her late husband's name was Cleophas, not Croesus. 'If it were mine,' said she, 'I surely would not annoy them, but all that money belongs to my child.' Then I pressed the hand of that child under the table, with real feeling. I was simply moved--word of honor, I was moved. When going, I kissed the old lady's hand. The young lady's name is Malinka--a pretty name, Malinka, though the point is not in this, whether her name is pretty or ugly--Why art thou so pale, Yosef?" "I am not entirely well, and I cannot sleep. I fell asleep while waiting for thee. Give me a glass of tea." Augustinovich poured out the tea, and lighting his pipe lay on the bed. Yosef pushed an armchair up to the bureau, and taking a pen began to write. He soon stopped, however. Thoughts crowded into his head; he leaned back in the chair and gave them free course. Another man would have dreamed. Yosef collected and summed up his own past; he thought over the conditions in which he was then, he cast up the future. Regarding this future, it was difficult for him to remain in the rôle of a cool reasoner. The words "That is the young doctor, papa," came to his memory involuntarily. To be a doctor and to some extent a high-priest of science; to rule on one side by reason, on the other by significance, property, reputation,--Yosef had not become indifferent yet to reputation,--to attract glances, rouse laughter, win hearts--Here he remembered Helena. In the region of feeling he was not free now to choose. He felt bound; still he would like to see eyes turning to him, and the smile of the maiden's lips, and hear the words so prettily whispered, "That is the young doctor." For the first time he could not free himself of the thought that Helena might be a hindrance to his campaign of advancement. He determined to settle with that thought. Her education was not in the way, she was educated; she was twenty-one years of age, he twenty-four--the difference, though too small, did not constitute a hindrance. What reasons could he have to fear that Helena might be a weight on him some time? Conscience declared that the first cause was his own vanity. He knew women little, and he wanted to know them much and to rule them. But there were other considerations which Yosef did not admit. He loved too little. In his soul lay enormous capitals of feeling; he had barely offered a small part of them in the name of Helena. He bore within him a dim consciousness of his powers; that foreboding deprived him of rest. He wanted to reach the foundation of things, but it was not easy for even such a self-conscious head as Yosef's to reach final results. Besides, he did not know himself whether possible future triumphs were equal in value to Helena. To have near him for all future time a woman so charming and loving was the same as to seize in its flight a winged dream of happiness shooting by, but if besides he knew how many of those coming triumphs would be of tangible value, how many would deceive him, how many faces there were before him, he would not hesitate in the choice. But he had not met deceit yet face to face. Such meditations wearied Yosef. The lamp in the room grew dim, he began to doze. Some sudden knocking above roused him again. "They are not sleeping up there, either," thought he. He remembered the countess and her gladsome smile. "How lightly and calmly such a girl must sleep! But there is some truth in this, that girls are like birds. A man toils and labors and meditates, and they--But that one upstairs is quite a pretty bird. I should like to see her asleep. But it is late now, half-past one, and I--What is that?" He sprang quickly to his feet. A violent pulling at the bell brought him to his senses perfectly. He opened the door, and raising the lamp saw the countess before him. She was as pale as a corpse; she held a candle in one hand, with the other she protected the flame of it. She wore a cap, and a dressing-gown through which her neck and bosom were evident. "Pan Doctor!" cried she, "my father is dying!" Yosef, without saying a word, seized his medicine case, and enjoining on Augustinovich to hurry upstairs with all speed, he ran himself after her. In the first chamber was the small bed of the countess, with the blanket thrown aside, and left just a moment before; in the next room lay the count. He was breathing or rather rattling loudly, for he was unconscious; there was bloody foam on his lips, and his face was livid. In a moment Augustinovich ran in, uncombed and hardly dressed. Both occupied themselves with the sick man without regard to the young girl, who had knelt at the foot of the bed, and was nearly unconscious. All at once Yosef and Augustinovich looked each other in the eyes; both had seen that there was not the least hope. "O my God! my God! Call in some one else, perhaps," burst out the countess, in tears. "Run for Skotnitski," cried Yosef. Augustinovich ran, although he felt certain that on returning with the doctor he would not find the count among the living. Meanwhile Yosef, with all energy and presence of mind, worked at the patient. He bled him; then, looking at the clock, declared that the attack was over. "Thank God! There is hope then?" cried the countess. "The attack is over!" repeated Yosef. Meanwhile Augustinovich came with the doctor. Doctor Skotnitski declared that the sick man was saved for that time, but without ceremony he added that in case of a second attack death would ensue unfailingly. He commanded to watch the sick man and not leave him for an instant. Our friends sat all night at his bedside. Next morning early the count regained consciousness and asked for a priest. Augustinovich had to go for one. He brought some parish priest or chaplain, who read the usual prayers and litany, then heard the sick man's confession, gave him communion, and anointed him with holy oil. For a number of hours the count was conscious; he spoke with Yosef, blessed his daughter, spoke of his will, in a word, did everything which is usual when people are dying in a Christian and honest way of going from this world to the other. The whole day passed in these ceremonies. When dusk came Yosef persuaded the countess to take some rest; for the poor girl, though of a firm constitution, was barely able to stand on her feet from watching and suffering. She resisted long, and agreed only when he almost commanded her to do so. When leaving the room she gave her hand, thanking him for his care of her father. Yosef looked at her more carefully then. She might have been twenty, perhaps even less, for her well-developed form caused one to consider her older than she was really. She had a large but agreeable mouth, blue, clever eyes, and dark hair. In general, her face was uncommonly sympathetic. She had a beautiful forehead shaded with hair; the expression of her face, and her movements indicated a developed aristocratic type of beauty. Moreover, she had very small hands. The count fell asleep an hour after she had gone out. Yosef and Augustinovich sat by a shaded lamp; both were wearied and thoughtful. Augustinovich spoke first in a low voice,-- "Tell me what will become of the countess when he--" He indicated with his head the sick man, and closing his eyes drew a finger along his throat. "I am thinking of that myself," replied Yosef. "Perhaps some one of the family may be found." "But if he is not found?" "It will be necessary to talk with her. They are poor, evidently; the guard told me that their rent is not paid yet. But it cannot be that they have no blood relatives somewhere, or at least acquaintances." "Well, in every case speak of this later," said Augustinovich, who did not like to dwell long on one subject. "Wait," interrupted Yosef; "at least one idea comes to my head. So far no one has been here, and it is impossible that that poor girl"--he indicated with his eyes the room where the countess was sleeping--"impossible for that poor girl to stay here alone after his death. Tell me, is thy acquaintance, Pani Visberg, a pious woman?" "As pious as a chalice cover!" "Honest, simple?" "In an unheard-of degree: but what connection has that with the countess?" "I wish to place the countess in her care." "But the lawsuit?" "Just because of that." Here the sick man moved suddenly. Yosef looked at him quickly, then whispered,-- "One instalment of rent stands in my way, but this and that may be arranged, perhaps something can be done after his death." "Oi, rent, rent!" whispered Augustinovich. "To keep us awake I must tell thee a little tale. I have never paid rent, I was enraged whenever rent was even mentioned, and I never could accustom any house-owner to refuse taking it. At last I succeeded with one. He was an old little fellow, and stupid as the ears of Midas. Well, once I was sitting in a small garden which belonged to him, and because the season was summer and the time night, for want of a better occupation I was counting the stars in the sky. I was dreaming somewhat; a starry night, as thou knowest, brings a dreamy state of mind. Thereupon that ass came to me and spoke absurdly. He simply wanted me to pay him. I rose from my place, and outlining in solemnity with my hand a bow between the east and the west, I asked mysteriously,-- "'Dost see this immensity and those millions of the lights of God?' "'I see,' answered he, frightened somewhat by the tone of my inquiry; 'but--' "'Silence!' said I, in an imperious voice. And removing my hat I raised my eyes, and looking at the astonished man I thundered,-- "'Useless dust! compare thy five rubles--'" On a sudden a suppressed groan interrupted Augustinovich. The count had become livid, he was twisted up, the fingers of his hands were balled into lumps; the second attack had come evidently. At that moment Yosef rushed to the sick man and straightened his arm almost by force. "Ys!--Bleed him!" said he in a low voice. There was silence. By a wonderful chance the lamp at that moment grew darker. From instant to instant was heard the quick low voice of Yosef,-- "His pulse? Water!" "He is stifling," whispered Augustinovich. Both held the breath in their breasts; the dull sound of the lance was heard. The steel sank in the old man's flesh, but blood did not come. "This is the end! All is useless!" said Yosef, drawing a deep breath. Drops of sweat came out on his forehead. "He lived--he lived till he died," said Augustinovich, with the most indifferent mien in the world. "We have done our part, now to sleep." CHAPTER XI The count died really, and was buried according to Christian ceremonial. After his death Yosef paid a visit to the old lady. It was a question of securing guardianship for the countess, since no one of the family had come forward. The count had left very scanty means of maintenance, and even if he had left more the countess was too young to manage a house alone. Because of the lofty piety and exceeding delicacy of conscience of Pani Visberg, it was not difficult for Yosef to arrange the business he had mentioned. He persuaded her that she had killed the count by her lawsuit, and therefore she was bound to give protection to the daughter of her victim. The lady was greatly terrified at the executioners of hell, with whom Yosef threatened her, and on the other hand she judged that the companionship of the countess, who was of society and highly educated as Yosef declared, would not be without profit to Malinka. Pani Visberg was an honorable woman in the full sense of the word; she had not much wit, it is true, and still less acquaintance with society. The best proof of this was that she considered Augustinovich the acme of elegance, polish, and good tone. Yosef she feared a little, from the time of his first visit. But she was content in soul that such distinguished young men, as she said, were inclined to her lowly threshold. Malinka, who in many regards resembled her mother, was seriously smitten with Augustinovich. She had induced the old lady to take a permanent residence in Kieff; for that matter Pani Visberg had come to the city somewhat with that intent. She wished to show her daughter to the world, for Malinka was nineteen years of age, and during those nineteen years she had been once in Kieff, once in Jitomir, and had sat out the rest of the time at home. Fortune permitted a residence in the city. The late Pan Visberg had been in his day an official in the customhouse, though in a funeral speech over his grave these words had been uttered: "Sleep, Cleophas Visberg! for during long ages the nations (all Europe) will admire thy integrity and stern rectitude." We say Cleophas Visberg left to his wife, inconsolable in her sorrow, about nine times one hundred thousand zlotys, and he would have left more if inexorable Fate had not cut short his days. He entered the kingdom of shadows more sated with years than with income. But this income fell to good hands, for both ladies had excellent hearts. They helped widows and orphans; they paid their servants, male and female, regularly; they paid tithes to their church faithfully; in a word, they performed all Christian deeds which concern soul and body. They received the countess with open arms, and with as much cordiality as if they had been her relatives. Malinka, an honest though simple maiden, was in love out and out with the noble orphan. How much she promised herself from the first glance to be kind and obliging to her, how much she wished to comfort her, how much she dreamed of a pure friendship with her in the future, it would be difficult to tell; enough that Yosef found as good protection for the countess as if she had been in the house of her own parents--it could not have been better. It is true that the countess was well fitted to rouse sympathy. The silent and deep sorrow which weighed her down at the moment did not remove her so far from reality that she could not be charming to those who were kind to her. She thanked Yosef with tears in her eyes; stretched to him a hand, which he, with emotion rare in him, pressed to his lips. "As I love God!" said Augustinovich, "I almost wept when she looked at me. May the devils take me if she is not a hundred times more beautiful than I am." In fact, that new figure, attended already with words of sympathy, had connected itself with the fate of the heroes of this book. That a countess like her could not remain without influence on them is understood easily. Whether the future will attach angel wings to the shoulders of the countess, or show in her charming body a barren, hypocritical soul, the continuation will teach us. Hei! hei! If this life resembled a book; if it were possible to give people souls such as are created in thought; but then would these be people like the rest of mankind? It would be all one, however, for poison cakes are the food of this world, as the boy said. The human soul is like a spring; it carries poison far, and what man can guarantee that poison is not lying at the bottom of his own soul, and that he would not create poisoned characters? The soul is blank paper! God writes on one side, and Satan on the other; but God and Satan are only symbols in this case. In fact, there is another hand; the world is that hand really. The world writes on the soul, good and bad people write on it, moments of happiness write there, suffering writes more enduringly than all. But there are souls like mussels. The mussel changes grains of sand, and the soul pain, into pearls; sadness and solitude are the means. But not always. It depends on the soul. Sadness and solitude sometimes conceal weariness, emptiness, and stupidity. These three full sisters like to dwell in palaces built of sadness and solitude, seeking that which they have never lost. It does not follow from this that there are no charms in solitude. Sadness has none, at least for a sad person. Solitude for the soul is something like a time of sleep for the body. Nay, more; that misty monad, the soul, seems to dissolve in solitude, to separate, to vanish, to cease its existence almost; words and thoughts end in that silent region; the soul is annihilated for a season, separates on all sides from its own centre. All this is called rest. Solitude is the worst term that the human mind has had wit to invent; solitude is never alone, silence always goes with it. It is a pity that the misty garments of this lady called Solitude are borne most frequently by that seductive page whose name is Laziness. But sometimes, say the poets, solitude gives a creative moment. The soul is lost then and trembles, inclining to receive some vision flying in from beyond. For this reason only fools or sages love solitude greatly. What was the countess? Let us see. It is time to descend from cloudy heights to life's realities. Let the countess enter! How? As a young maiden--can there be anything more charming under the sun? Such a beautiful mixture of blood, body, perfumes, flowers, sun rays--and what else? Our illusions. Fly in, golden butterfly. CHAPTER XII Sad, indeed, had been the previous life of the countess. During her father's life she had sat whole days in a chamber which was lonely and almost poor, listening to the twittering of sparrows outside the windows, or the quarrels of girls in the kitchen. The old count came home every evening wearied and broken with ceaseless pouring from the empty into the void, as he called his affairs. Nothing succeeded with him. In his time he had been active and industrious; he had wished to give the aristocracy an example of how men with escutcheons should apply themselves to labor and industry, and as a result, he lost his property. There remained to him in return experience which he would have been glad to sell for a few thousand, and still one other thing which he would not have sold, that is, his reminiscences and his family pride. In him the cement of that experience and that pride was his hatred of life, of men, of the whole world. This was natural. His own people did not receive him, and those who did receive the man, received him in such fashion that the fable of the dying lion and the asses' hoofs came to one's memory. If he had only had a son! The young eagle might fly from the nest with new strength, seeking light and the sun--but a daughter! The old man did not deceive himself: a daughter must become either an old maid, or marry after his death the first man who met her. For this reason the count did not love his daughter as much as he should have loved. In spite of that the daughter loved him sincerely. She loved him because he had white hair, because he was unfortunate, finally, because she had no one else to love. Moreover, he was for her the last volume of the story which she was weaving on in her mind. Frequently in the evening her father told her in his plaintive voice of the ancient deeds of their family, full of glitter and glory, old histories pleasant for counts and countesses; and she while listening to them fixed her whole soul in that past. Often it seemed to her that from the golden web of the legend some winged figure tore itself free, half a hussar knight with a crooked sabre in his grasp, an eagle-like son of the steppe and of battle. He waved his hand, and the steppes were cleared of Tartars. One might say, "I can see the Crimea and the blue waves beyond." Hei! the usual dreams of a maiden! As wide as the steppes are, so many are the songs of his actions; and then he is so covered with glory, though youthful; so bloody, though so beloved. He bent his forehead before some female figure. The usual dream of a magnate's daughter! That female figure is she; he a Herburt or a Koretski. And as she was reared, so did she imagine; and these imaginings had no use, nay, they were perhaps harmful, though attractive. So, when the old man finished the stories, and remembering the present, added with bitterness, "My fault, my fault!" she wound her arms around his neck, then, saying usually, "Not thy fault, papa; those times will return again." But those times did not return. The old man died, and no knight appeared as a guardian, no knight cut from the blackened background of a picture. The form which appeared had nothing in common with knighthood. That head with severe face and broad forehead, the cold face of a modern thinker, in no manner, even in the dreams of a maiden, did it fit to a bronze helmet with ostrich plumes. Other powers must have pulsated in the forehead of a man leading winged regiments against Tartars. But, on the other hand, Yosef was something entirely new for the countess, something which made her admire. There were not many words in him, but there was force. In a short time he became for her everything; she found in the man decision, energy, and swiftness of action. Perhaps she could not explain to herself that that also was manhood, only different from the manhood of the past; or was she unable to discern that? The old count succeeded in nothing. Yosef when he had taken up her affairs did in one day more than the count had ever done in ten. He understood that the countess needed some resources, so as not to appeal in small things to the kindness and pocket of Pani Visberg. At this thought she trembled. He had foreseen it. He rescued radically the remnant of her income; and his acts in this regard were like the cut of a lancet, ever sure, always efficient. Naturally, Yosef managed by the aid of a jurist, an acquaintance, who, though young, would have talked love of God into Satan. But why did not the old count help himself in a similar fashion? This brought the countess to a certain idea: Aristocracy she imagined to herself in the person of her father, democracy in the person of Yosef. "Oh, what people they must be!" thought she, almost with dread, "terrible people who know how to crush obstacles, another kind of people." Books told the rest to her. The countess went far in such thoughts. Once when she asked Yosef for details concerning his past, she heard him answer with perfect freedom, "My father was a blacksmith." She could hardly understand how he dared tell such a thing, so natural did it seem to her that if that were the case he ought not to mention it. Why did he not conceal it? These words were really a hammer which struck the soul of the countess most heavily. She surveyed Yosef with an astonished glance, as if seeking a leather apron on him, or traces of sparks on his hands. Besides, it is proper to confess that, despite all her gratitude to him and Pani Visberg, she judged at first, in silence it is true, that the coronet inclined those people to her; she judged that in sheltering the daughter of a lord they did that somewhat to do themselves honor. But she learned that touching Yosef she was thoroughly mistaken. He pronounced the word count just as he did the word Jew, gipsy, or noble, not even turning attention to the special sense of those sounds. Did he not understand? She could not admit that, though really the question of aristocracy lay thus far untouched in his mind. She suspected him, however, of ignoring it purposely. But that was not enough,--the countess noticed in Yosef's treatment of her a certain loftiness or rather indulgence. He was considerate and kind toward her, but in such a manner as if he wished to show that his action was the yielding of strength before weakness, the indulgence of a strong man for a child; though, on the other hand, how safe she felt under such protection! It seemed to her as if there was nothing impossible to Yosef. She could sleep quietly and calmly; he was on guard. She tried, however, at once to relate herself to him differently; she wished to dazzle him with her culture. Meanwhile it came out that Yosef corrected her ideas gently,--showed her what was right in them, what was erroneous. Briefly, to her great disgust, he taught and enlightened her. She tried to impose by her talent, and on a certain occasion she sat down at the piano as if by chance and displayed cascades of melody before him; but what? That tormented Augustinovich sat down after her and played far better. This fellow also knew how to do everything, he knew everything! The countess went in deep thought to her chamber that evening. But that she comprehended and understood these relations showed that her intelligence was not among the least, and it was not wonderful that she thought of these relations so soon after the death of her father, for even the very despair of a "well-bred" woman has in it a certain coquetry more or less conscious, though always innocent. So a silent battle had begun between a new child of the people and an aristocratic young lady. It was developed by those relations which we have mentioned, relations which were barely tangible. This struggle was the more dangerous for him since he did not suspect it. The countess was not able to dazzle him, but she roused in him the most lively sympathy. For him she became a kind of beloved child whose fate he held in his hand, as it seemed to him. Occupied with her actively, he neglected Helena; his visits to her became rarer. He pursued more the thought of doing something which might be agreeable to the countess than he fled before the thought of doing something disagreeable to Helena. As for the countess, it is easy to understand that in her feelings for him there was not and could not be anything which contained hate in it. A somewhat roused vanity might lead rather to love than to hatred. To tell the truth, Countess Lula wished simply that that energetic democrat might in future bend to her aristocratic knees his submissive and enamoured head. But she had not put the object clearly till she noticed that Yosef was a handsome man. We will state in parenthesis that Countess Leocadia was twenty years old, and that for some time there had been roused in her soul various yearnings and disquiets, of which she could not render account to herself. In the language of poets, that would have been called the echo of a desire "to love and be loved, and perhaps even to die young." But whatever the question was, we may be satisfied by knowing that it furnished Lula with a thread of continual thinking of Yosef, the confidence which she had in him. Her gratitude for protection experienced from day to day increased her sympathy. It is true that the old countess in her time had told Lula that a well-bred young lady must not love; but Mother Nature whispered to her something quite different. In truth, those two mothers are often in disagreement. This is one reason why in the souls of most women a broad robust feeling rarely springs up and becomes vigorous in them; on the contrary, a thousand nervous little loves are planted, less winged, but less binding. Lula verified the fact, then, that Yosef was intellectual, noble, and a handsome man; we will not dare to guarantee which quality it was that she emphasized most. That evening, however, when she was going to sleep she gave herself this question, which in the sequel was important, "But if he loved me?" Instead of an answer she ran with bare feet and half dressed to the glass. Authors alone are permitted to see pictures of this sort. The night-cap was on her head, and from under the cap came to her white shoulders tresses of dark hair which disappeared under her night-dress. With gleaming eyes and moving breast she gazed at the glass. "But if he loved me," repeated she, "and if he were to kneel here pale and burning--" At that moment a blood-red blush covered her face and neck; she blew out the light. Thenceforth peculiar changes began to appear in her; sometimes a strange disquiet mastered her, she fell into thoughtfulness; sometimes she walked as if drowsy, as if oppressed, weakened; at another time she covered her head on Malinka's breast, and kissed her without reason. Yosef she saw daily. And so days and months passed; but by degrees some change began to take place in Yosef too. Gradually that dear child had ripened in his soul and become a beautiful woman in full bloom. His glance when he looked at her had not that former complete transparency and calmness. Formerly he might have lulled her to sleep on his breast, and laid her as he would a child on a couch; to-day that would have caused a surprisingly different sensation. The idyl grew stronger in the spirit of both, till at last, after so many and so many days, or so many and so many months, the following conversations took place in the lodgings of Pani Visberg and those of Yosef. "If thou wert in love, Malinka?" "Then, my Lula, I should be very happy, and I should love very much; and seest thou, my Lula, the Lord God would arrange so that the man should love me also." "But if he did not love?" Malinka rubbed her forehead with her hand. "I do not know, I do not know, but it seems to me that there is a difference between loving and loving. I should love this way--O God! I do not know how to tell it--this way is how I should love--" Malinka threw her arms around the neck of her friend, and pressing her to her bosom, covered her with fondling and kisses. "My Lula, he would have to love me then." And like two doves they hid their heads on the breasts of each other. There was silence. "Malinka!" said Lula at last, with tears in her voice. "Lula, my heartfelt!" "Malinka, I love." "I know, Lula." * * * * * "Old man!" said Augustinovich to Yosef. "What news?" "May I be ---- if this is new. Old man, I saw thee kissing the countess's veil. May I be hanged if thou didst not kiss it! Well, thou art fond of kissing--wait, I have a parasol here, perhaps thou wilt kiss the parasol; if that does not suit thee, then perhaps my last year's cloak. The sleeve lining is torn, but otherwise it is a good cloak. May I be!--Give me the pipe--I know what this means, old man; that fool of a Visberg does not know, but I know." Yosef covered his face with his hands. Augustinovich looked at him in silence, shuffled his feet under the table, coughed, muttered something through his teeth; finally he said in a voice of emotion,-- "Old man!" Yosef made no answer. Augustinovich shook him by the shoulder with sympathy. "Well, old man, do not grieve, be not troubled--thou art concerned about Helena." Yosef trembled. "About Helena. Thou art honest, old man. What is to be done with her now?--I know! If thou wish, old man, I will marry her. By Jove, I will marry her!" Yosef stood up. Beautiful resolution shone on his broad forehead, and though on his frowning brows thou couldst read pain and struggle, thou couldst see that the victory would fall where Yosef wished it. He pressed Augustinovich's hand. "I am going out." "Where art thou going?" "To Helena." Augustinovich stared at him. "To He-le-na?" "Yes," answered Yosef. "Enough of deceit and hesitation! To Helena with a request for her hand." Augustinovich looked at him as he went out, and shaking his head, muttered through his teeth,-- "See, stupid Adasia,[1] how people act." [Footnote 1: Adasia is Adam, Augustinovich's own name.] Then he filled his pipe, turned on the bed, and snored with redoubled energy. CHAPTER XIII Helena was not at home. Yosef waited several hours for her, walking unquietly up and down in her chamber. He resolved at whatever cost to come out of the false position in which he had been put by his guardianship over the widow and over the countess, but he acknowledged to himself that this resolution brought him pain. That pain was great, almost physical. Yosef had come to ask Helena's hand, but it seemed to him at that moment that he could not endure her. He was rushing toward the other with heart and mind; thou wouldst have said that he felt a prayer in his own breast, that he begged of his own will for a moment more of that other. He loved Lula as only energetic natures can love who are apparently cold. He prepared himself for the meeting with Helena, and he foresaw that it would cost him no little. There is nothing more repulsive than to tell a woman who is not loved that she is loved. That is one of the least possible hypocrisies for a real manly nature. Yosef on a time had loved Helena, but he had ceased to love her, even before he had observed how and how much he had become attached to Lula. When he saw this he had a moment of weakness; he felt this new love, and he feared to think of it and confess it. When his heart spoke too loudly, he said to it: "Be silent!" And he closed his ears, fearing his own possible actions and especially decisions for the future. This was not in accordance with him, and could not last long. Augustinovich with his peculiar cynicism cast this love in his eyes, and forced him to meet it face to face. Further evasion was now impossible. Yosef stood up to the battle, and went from it to Helena. But he did not go without traces of a struggle. He had a fever in his blood, and he could not think calmly. Various pictures of small but dear memories came to his mind, wherewith at that moment he believed more than ever that Lula loved him. "Have I the right to destroy her happiness too?" This imbecile thought roared in him like the last arrow of conquered warriors. He broke it, however, with the reflection that between him and Helena there was an obligation, between him and Lula nothing. Other difficulties belonged to the result of Yosef's decision. The decision was honest, but still to turn it into reality he had to lie, and then to lie all his life by pretending love. Evil appeared as a result of good. "Ei, shall I not have to go mad?" thought he. "And this life will be snarled like a thread. Every one is whirling round after happiness, as a dog after his own tail, and every man is chasing it with equal success." Ho! Yosef, who did not love declamation, had still fallen into the dialectics of unhappiness. Such a philosophy has a charm: a man loves his misfortune as a happiness. Meanwhile evening came, but Helena was not to be seen. Yosef supposed that she must have gone to the cemetery, and he did not himself know why that thought made him angry on that occasion. He lighted a candle and began to walk through the room. By chance his glance fell on Potkanski. Yosef had not known him, and did not like him, though for the justification of his antipathy he could hardly bring in the words "lord's son." When he looked again at that broad, calm face, something glittered in his eyes which was almost like hatred. "And for her I am only the counterfeit of that man there," thought he. These words were not true, Yosef differed altogether in character from Potkanski, and Helena loved him now for himself; nevertheless the thought pricked him, he would have given much if Helena had not on a time been the wife of that man there, and had not had a child by him. "And I shall have a child," said he, "a son whom I shall rear into a man, strong and practical." "Ah, if that future child were mine and Lula's!" He shook feverishly and pressed his lips; a few drops of perspiration glittered on his forehead. In the last thought there was a whole ocean of desire. He sat in that way for half an hour yet before Helena came. She was dressed in black, with which color her pale complexion and blond hair came out excellently. When she saw Yosef she smiled timidly; but great pleasure was in that smile, for he had been a rare guest in recent times. Happily for her, she had enough of tact or of feminine foresight not to reproach him; she did not dare, either, to rejoice aloud at his coming, since she knew not what he was bringing. But the palm which she gave him embraced his hand firmly and broadly. That palm quivered with the heartfelt language of movements interpreting fear and feeling when lips are silent. With a melancholy smile and hand so extended she was enchanting with the inexpressible charm of an enamoured woman. If she had had a star in her hair, she might have passed simply for an angel,--perhaps she had even the aureole around her head which love gives,--but for Yosef she was not an angel, nor had she an aureole; but he touched her hand with his lips. "Be seated, Helena, near me, and listen," said he. "I have not been here for a long time, and I wish that the former freedom and confidence should return to us." She threw aside her cape and hat, arranged her hair with her hand, and sat down in silence. Great alarm was evident on her face. "I hear thee, Yosef." "It is four years since the death of Gustav, who confided thee to me. I have kept the promise given him as well as I was able, and as I knew how, but the relation between us has not been such as it should be. This must change, Helena." He needed to draw breath, he had to pronounce sentence on himself. In the silence which lasted awhile, the beating of Helena's heart could be heard. Her face was pale, her eyes blinked quickly, as is usual with women who are frightened. "Must they change?" whispered she, in a scarcely audible voice. "Be my wife." "Yosef!" She placed her hands together, as if for prayer, and looked at him a moment with eyes wandering because of pressing thoughts and feelings. "Be my wife. The time of which I spoke to thee before has come." She threw her arms around his neck, and put her head on his breast. "Thou art not trifling with me, Yosef? No, no! Then I shall be happy yet? Oh, I love thee so!" Helena's bosom rose and fell, her face was radiant, and her lips approached his. "Oh, I have been very sad, very lonely," continued she, "but I believed in thee. The heart trusts when it loves. Thou art mine! I only live through thee--what is life? If one laughs and is joyful, if one is sad and weeps, if one thinks and loves--that is life. But I rejoice and I weep only through thee, I think of thee, I love thee. If people wished to divide us I should tear out my hair and bind thy feet with it. I am like a flame which thou mayst blow. I am thine--let me weep! Dost thou love me?" "I love." "I have wept for so many years, but not such tears as I shed to-day. It is so bright in my soul! Let me close my eyes and look at that brightness. How much happiness in one word! Oh, Yosef, my Yosef, I know not even how to think of this." It was grievous for him to hear words like those from Helena; he felt the immense falsehood and discord in which his life had to flow with that woman thenceforward, that woman so beautiful, so greatly loving, and loved so little. He rose and took farewell of her. Helena, left alone, placed her burning forehead against a pane of the window, and long did she stand thus in silence. At last she opened the window, and, placing her head on her palm, looked into the broad, sparkling summer night. Silent tears flowed down her face, her golden tresses fell upon her bosom, the moonlight was moving upon her forehead and putting a silvery whiteness on her dress. CHAPTER XIV A few days later Augustinovich was sitting in Yosef's lodgings; he was working vigorously in view of the approaching examination. Loving effect in all things, he had shaded the windows, and in the middle of the room had placed a table, before which he was standing at that moment. Evidently he was occupied with some experiment, for on the table was a multitude of old glass vessels and pots full of powders and fluids, and in the centre was burning a spirit lamp, which surrounded with a blue flame the stupid head of a retort which was quivering under the influence of boiling liquid contained in it. Work burned, as they said, in the hands of Augustinovich; no one could labor so quickly as he. With a glad smile on his face he moved really with enthusiasm, frequently entertaining himself with a song or a dialogue with the first vessel he took up, or with a pious remark on the fleeting nature of this world. Sometimes he left his work for a moment, and raising his eyes and his hands declaimed in tones which were very tragic,-- "Ah, Eurydice! before thy beauty I passed the rounds of success, And the sentence of Delphi was undoubted, That on earth I am the only one blest." Then again in a hundred trills and cadences he sang,-- "O piano! piano!--Zitto! pia-ha-ha-no!" Or similar creations of his own mind on a sudden,-- "And if thou fill a pipe, O Youth, And pressing the bowl with thy finger, put fire on it." "By Mohammed! If Yosef should come, this work would go on more quickly; but he is marrying Helena at present--Ei! and as innocence is dear to me, I would fix it this way! Dear Helena, permit--And what farther? Oh, the farther the better--" All at once some one pulled the bell. Augustinovich turned toward the door and extending his hand intoned,-- "Road-weary traveller, Cross thou my threshold." The door opened; a man young and elegantly dressed entered the room. Augustinovich did not know him. The most important notable trait of the newly arrived was a velvet sack-coat and light-colored trousers; besides, he was washed, shaven, and combed. His face was neither stupid nor clever, neither beautiful nor ugly, neither kind nor malicious, moreover he was neither tall nor of low stature. His nose, mouth, chin, and forehead were medium; special marks he had none. "Does Pan Yosef Shvarts live here?" "It is certain that he lives here." "Is it possible to see him?" "It is possible at this time; but in the night, when it is very dark, the case is different." The newly arrived began to lose patience; but Augustinovich's face expressed rather gladness than malice. "The owner of this house sent me to Pan Yosef as to a man who knows the address and the fate of Countess Leocadia N----. Could you give me some explanations as to her?" "Oh yes, she is very nice!" "That is not the question." "Just that, indeed. Were I to answer that she is as ugly as night, would you be curious to make her acquaintance? No, no, by the prophet!" "My name is Pelski; I am her cousin." "Oh, I am not her cousin at all!" The newly arrived frowned. "Either you do not understand me, or you are trifling." "Not at all, though Pani Visberg always insists that I am--But you are not acquainted with Pani Visberg. She is an excellent woman. She is distinguished by this, that she has a daughter, though it is nothing great to have a daughter; but she is as rich as Jupiter!" "Sir!" "Now I hear steps on the stairs,--Pan Yosef is coming surely. I will lay a wager with you that he is coming--" Indeed, the door opened and Yosef walked in. One would have said that his severe and intelligent face had matured in the last few hours; in its expression was the calm energy of a man who had already decided on the means of advance in the future. "This is Pan Pelski, Yosef," said Augustinovich. Yosef looked at the newly arrived inquiringly. Meanwhile Pelski explained to him the object of his coming; and though at news of the relationship of the young man to Lula his forehead wrinkled slightly, he gave him her address without hesitation. "I take farewell of you," said Yosef, at last; "the countess will be greatly delighted to find in you a cousin, but it is a pity that she could not have found a relative two months ago." Pelski muttered something unintelligible. Evidently Yosef's figure and style of intercourse imposed on him no little. "Why give him Lula's address?" asked Augustinovich. "Because I should have acted ridiculously had I refused." "But I did not give it." "What didst thou tell him?" "A thousand things except the address. I did not know whether thou wouldst be satisfied if I gave it." "He would have found the address anyhow." "Oh, it will be pleasant at Pani Visberg's. Wilt thou go there to-day?" "No." "And to-morrow?" "No." "But when?" "Never." "It is no trick, old man, to flee before danger." "I am no knight errant, I am not Don Quixote, I choose rather to avoid dangers and conquer than choose them and fall. Not Middle-Age boasting commands me, but reason." A moment of silence followed. "Wert thou at Helena's yesterday?" asked Augustinovich. "I was." "When will the marriage be?" "Right away after I receive my degree." "Maybe it is better for thee that the affair ends thus." "Why dost thou say that?" "I do not know but thou wilt be angry; but Lula--now, I do not believe her--" Yosef's eyes gleamed with a wonderful light; he put his hand on Augustinovich's shoulder. "Say nothing bad of her," said he, with emphasis. He wished, indeed, that the countess, torn from him by the force of circumstances, should remain in his mind unblemished. He took pleasure in thinking of her. "What am I to tell her when she asks about thee?" inquired Augustinovich, after a short silence. "Tell her the truth, tell her that I am going to marry another." "Ei, old man, I will tell her something else." "Why?" asked Yosef, looking him in the eyes. "Oh, so!" "Speak clearly." "She seems to love thee." Yosef's face flushed; he knew Lula's feeling, but that information from the lips of another startled him. It filled his breast with sweetness and as it were with despair together with the sweetness. "Who told thee that?" asked he. "Malinka; she tells me everything." "Then tell Lula that I marry another from inclination and duty." "Amen!" concluded Augustinovich. * * * * * In the evening he went to Pani Visberg's; Malinka opened the door to him. "Oh, is this you?" said she, with a blush. Augustinovich seized her hands and kissed them repeatedly. "Oh, Pan Adam! that is not permitted, not permitted," insisted the blushing girl. "It is, it is!" answered he, in a tone of deep conviction. "But--but," continued he, removing his overcoat and buttoning his gloves (he was dressed with uncommon elegance), "was some young man here this afternoon?" "He was; he will come in the evening." "So much the better." Augustinovich went into the drawing-room with Malinka. The drawing-room had somehow a look of importance, as if for the reception of a notable guest. On the table a double lamp was burning, the piano was open. "Why did Pan Yosef not come with you?" "The same question from the countess will meet me. In every case permit me to defer my answer till she asks." The countess did not keep them waiting long. She entered, dressed in black, with simply a few pearls in her hair. "But Pan Yosef?" asked she at once. "He is not coming." "Why?" "He is occupied. Building his future." The countess was wounded by the thought that Yosef would not come. "But do you not help him in that labor?" asked she. "May my guardian angel keep me from such work." "It must be very difficult." "Like every new building." "Why does he work so?" "Duty." "I believe that Pan Yosef builds everything on that foundation." "This time it will be more difficult for him than ever before. But somebody is coming--that is your cousin. What a splendid man!" Pan Pelski entered the drawing-room; soon after came Pani Visberg also. After the greetings conversation began to circle about in the ocean of commonplace. Augustinovich took little part in it. He sat in an armchair, partly closed his eyes with an expression of indifference toward everything. He had the habit of closing his eyes while making observations, when nothing escaped his notice. Count Pelski (we had forgotten to state that he had that title) sat near Lula, twirling in his fingers the string of his eyeglasses, and conversing with her vivaciously. "Till I came to Kieff," said he, "I knew nothing of the misfortune which had met our whole family, but especially you, through the death of your esteemed father." "Did you know my father?" asked Lula, with a sigh. "No, cousin. I knew only that unfortunate quarrels and lawsuits separated our families for a number of years. I knew nothing of those quarrels, since I was young and always absent, and if I am to make a confession my present visit was undertaken only as an attempt at reconciliation." "What was the degree of relationship between you and my father?" "Reared abroad, I know little of our family relations in general; for example, I am indebted to a lucky chance for discovering not our relationship, of which I was aware, but other intimate bonds connecting our families from of old." "Is it permitted to inquire about this circumstance?" "With pleasure, cousin. Having taken on me, after the death of my father, the management of my property and family affairs, I looked into the papers and various documents touching my family. Well, in these documents I discovered that your family is not only related to the Pelskis, but has the same escutcheon." "To a certain extent, then, we are to thank chance for our acquaintance." "I bless this chance, cousin." Lula dropped her eyes, her small hand twisted the end of her scarf; after a while she raised her head. "And for me it is equally pleasant," said she. The shadow of a smile flew over Augustinovich's face. "I had much difficulty in finding your lodgings. This gentleman" (Pelski indicated Augustinovich with one eye) "has a marvellous method of giving answers. Fortunately his room-mate came; he gave me an answer at last." "I lived in the same house as they," added the countess. "How did you become acquainted with them, cousin?" "When father fell ill, Pan Shvarts watched him in his last hours; afterward he found Pani Visberg, and I am much indebted to him." Augustinovich's closed eyelids opened a little, and the sneering expression vanished from his face. "Is he a doctor?" asked Pelski. "He will be a doctor soon." Pelski meditated a moment. "I was acquainted in Heidelberg with a professor and writer of the same name. From what family is this man?" "Oh, I do not know, indeed," answered the countess, blushing deeply. Augustinovich's eyes opened to their full width, and with an indescribable expression of malice he turned toward the countess. "I thought," said he, "that you knew perfectly whence Pan Yosef came, and what his family is." Lula's confusion reached the highest degree. "I--do not remember," groaned she. "Do you not? Then I will remind you. Pan Yosef was born in Zvinogrodets, where his father in his day was a blacksmith." Pelski looked at his cousin, and bending toward her said with sympathy,-- "I am pained, cousin, at the fatality which forced you to live with people of a different sphere." Lula sighed. Oh, evil, evil was that sigh. Lula knew that among those people of a different sphere she had found aid, protection, and kindness; that for this reason they should be for her something more than that cousin of recent acquaintance. But she was ashamed to tell him this, and she remained silent, a little angry and a little grieved. Meanwhile Pani Visberg invited her guests to tea. Lula ran for a while to her own chamber, and sitting on her bed covered her face with her hands. At that moment she was in Yosef's chamber mentally. "He is toiling there," thought she, "and here they speak of him as of some one strange to me. Why did that other say that he was the son of a blacksmith?" It seemed to her as if they were wronging Yosef, but she felt offended at him, too, because he was the son of a blacksmith. At tea she sat near her cousin, a little thoughtful, a little sad, turning unquiet glances toward Augustinovich, who from the moment of his malicious interference filled her with a certain fear. "Indeed thou art not thyself, Lula," said Pani Visberg, placing her hand on the girl's heated forehead. Malinka, who was standing with the teapot in her hand, pouring tea in the light, stopped the yellowish stream, and turning her head said with a smile,-- "Lula is only serious. I find thee, Lula, in black colors--art thou in love?" The countess understood Malinka's idea, but she was not confused. "Black is the color of mourning; in every case it is my color." "And beautiful as thy word, cousin," added Pelski. After tea she seated herself at the piano, and from behind the music-rack could be seen her shapely forehead marked with regular brows. She played a certain melancholy mazurka of Chopin, but trouble and disquiet did not leave her face. Augustinovich knew music, and from her playing he divined the condition of her mind. Still he thought,-- "She is sad, therefore she plays; but she plays because her cousin is listening." But on the way home he thought more about Lula and Yosef than one might have expected from his frivolous nature. "Oh, Satan take it, what will happen, what will happen?" muttered he. In the midst of these thoughts he entered his lodgings. Yosef was not sleeping yet; he was sitting leaning on his elbows over some book. "Hast thou been at Pani Visberg's?" "I have." Impatience and curiosity were quivering in Yosef's face; evidently he wished to ask about the evening, but on thinking the matter over he rested his head on his hands again, and began to read. Suddenly he threw the book aside and walked a couple of times through the room. "Thou wert at Pani Visberg's?" "I was." "Ha!" "Well, what?" "Nothing." He sat down to his book again. CHAPTER XV A couple of weeks passed. The relations of the personages known to us had not undergone change. Yosef did not visit Pani Visberg's, but, to make up, Pelski was a daily guest there in spite of Augustinovich, who tormented him, and whom the count could not endure. "How does the countess's cousin seem to thee?" asked Yosef of him one day. "Oh, my friend, he is a zero." "With what dost thou reproach him?" "Nothing; what does stupidity mean really? He talks with the ladies as far as he is able; he wears a fashionable coat, glossy gloves; he knots his cravat symmetrically, praises virtue, condemns vice, says it is better to be wise than not; still, O Yosef, he is a zero." "Thou judgest people in masses." "Again! in masses. As is known to thee, I judge the breast according to the measure of the tailor, not that of Phidias; and as I advance laughter seizes me, but my heart does not burst, it must have cause sufficient to burst." "Speak more clearly." "What shall I say to thee? Well, he is a middling man, a man of the mean, but not the golden one; honest, for he has not done anything dishonest or perverse. But let him go! Better speak of philosophy or sing an old contradance; which dost thou prefer?" "Let us speak of him, I beg of thee," said Yosef, with decision. "Well, fill me a pipe then." Yosef filled a pipe for him, lighted a cigar for himself, and began to walk through the room. "I will not give thee an account of the evenings there, for I do not wish to annoy thee," said Augustinovich, "but if thou desire this thing, then listen. "The affair is as follows: Pelski learned that the old count left a daughter, and curiosity led him to look at her. Seest thou, people are vain; they love effect, and the rôle of a rich cousin in presence of a poor one is not devoid of effect, so this rôle has pleased Pelski. Whom would it not please? Thou art wealthy, and givest thy hand to her (that is, to thy cousin), thou shieldest her with thy most mighty protection, astonishest her with thy delicacy of feeling, with thy acts; thou becomest her king's son--her ideal. Ei, old man, how this tickles vanity! What romances these are, Satan take me! 'O gray rye, he is digging the earth!' It is a whole novel. A steed, a noble figure, on her part smiles and tears--they are separated by fate; later they meet, they agree, they are reconciled, and Numa marries Pompilius!" These last words Augustinovich pronounced with a certain maliciousness. "Art thou speaking of Lula and Pelski?" asked Yosef, gloomily. "Yes; Pelski looked at her through curiosity, and she, as thou knowest, is a fair maiden, and that rôle pleased him. Pelski is an ordinary man, an aristocrat,--in one word, zero,--but if she pays no attention to the statue--" "Yes, if?" interrupted Yosef, catching at the last word. "But thou--why deceive thyself? It must be all one to thee. Thou art not a child nor a woman; thou hadst full knowledge of what thou wert doing when going to Helena with a declaration." Yosef was silent; Augustinovich continued: "I say: Pelski is a young man and wealthy, she pleases him very much, and she may not look at the statue; she pleases him,--that is the main thing." "Let us suppose that she will not consider the statue, what further?" "In that case Lula will become Countess Pelski." "Will she consent? What sayst thou?" Yosef's eyes flashed. "Listen, old man, I say this: I know not the good of this conversation. Perhaps she might not consent to-day, but in half a year or a year she will consent. If thou wert there thou mightest contend with him; otherwise, I repeat, she will consent." "On what dost thou rest that judgment?" "On what? A certain evening when I saw Pelski I was listening, and he asked, 'Of what family is Shvarts?' and she answered, 'I know not, really.' Thou seest! But when I said that thou art the son of a blacksmith, she was in flames, and almost burst into weeping from anger at me. There it is for thee!" Yosef also felt at that moment as it were a wish to weep from anger. "Seest thou," continued Augustinovich, "Pelski unconsciously and unwittingly acts with great success; he brings her mind to ancient titles and brilliant relations; he cannot even do otherwise. And she is an aristocrat in every case. Thou rememberest how on a time that angered me and thee, and how much thou didst labor to shatter those principles in her. By the crocodile! there is nothing haughtier than proud poverty. Pelski acts wisely, he flatters her vanity, he rouses her self-love; that removes her from us. But we, my old man, are such counts as, without comparing--Oh, Satan take it! I cannot find here comparisons." In fact, he did not find comparisons, and for want of them he fell to puffing out strong rings of smoke, and trying diligently to catch some of them on his fingers. Meanwhile Yosef looked stubbornly at one point in the ceiling, and asked at last,-- "Didst tell her that I was going to marry Helena?" "No." "Why not?" "I said that thou wert toiling, and for that reason did not appear. Let the affair between thee and Pelski be decided in her mind, in her conscience and heart. Thy marriage is an external event which would decide the matter definitely on his side." Yosef approached Augustinovich and fixed his fingers in his arm. "Listen!" said he, violently; "but if I should win in this battle?" "Go to the devil! and do not pinch me so hard. I throw the same question at thee: If thou shouldst win in this battle?" They looked at each other, eye to eye; some kind of hostile feeling pressed their hearts. At last Yosef dropped Augustinovich's arm, and hiding his face in his hands threw himself on the bed. Augustinovich looked at him threateningly, then less threateningly, and still less threateningly; finally he pushed down to him and stroked him with his hand. He drew him by the skirt, and his voice now was soft and full of emotion. "Old man!" Yosef did not answer. "My old man, be not angry. If thou win thou wilt preserve her in thy heart as a saint, and I will say to her: Go, bright angel, along the path of duty, as Yosef went." CHAPTER XVI Helena hardly believed her own happiness. She was preparing for her marriage. Her clouded past had vanished, life's night was over, the morning was shining. From a woman of a wandering star, who knew not where and how low she might fall, from a woman who was a beggar, from a woman without a morrow, to enter into a new period of life, to receive the affection of a man whom she loved, to become in the future a wife, to begin a calm life, a life which had a to-morrow, surrounded by respect, filled with love and duty,--that was her future. Helena understood, or rather had a prescience of the abnormal relation between her past and her future. "From such a life as mine that ought not to come. I am not worthy of this happiness," whispered she to Yosef, when he placed the ring of betrothal on her finger. "I am not worthy of such happiness." That half-insane woman possessed of love was right. Out of the logic of life such a future could not bloom, but her life had ceased already to move in its own proper orbit. There are stars which circle in solitude along undefined orbits, till swept away by more powerful planets they go farther, either around them or with them. Something similar had happened to Helena. A stronger will had attracted a weaker. Helena met Yosef on her track, and thenceforward she travelled in his course. The knowledge of this made her more peaceful. "Oh, if he wishes I shall be happy," thought she, more than once. She had unbounded belief, not only in Yosef's character, but in his strength. So the last shadow vanished from her soul; alarm disappeared, that indefinite fear of the future which she could not dismiss till the moment of Yosef's declaration, this fear which tortured her like a reproach of conscience. Her head was full of imaginings. With a song on her lips she made preparations for marriage, amusing herself like a child with every detail of dress. Notwithstanding her widowhood she wished to wear a white dress, which would also please Yosef. Regaining cheerfulness, she regained her health also; she was busy, active, even minutely painstaking with reference to future housekeeping. She grew more beautiful and more noble-looking under the influence of happiness. From being a misanthropic woman, a bird with plucked wings, she was changing into a woman who felt her own worth, even in this, that some one loved her. The date of the marriage was approaching. Meanwhile the time in which Yosef was to become a doctor was drawing near. He toiled, therefore, and toiled so intensely that his health tottered. Sleepless nights and mental effort marked his face with pallor; he grew thin, blue under the eyes; he lived in continual feverish labor, in reality he was losing his strength, but he kept on his feet as best he could, wishing at any price to win absolutely both position and an independent future. Besides ambition and the approaching date of his marriage, one other thing urged him to those efforts: the supply of money which he had brought from home had been gradually diminishing, and at present was almost exhausted. Now the burden of expenses and housekeeping fell on Augustinovich. Augustinovich had given up drinking and earned more than Yosef. Music lessons brought him in very much relatively, and he did not need to renounce them because of the pressure of other work, for with him natural gifts took the place of time and toil, even more than was needed. He went to Pani Visberg's daily, as before. Malinka ran out every evening to open the door to him, and every evening she snatched away her hands, which he had the habit of covering with numerous kisses. The honest girl grew attached to Pan Adam. Did he love her? Rather no than yes, for the past had quenched in him the powers of sympathy. In reality he had not fire to the value of a copper. If passion had given heat to his powers, they would have carried him far, but the light from them was like moonlight, it gave light without heat. That, however, did not hinder him from being, as they say, a capital fellow, a perfect comrade, and a pleasant companion. If he felt any attachment, it was for Yosef. But he had his likes and dislikes; he liked Malinka, but he did not like Lula. And why did he not like her? There were various reasons. She met him always with cool loftiness, and besides she was a countess. Usually he had success with women; he owed it to his inexhaustible joyousness, and even to his cynicism, which made him as if at home everywhere. He had, moreover, a most particular power of adapting himself to that society in which he chanced to be. Never refined, he possessed (when he wished) high social polish. He used to say of himself that in him ease of distinction was inherited, since it came "from worthy blood." He had never known his parents, it is true, nor known who they were. He had the hypothesis, even, that, according to the well-known jest, Letitia the grandmother of Napoleon III. and his grandmother were grandmothers; he proved in this way his relationship with the Buonapartes. Notwithstanding these characteristics, Lula ignored him somewhat. Yosef's solid, simple character roused a deeper interest in her than the frivolous, elastic nature of Augustinovich. Besides, she loved Yosef. So, by the nature of things, Augustinovich remained at one side. That annoyed him. This was the state of things when Pelski appeared. Especially from the time when Yosef ceased to pay visits, Lula had changed uncommonly. Augustinovich annoyed her, for he judged things through the prism of his particular repugnance to her. He thought that then, if ever, she would show him dislike and even contempt; meanwhile it came out otherwise. Lula left her rôle of indifference and began to fear him. "Thanks to the gods," thought Augustinovich, "a man's tongue is nimble enough, it seems. She is afraid that I shall make a fool of Pelski." In fact, something of the kind happened a number of times,--a thing which it must be confessed touched Lula very disagreeably. At first Lula asked, time after time, about Yosef, but received the same answer always, "He is working." At last she ceased asking. Still it seemed that she wished to win over Augustinovich. In her treatment of him there was now a certain mildness joined with a silent melancholy. Often she followed him uneasily with her eyes when he came in, as if waiting for some news. This alarm was natural. Whether she loved Yosef or not, it could not but astonish her that he on whom she had counted so much, who had shown her so much sympathy always, had now forgotten her. She could not rest satisfied, either, with the answers of Augustinovich. In spite of the greatest labor it was impossible that Yosef should not find in the course of more than two months one moment of time, even, to look in at her, to inquire about her health, all the more since she knew that he loved her. In this thought the coming of Pelski was connected in her mind wonderfully with the absence of Yosef. She supposed, justly, that there was a certain connection between them. Augustinovich alone could explain these things, but he did not wish to do so. Alarmed, then irritated and troubled, attracted by Pelski to regions of brilliant dreams, and a splendid future of wealth, comfort, servants, and carriages, on the one side, on the other she rushed in mind to the modest lodgings of Yosef, inquiring anxiously why he did not come. But he did not come. Pelski appeared every day more definitely as a rival. Lula, blaming Yosef for indifference, annoyed and humiliated by this, was willing, even through revenge, to give her hand to Pelski. Moreover, tradition attracted her in that direction. Who had the power, who ought to gain the victory, it was easy to foresee. Pelski, in so far as he was able, strove to scatter the clouds from Lula's forehead, and frequently he succeeded in doing so. From time to time Lula had wonderful accesses of joyousness. She laughed then, and scattered more or less witty words by thousands; and though there was a kind of fever in this gladness, there was no little coquetry also. Her eyes flashed on such occasions, from her temples there was a burning atmosphere. Her lips played with an alluring smile; her words wounded and fondled, attracted and repulsed in turn. Pelski generally, and after a few unfortunate trials with Augustinovich, Pelski alone, fell a victim to these freaks. He lost his head then, and from the rôle of cousin protector he passed to that of a cousin captive. And the more humble he became, the more insolent grew Lula; the sadder he was, the gladder was she. "Panna Malinka," whispered Augustinovich, on such occasions, "never be like her; she is a coquette." "She is not," answered Malinka, sadly. "I will remind you of these words." It is difficult to say what Augustinovich would have thought after such an evening, had he seen that woman, who a moment before was coquettish, left alone in her chamber, where she sobbed so that long, long hours could not quiet her. The poor girl, she could not even confess her suffering to any one, and the grievous battle which she was fighting all alone with herself. She wept in moments of weakness. How much wounded self-love was there in those tears, how much sincere love for Yosef, it is difficult to tell. Formerly she would have put her arms around the neck of the kind Malinka, and confessed all that oppressed her soul, but now even Malinka was a stranger to her, or at least was not so near as formerly. Just those unsuccessful attempts to coquet with Augustinovich had wounded deeply that maiden, who was in love with him; and besides the relations of Lula with Pelski seemed very odd to her. Meanwhile time passed. Lula began to doubt whether Yosef had ever loved her. Pelski imperceptibly fed her with the thought of future comfort. Time flowed on, and Time, according to the words of the poet, "is the odious guardian of blooming roses." CHAPTER XVII Malinka tried frequently to learn of Augustinovich the real cause of Yosef's absence. "Why bind her hands?" asked she, speaking of Lula. Augustinovich assured her that he did not wish to bind Lula's hands, but afterward he was silent or lied. On the other hand Yosef was convinced that the countess knew everything. "I told her everything," said Augustinovich. "But she? Do not hide from me!" "Yosef?" "What?" "What is that to thee?" Yosef gritted his teeth, but inquired no further. He was ashamed. He confessed to himself that those questions were an indulgence granted to weakness and to a former feeling. With consternation almost he saw that time had brought no relief. Oh, there were moments when he wished to cast away Helena and duty and conscience and go and sell even honor, even the remnant of self-respect, for one moment in which he could rest his head against the countess' shoulder. And he could not help meditating about her. So far he had conquered, but now he remembered that formerly he had been different from what he was then. Formerly his character had that calm depth which concealed everything; to-day he boiled up. From passionate outbursts he passed frequently to melancholy and indifferent sentimentalism; he remembered how once he used to ridicule this in others, how he sneered without pity, how he despised even sentimentalism. Augustinovich knew this best of all. A certain time (about a month after the breaking with Lula) Augustinovich, waking up late in the night, saw Yosef dressed yet and sitting with a book. The clock in the silent night told the fleeting moments untiringly. A lamp burnt with a clear, bright flame, and by its light the ruddy side whiskers and pale face of Yosef were outlined clearly on the black cover of the chair. He was sitting with head bent back and closed eyes, but he was not sleeping, his raised brows and the color of his face testified to this. His face had an expression of unspeakable bliss; some kind of dream, like a golden butterfly, was sitting on his brain and melting into misty mildness the sharp lines of his features. Augustinovich looked at him carefully, then rose in the bed silently with a face full of indignation and anger. "What is he doing?" thought he. "Thou art tempting thyself! May I be hanged if I don't throw a pillow at thy head. Thou booby! Yes, I will throw the pillow! break the lamp--Hei!" He had finished in a moment these warlike preparations, and was making ready to give the terrible blow, when he pushed under the blanket quickly; Yosef opened his eyes. "I am curious to know what will happen now," muttered Augustinovich, pretending to sleep like a dead man. Meanwhile his astonishment grew in earnest. Yosef looked at him suspiciously, then looked around like a criminal; finally he pulled out a drawer of the table and searched in it for some object. "Ei! if he only does not want to shoot himself in the head, or poison himself," thought Augustinovich, terrified. But Yosef had no thought of shooting or poisoning himself. The object which he drew forth was a glove. One small yellow wrinkled glove. Ei! a poor little memorial, a historical gift with which one says remember me. _Addio! addio! caro mio!_ Remember me. Yosef, like that Emrod of old, would have gone for the glove "among two leopards and a tiger for it," but the question remained as to whether he went away after that and never returned. In point of stupidity the centuries agree oftener than in sound judgment. Yosef raised the glove to his lips. "Be ashamed, old man!" roared Augustinovich. In truth, there was something humiliating in this, and afterward Yosef was greatly ashamed of his act. Next morning he went out before daylight to avoid Augustinovich, who was seriously angry and indignant. It seemed to him that he had been deceived in Yosef. "That dunce," said he, "is like others." This idea roused that distaste in him which we feel usually on beginning to lose regard for a man whom we have thus far respected. More important still was it that after that event Augustinovich grew convinced that Yosef would return to Lula. "Let the other die or go mad," said he of the widow. "They will take each other, let her die--Ei, let her die" (Augustinovich always tried to persuade himself that he did not like women), "there will be one less of them. Yosef will go back to Lula, he will." He meditated then whether to tell Lula that Yosef was to marry, or not; in the end he resolved to be silent. "But Helena is nothing to me. He will return to Lula; if I tell her everything it will be too late--it will be too late! Oh, ho, ho! But Helena too will lose, for again it will be too late. Yes, yes, I should not be able to correct the one, and should spoil the other. I shall say nothing, I will be silent--I will be silent." He preferred Helena to Lula, a hundred times, and from his soul he preferred that Yosef should marry Helena; but he cared more for Yosef than for both women, therefore he wished Lula to be free "in every case." Besides, he considered that come what might, Lula would take Pelski. "Then," thought he, "I will tell the old man. 'Dost see,' I will say to him, 'I said nothing about Helena, she knew nothing about thy not loving her; still she married Pelski.'" Finally, he concealed carefully the news of Yosef's intended marriage, in case that Lula, laughing and happy in view of Yosef's hypothetical return, should give her hand to Pelski. "Yosef will wish happiness to the lady, I will say 'Crescite et multiplicamini! He,' I shall say, pointing to Yosef, 'has been betrothed this long time; he loves and is loved immensely.'" CHAPTER XVIII Days passed, still Yosef did not return to the countess, but Malinka said to Augustinovich,-- "Pelski may offer himself any day to Lula." "And if he does not, she may offer herself to him," answered Augustinovich, with emphasis. "Oh, that is not true, not true." "We shall see." "No, Pan Adam. Lula has much womanly pride, and if she should marry Pelski it would be only through that same pride, through anger at Yosef's indifference. Besides, to tell the truth, Pelski is the only man who loves her, for he is the only one who has remained--on whom she can count." "Ah! but evidently she likes to count on some one." Malinka was angry. "She counted once on Pan Yosef; she was deceived. How can you blame her, when he does not come--do you understand?--when he does not come?" Pan Adam was silent. "She has been deceived painfully," continued Malinka, "and believe me, I alone know what that costs her, and though we are not so friendly as before (she rejected me herself), I see often how she suffers. Yesterday I went to her room and found her in tears. 'Lula!' asked I, though she withdrew from me, 'what is the matter with thee?' 'Nothing, I suffer from headache,' said she. 'My Lula,' said I, 'thou hast heartache, not headache!' I wished to throw myself on her neck, but she pushed me aside, and then stood up with such haughtiness that I was frightened. 'I was crying from shame,' said she, firmly. 'Wilt thou understand, from shame!' I wished to understand her, but was unable; I only know that the evening of that day I saw her in tears again. And dost thou see?" "What does all this prove?" "That it is not easy for her to renounce her idea of Yosef. What has happened that he does not come?" "But if he should come?" "She would not marry Pelski." "Oh, I ridicule the idea that 'she would not.'" "Yes, for you ridicule everything. But Pan Yosef? Is it noble on his part to desert her in this way?" "Who knows what he intends to do?" "He ought to know himself," answered Malinka, decidedly, "and he should not conceal his intentions from her." "He has no time, he is working." That day, however, Malinka convinced herself that Yosef was not sitting so diligently at home as Augustinovich had represented. While walking with her mother, she met him passing with some young man. He did not notice them. Malinka was almost terrified at his appearance. He seemed to her as pale and crushed as if he had recovered from a grievous illness. "Then he has been sick," thought she, after returning home. Now she understood why Pan Adam would not explain the absence. "Yosef commanded him not to frighten Lula." All at once Yosef rose in Malinka's eyes to the loftiness of an ideal. Augustinovich came in the evening, as usual. In the drawing-room Pani Visberg and the countess were present. "Pan Adam," exclaimed Malinka, "I know why Pan Yosef has not been here for so long a time!" Lula's eyes gleamed, but that moment she controlled herself; still her hands trembled imperceptibly. "The poor man, he must have been very sick; he is as pale as if he had come out of a coffin! Why did you not tell us of this?" asked Pani Visberg, quickly. "Oh, Pan Adam was afraid that we should speak of it before Lula. Was that nice?" asked Malinka. "What is the matter with thee, Lula? Art sick?" "Nothing, nothing! I will come back in a moment." Her face was pale, breath failed her. She went out, almost fled to her chamber. Pani Visberg wished to follow her. Malinka detained her gently but decisively. "Thou must not go, mamma." Then she turned to Augustinovich; her voice had a sad and serious sound. "Pan Adam?" Augustinovich bit his lips. "Pan Adam! What is this? 'Lula is a coquette without a heart,' is she not?" "Perhaps I was mistaken," blurted out Augustinovich; "but--but--" He did not dare to cough out of himself at the moment that Yosef was going to marry Helena, that he would not come any more. On returning home he was also afraid to tell Yosef what had happened. Lula shut herself up in her chamber. Her head was on fire, and thoughts like a garland of sparks and ice were besieging her temples, and in the silence could be heard distinctly her hurried breathing and the throbbing of her heart. Pelski, Malinka, Pan Adam whirled around her in inexplicable chaos, and out of those fragments of thought as out of a grave rose higher and higher the pale, almost lifeless head of Yosef, with closed eyes. "He is sick! he is sick!" repeated she, in a whisper. "He will die, and never come here again." Poor Lula interpreted differently from Malinka Yosef's absence. She judged that he had sacrificed himself for her,--that, not wishing to stand between her and Pelski, he had renounced her, and therefore he suffered so much and was sick. "Still, who told him that I should be happy with Pelski?" whispered she, quietly. "He did not trust me. My God, my God! but could he trust me?" Memory brought before her as a reproach those moments of gleaming looks, alluring smiles, and velvety words given to Pelski; she remembered also that blush of shame with which she was blazing when Pelski learned that Yosef was the son of a blacksmith. And now she hid her burning face in her hands, but that was shame of another kind. It seemed to her at that moment that if Yosef himself were a blacksmith she would kiss his blackened forehead with delight even; even with perfect happiness would she place her head on his valiant breast, though it were covered with the apron of a blacksmith. "How dark it is in my eyes! I did not know that I loved him," said she, trembling and aflame. Her bosom moved quickly! Again some thought the most tender decked out her forehead with the brightness of an angel; she threw herself on her knees before an image of the Virgin. "O mother of God!" cried she, aloud, "if any one has to suffer or to die, let me suffer, but preserve and love him, O Most Holy Mother!" Then she rose in calmness, and was so bright with the light of love that one might have said that a silver lamp was shining in that dark little chamber before the image of the Holy Virgin. During the two following days Augustinovich did not appear; but Pelski came, and according to Malinka's previsions, proposed to Lula. Seeing his cousin's face calm, and smiling with good hope, he expressed to her his hopes and wishes. The more painful was his astonishment when Lula gave him a decisively negative answer. "I love another," was the substance of her answer. Pelski wanted to learn who "that other" was. Lula told him without hesitation; then, as is done usually on such occasions, she offered him her friendship. But Pelski did not accept the hand extended to him at parting. "You have taken too much from me, you give me too little, cousin," whispered he, in a crushed voice. "For the happiness of a lifetime--friendship!!" But Lula felt no reproach after his departure. She was thinking of something else. This is the bad side of love, that it never thinks of anything but itself. It excludes particulars, but as a recompense includes the whole. Thou feelest that if the world were one man thou wouldst press him to thy bosom and kiss him on the head as a father. Something like that did Lula feel when she went to Malinka's chamber after Pelski's visit. She needed to confess to some one all that lay on her heart. Malinka was sitting near the window. In the twilight, on the darkened panes, could be seen her mild, thoughtful little face. All at once Lula's arms were clasped around her neck. "Is that thou, Lula?" asked she, in a low voice. "I, Malinka!" answered Lula. She was sitting on a small stool near Malinka's feet; she put her head on her knees. "My kind Malinka, thou art not angry with me now, and dost not despise me?" Malinka fondled her like a child. "I was very much to blame as thou seest, but in my own heart I have found myself to-day. How pleasant it is for me here near thee! As formerly we talked long and often--let it be so to-day! Art thou willing?" Malinka smiled half sadly, half jestingly, and answered,-- "Let it be so to-day, but later it will change. A certain 'His grace' will come and take Lula away, and I shall be left alone." "But will he come?" inquired Lula, in a very low whisper. "He will come. The poor man was sick surely from yearning. I did not understand what it meant that Pan Adam would not tell me why he came not; now I understand. Pan Yosef forbade him, he would not terrify thee." "I think that he did not wish to hinder Pelski--so unkind of him to do this." "But what did Pelski do?" "I was just going to tell thee. He proposed to me to-day." "And what?" "I refused him, Malinka." Silence continued awhile. "He would not even take my hand when I gave it at parting, but could I do otherwise? I know that I acted very unkindly, very unkindly, but could I act otherwise? I do not love him." "Better late than never. Thou didst obey the voice of thy heart. Only with Pan Yosef canst thou be happy." "Oh, that is true, true." "In a month or so," continued Malinka, "we shall array Lula in a white robe, weep over Lula the maiden and rejoice over Lula the wife. Thou wilt be happy, he and thou. He must be a good man, since all respect him so much." "Do all respect him so much?" repeated Lula, who wanted to laugh and cry at the same moment. "Oh, yes, mamma fears him even, and I also fear him a little, but I respect him for his character." Lula put both hands under her head, and resting on Malinka's knees, looked into her face with eyes bright from tears. Meanwhile it grew perfectly dark, then the moon rose, the dogs fell asleep; nothing was to be heard save the whispers of the two maidens filled with fancies by their talk. All at once they were interrupted by the bell at the entrance. "Maybe that is he!" cried Lula. But it was not "he," for in the first room was heard Augustinovich's voice,-- "Are the ladies at home?" "Go, Lula, into that room and hide there," said Malinka, quickly. "I will tell him how thou didst give the refusal to Pelski, I will beg him to repeat it to Pan Yosef. We shall see if he does not come. Thou mayst listen there." The door opened. Augustinovich entered. CHAPTER XIX We have said that Augustinovich feared to tell Yosef what had happened at Pani Visberg's. Lula had deceived his expectations; in spite of aristocracy, in spite of Pelski, she loved the young doctor, since news of his sickness had shocked her to such a degree. Augustinovich lost his humor and the freedom of thought usual to him. Whether he would or not, he felt respect for Lula, and he felt respect for woman. Ei! that was something so strange in him, so out of harmony with his moral make up, that he could not come into agreement with himself. He had the look of a man caught in a falsehood, and the falsehood was his understanding of woman. He grew very gloomy. Once even (a wonderful thing and strange for him, or forgotten) words were forced from him that were full of painful bitterness: "Oh, if one like her could be met in a lifetime, a man would not be what he is." He avoided Yosef, he feared him, he hesitated, he wished to confess everything; then again he deferred it till the morrow. Finally Yosef himself took note of his strange demeanor. "What is the matter with thee, Adam?" asked he. "But of Lula he cannot ask!" cried Augustinovich, with comical despair. Yosef sprang to his feet. "Of Lula? What does that mean? Speak!" "It means nothing; what should it mean? Is all this to mean something right away?" "Augustinovich, thou art hiding something?" "But the fellow is thinking only of Lula!" cried Augustinovich, with increasing despair. Yosef with unheard-of effort mastered himself, but that was a calm before a terrible storm. His sunken cheeks grew still paler, his eyes were flaming. "Well, I will tell thee all!" cried Augustinovich, anticipating the outburst. "I will tell, I will tell! Ei, who will forbid me to tell thee that thou hast won the case! May Satan ---- me if thou hast not won. She loves thee." Yosef put his trembling hands to his perspiring face. "But Pelski?" asked he. "He has not proposed yet." "Does she know everything about me?" "Yosef!" "Speak!" "She knows nothing. I told her nothing." Yosef's voice was dull and hoarse when he asked,-- "Why hast thou done me this injustice?" "I thought that thou wouldst return to her." Yosef twisted his hands till the fingers were cracking in their joints; Augustinovich's last words fell on him like red-hot coals. Return to her? That was to abandon Helena, and did not conscience itself defend Helena's cause? To return to Lula was to purchase the happiness of a lifetime, but to return to her was to dishonor Helena, to kill her, to become contemptible, to purchase contempt for himself. Oh, misfortune! In Yosef's soul was taking place that devil's dance of a man with himself. Yosef was dancing with Yosef to the music of that orchestra of passion. Various thoughts, plans, methods, stormed in him; the battle raged along the whole line. Augustinovich looked at his comrade with a face which was despairingly stupid, and he would have liked, as the saying is, to take himself by his own collar and throw himself out of doors. All at once some decision was outlined on Yosef's face. The case was lost. "Augustinovich!" "What?" "Thou wilt go this moment to Pani Visberg's and tell Lula that I am going to marry, that the ceremony will take place in a month, and that I never shall return to her, never. Dost understand?" Augustinovich rose up and went. Malinka received him in the way known to us. Lula was to hear their conversation from behind the door. Malinka, full of imaginings from her recent talk with Lula, was gladsome and smiling; she pressed Pan Adam's hand cordially. But he did not respond with a like cordiality. "It is well that you have come," said she. "I have much to tell you, much." "And I too have much to tell, much. I have come as an envoy." "From Pan Yosef?" "From Pan Yosef." "Is he better?" "He is sick. Has Pelski been here?" "He has. I have wanted to talk of this." "I am listening, Panna Malinka." "He proposed to Lula." "And what then?" "She refused him. Oh, Pan Adam, she loves no man but Pan Yosef, she wants to belong to him only. My dear, honest Lula!" Silence lasted a moment. Pan Adam's voice quivered when he pronounced the following words deliberately,-- "She will not belong to him." "Pan Adam!" "Yosef, according to promise, is going to marry." This news struck both young ladies like a thunderbolt. For a moment there was deep silence. All at once the door of the adjoining chamber opened. Lula entered the drawing-room. On her face a blush of offended womanly dignity was playing, in her eyes pride was gleaming. It seemed to her that everything which she held sacred in her heart had been trampled. "Malinka," cried she, "ask no more, I implore thee! Enough, enough! This gentleman has delivered his message. Why lower one's self by an answer?" And taking Malinka by the hand, she led her out of the chamber almost with violence. Augustinovich followed them awhile with his eyes, then nodded a couple of times. "By the prophet!" said he, "I understand her. She is right, but so is Yosef. Hei! I must fly before everything breaks." In a moment he ran to Pelski, told him the whole story. "Some fatality weighed on them," concluded Augustinovich. "Yosef could not act otherwise, could he?" "He acted as was fitting, but what inclined you to tell me of this?" "A bagatelle. One question: Did not Lula act nobly in rejecting your hand?" "I will leave the answer to myself." "Leave it, my dear sir! The answer is all one to me, Lula is nothing to me; I know only that if my friend withdraws her future will not be enviable, and you are her cousin--The case is too bad." Pelski thought awhile. "Too bad? Ha, what is too bad?" "That your proposal did not come a little later." Pelski walked with quick step through the room. "Now, never!" whispered he to himself. Augustinovich heard this monologue. "Too late, too late; but--but--now one small request. Tell no one that I was here, especially do not tell Pani Visberg or my friend if ever you see them." "What is this to your friend?" "Everything; but you would not understand it, dear count--Till our next meeting!" Pelski, left alone, meditated long as to how that could really concern Augustinovich. He did not think out any answer, but came to the conviction that it might concern his own self somewhat. "I might return to her, feigning ignorance of what has happened," said he. "Poor Lula!" CHAPTER XX The two young ladies were sitting in Lula's chamber. That was a painful silence. If there are grievous moments in life, they had thrown their weight on the present fate of Lula. Everything which she held sacred in her breast had been trampled. She had put into that love the best parts of her moral existence, the victory to her had been like a wedding solemnity; by the power of this feeling she had risen from a momentary fall, she had conquered family prejudice, rejected the hand of a man who loved her, and with it a calm future, life in plenty, her own independence, and the pay for all this was information that he whom she loved was to marry another. Ei! she lost still more. All the angelic qualities which preceding days had given her were crushed now into ruins of despair. Her soul might wither to its foundation! Had she not lost with love also faith and hope, not in their theological sense, but in all their vital value for life? The ground was pushing from under her. Like a boat without an oar, she was to drift in the future beyond sight of shore. To-day an orphan gathered in by honest hearts, she may find herself to-morrow simply suffering hunger, without a morsel of bread; to-day so white that lilies might bloom on her breast, she may in future stain that whiteness with the gall of her own bitterness: to-day half a child almost, in the spring, in the May morning, she may after this or that number of years have to look at her life's fruitless autumn. Humiliated, broken, "like twigs after a tempest," pushed away from her moral basis, killed in her happiness; with dry burning eyes she pressed the weeping Malinka to her bosom convulsively. Lula did not weep, although she had tears enough for weeping; anger had dried them. But Malinka cried enough for both. * * * * * Next morning the countess received two letters,--one from Pelski, the other from Yosef. "MADAME (wrote Pelski),--The pain which I felt in consequence of your answer did not permit me to reckon with my words. I rejected the friendship which you offered me. I regret that act. Though I cannot explain your treatment of me, I see that you followed the voice of your heart. I trust that that voice has not deceived you. If he whom you have chosen loves you as much as I should, be assured of your happiness. I reproach him not, I dare not judge a man whom you love. As to myself, forced by stern necessity to part with the hope of possessing you, I implore you as the highest favor not to remember my words thrown out in a moment of pain. Permit me to return and claim that friendship inconsiderately rejected, friendship which for me in the future may take the place of the happiness of a lifetime." In the evening Augustinovich brought a letter from Yosef. Lula did not wish to open it. "Do not do him injustice," said Augustinovich, imploringly, "for at the present moment my old friend is perhaps--" Tears choked him, further words stuck in his throat. "These may be his last words--I took him to the hospital yesterday," whispered he. Lula grew as pale as linen. It seemed for a moment that she would faint. In vain did she strive to preserve a calm and cool face, her whole body shook like a leaf. Come what might, she loved Yosef. She took from Pan Adam's hand the letter, which read as follows:-- "DEAR LADY,--I was able to endure the loss of your hand, but not of your respect. Read and judge. A dying friend left to my care a woman whom he loved with all the power of a suffering heart. I had deprived him of the love of this woman without wishing to do so. After his death I became acquainted with her more intimately, and it seemed to me that I loved her. Unfortunately I told her so. After that you know, beloved lady, what happened. After that I hid from myself my ill-fated attachment to you. How much I suffered! Oh, pardon me! I am a man, I too must love, but still it was not from my lips that you learned of that love. When at last I stood before my own conscience, when the moment of memory came, judge yourself, how was I to act, whither was I to go, what was I to do? The oath to a dying man, the word given to a woman unhappy beyond expression, everything except my heart commanded me to abdicate you. It was not through my fault that you learned of this only yesterday. This news should have gone to you at the time when Count Pelski appeared. Misfortune, and the frivolity of a man ordained otherwise. This is the state of affairs! Judge, and, if you are able, forgive. Adam says that I am ill. This is true: my thoughts are weeping, I feel a burning in my blood, and out of pain and chaos I see one thing clearly,--that I love! that I love thee, O angel!" After the reading of this letter the remnants of anger and pride vanished from Lula's forehead, on her beautiful face a mild though deep melancholy fixed itself. "Pan Adam," said she, "tell the gentleman that he has acted as he should." "And forgive me, dear lady," said Augustinovich, throwing himself on his knees. "I was unjust. I did you a wrong, but I had no idea, I knew not, that there were such women in the world as you are." CHAPTER XXI Augustinovich went directly from Pani Visberg's to the hospital, where he remained all night. Yosef was ill, very ill. Typhus rushed at that strong organism, threatening it with utter destruction. About midnight the sick man began to rave; he talked with himself, and argued obstinately on the immortality of the soul with a black cat which he saw sitting on the bed. It appeared that he feared death, for a number of times indescribable terror was depicted on his face. He feared and trembled very acutely after every movement of Augustinovich. At moments he sang with a quivering voice, and as it were through sleep various gladsome and melancholy songs, or conversed with acquaintances. There was even a kind of astonishing humor in the naturalness of tones in these conversations. Augustinovich, unmanned already by the events of preceding days, was irritated unspeakably. He waited for morning with longing, looking often at the window-panes, which, as if through spite, continued to be as black as ever. Outside there was deep darkness, and fine rain began to cut the window-panes, filling the hospital chamber with a sound which was monotonous and disagreeable. For a long time such sad and disquieting thoughts had not wandered into Augustinovich's head as at that moment. Resting his elbows on his knees and covering his face with his hands, he meditated over the marvellous and painful complication of events during the last few days. Sometimes he raised his head and cast a quick glance at the sick man; at times it seemed to him that the gloom of death was falling on the withered, sharp features of Yosef. Augustinovich pondered over this, how a man, so active and broadly living a short time before, would be in a couple of days, perhaps, something dead, which they would bury in the ground, and the comedy would be ended! Oh, an ordinary, everyday thought, and every day equally bitter for those who must think: This is the end! dust! Still, when he lived with full life, he judged, analyzed, acted perhaps more widely than others. As a plough turns out the sod, so he, in the soil of life, from the furrows of good and evil was winning good and--? Involuntarily one asks for the moral sense of this fable. Where, when, on what planets, will living persons find an answer beyond the tomb? Immortality?--In the ocean of human acts perhaps a few moral atoms of the deeds of the dead survive, but that I, powerful, energetically self-conscious, where is it? And those atoms of acts are like the corpse of a sailor dropped down from a ship into the abyss of the sea. Where shall we look for them, and who will find them? Will God ever fish them out from those shoreless billows, and will He develop from them a new self-conscious being? "_� bene trovato!_" The bitterness of these thoughts settled now on the sleepy forehead of Augustinovich, but meanwhile the window-panes from black began to turn gray. It was dawning. In the chamber the light of the candle grew rosier gradually and fainter, objects began to issue from the shade. In the corridors were heard now the steps of the hospital servants. An hour later the doctor came in. "How is the patient?" inquired he. "Ill," answered Augustinovich, abruptly. The doctor thrust out his lower lip with importance, wrinkled his forehead, and felt the pulse of the sick man. "What do you think?" inquired Augustinovich. "Well, what? I think nothing--he is ill, very ill." A shade of irony passed over Augustinovich's face. "But I think, professor, that medicine is a very dull child which believes that if it takes its heels in its hands it can lift itself. Is this not the case?" The doctor nodded a couple of times, prescribed some cooling medicine, and went out. Augustinovich, looking at the prescription, shook his head in his turn, shrugged his shoulders, and sat at the bed. Meanwhile the patient grew worse toward evening, about midnight he was almost dying. Augustinovich wept like a child and knocked himself against the walls of the chamber. He sat up again through the whole night. Toward morning it seemed to him that he noticed a slight improvement, but that improvement was deceptive. Pale and red spots appeared on the sick man; evidently he had burnt out in fever and was quenching. In the evening Pani Visberg came. Augustinovich would not admit her to the room. From his face she learned that something terrible must be happening. "Is he alive?" cried she. "He is dying!" answered Augustinovich, briefly. A few hours later the chaplain of the hospital anointed Yosef. Augustinovich had not strength to be present at the ceremony; he ran out into the city. He needed to collect his thoughts, he needed to draw breath; he felt that his thoughts were beginning to grow dim--very likely the loss of Yosef would destroy his balance. He had expected everything, but not that Yosef would die. He did not know himself whither he was hurrying; a number of times he halted as if in fear that he would return too late. All at once some thought flashed through his head; he noticed that he was standing before Helena's lodgings. "I will go in. Let her take farewell of him!" Half an hour later Helena was kneeling at Yosef's bed. Her unbound hair was lying in broad tresses on the bed; she was embracing the sick man's feet with her hands, her face resting on them. In that room of the hospital reigned a silence of the grave; nothing was heard but the quick broken breath of Yosef. So passed the long, cursed night, every moment of which seemed the last one for Yosef. Finally, on the thirteenth day from the first the disease was vanquished. Yosef was decidedly better. At his bed sat, without leaving it, Augustinovich and Helena; the latter seemed to forget the world at that bed. With Yosef's life life returned to Helena also. She was delighted to ecstasy with even the smallest proof of improvement. At last Yosef regained consciousness. Augustinovich was not present at that moment; the first person whom he saw was Helena. The sick man looked at her for a moment; on his forehead a certain working of thought became evident. At last he recalled her to mind. He smiled. Evidently the smile was forced; still Helena threw herself on her knees with tears of delight. But Augustinovich when he returned noticed that her presence disquieted the sick man and even tortured him. Yosef did not take his eyes from Helena for an instant; he followed every movement of hers. With that inane gesticulation peculiar to old or to sick people he moved his lips. Augustinovich followed Yosef's eyes carefully. He had a foreboding of evil. Meanwhile, as usual, toward evening the fever increased; still the sick man fell asleep. Augustinovich strove to persuade Helena to go home for rest. "I will not leave him for a moment," answered she, with what for her was uncommon decision. Augustinovich took his seat in the armchair in silence and meditated deeply; soon his head began to weigh on him, his lids became leaden, an invincible drowsiness seized him with increasing force, his head dropped on his breast, he nodded to the right, to the left, and fell asleep. After a while he woke again. "Is he sleeping?" inquired he, looking at Yosef. "He is sleeping, but unquietly," answered Helena. Augustinovich again dropped his head. Suddenly a shriek from Helena roused him. The sick man was sitting up in bed in a paroxysm of malignant fever; his face was burning, his eyes glittering like those of a wolf; his emaciated hand was extended toward Helena. "What is this!" cried Augustinovich. Helena seized him convulsively by the hands; she felt that his whole body trembled. "Do not torture me!" whispered the sick man, with a hoarse, broken voice. "Thou hast killed Gustav, and now thou wouldst kill me. Away! I do not love thee! Be off!" Again he fell on the bed. "Lula, my Lula, save me!" whispered Yosef. Augustinovich almost by force conducted Helena from the chamber. In the corridor was heard for a while quick conversation, and the name of the countess was repeated. At last Augustinovich returned alone. He was pale, great drops of sweat were flowing down his forehead. "Everything is ended now," said he, in a whisper. * * * * * Helena ran driven by despair. Yosef's words and the brief conversation with Augustinovich had cleared as with a bloody lightning-flash many circumstances which had been dark to her. She ran with the single object of going straight forward. Her thoughts were burning her like fire, or rather they were thoughts no longer, they were a circle of fire sparks driven around madly by a whirlwind. The city in that evening hour was lighted with a thousand lamps, calm domestic fires looked through the clear windows at her. She ran on. Through the streets throngs of people flowed forward as usual; some passers-by turned around to gaze at her; one young man said something with a smile, but looking her in the eyes he drew back in fright. She ran on. At last instead of streets there were alleys, next alleys which were emptier and darker. In the windows lights were evident no longer; there the wearied population were sleeping after the toil of the day; in a rare place a lamp gleamed, or the echoes of a footstep were heard. The night was damp, but calm; a kind of weight oppressive to the spirit was hanging in the atmosphere. From the Dnieper came a harsh breeze; a watery mist left drops on Helena's clothing and hair. On, on she ran. Nervous spasms distorted her face. In spite of the coolness it seemed to her that fire from heaven was falling on her head, her hands, and her breast. Those little fires seemed to dance and whirl about her, and in each one of them she saw the face now of Yosef, now of Gustav. Her cape had fallen off, the wind had torn her hat away, dampness unbound her hair. She fell to the earth a number of times. Soon amid night and emptiness she found herself alone. Only the distant noise of the city and the barking of dogs in that part through which she was hastening pursued her. She ran ever forward. She felt neither torture nor pain. All her thoughts rushed to one centre; that was her misfortune. When love takes a part of one's life, it pays with disappointment; for Helena love had been everything. Existence for her had ceased now to have sense. The charm was broken. There was no forgiveness for that woman, though she had "loved much;" there could be only peace, not in life, but beyond it. Meanwhile she ran forward, but strength was deserting her. Her lips had grown parched, her eyes were now dim, her clothing wet and bespattered with mud. She fell oftener and oftener; sometimes she turned her face to the sky, seizing the air greedily. The ground on which she was running became wetter and wetter. From afar could be heard now the sobbing of the wave, and that marvellous converse of water, half fitful, half gloomy. At the brink Helena halted a moment. Closing her eyes on a sudden and stretching her hands out before her, the woman rushed forward. With the plash in the river was heard a short scream, stopped by the water,--her last scream. Then followed silence. Deep night was in the sky. CHAPTER XXII "Everything is marvellously involved in this poor world," said the ancient poet. This is certain, that more than once life becomes so involved that it is only to be cut like that Gordian knot of old. So was it with Yosef. A few years before he had come to Kieff full of confidence in his own strength. It had seemed to him that he could push forward not only his own fate, but that of others in a way chosen in advance. Meanwhile he had convinced himself that in a short time he had lost the rudder even of his own boat. He had been left to rush and save himself if he wished, but he had to sail with the wind, and therewith he had little happiness in life. In his case, as in that of all men, life, or rather the excess of that seething of youthful years, had to pour out in the single but very narrow direction of love for woman. There was little space between the banks; hence the stream flowed too violently, so that in all Yosef's past there were barely a few peaceful moments. He lacked little of paying with his life for the past, and God knows there was nothing to pay for. After the last incident with Helena the danger might be renewed. Augustinovich feared relapse; happily his fears were not justified. Yosef improved continually. It was difficult to foresee how long he would have to lie in bed yet; his weakness after the grievous illness was very great, but his return to health was assured. Augustinovich shortened the long hospital hours to the best of his power and ability, but vain were his efforts to win back the old-time humor. Recent events had made him sedate and sparing of words. He had lost many of his old habits. From the time of Yosef's illness he had not visited Pani Visberg even once, though she came rather often to inquire for Yosef's health. But if in this way events of recent days had acted on Augustinovich, how much more had they acted on Yosef! Out of his long illness he rose a new man altogether. He had no longer that lively, active, unbending temperament. In his movements there was slowness, in his look heaviness, and as it were indolence. Augustinovich attributed this, and justly, to the weakness unavoidable after such an illness, but soon he noticed in the sick man other things foreign to him before. A certain marvellous indifference approaching apathy broke through his words. He began to look at the world again, but in a manner entirely different from that in which he had looked at it earlier. He seemed to be capable of no vivacious feeling. It was disagreeable to look at him; these changes had touched not merely his moral side, he had changed physically also. His hair had grown thin, his face was white and emaciated, his eyes had a sleepy look, he had lost his former brightness. Lying whole days without movement, he looked for hours together at one point in the ceiling, or slept. The presence of any one did not seem to concern him. All this alarmed Augustinovich, especially when he considered that in spite of the speedy return of physical strength these symptoms, if they yielded, yielded very slowly. He sighed when he remembered the former Yosef, and he labored to rouse the present one, but the labor was difficult. A certain time Augustinovich, sitting by the bed of the sick man, read aloud to him. Yosef was lying on his back; according to habit he was looking at the ceiling. Evidently he was thinking of something else, or was thinking of nothing, for after a certain time annoyance was expressed on his face. Augustinovich stopped reading. "Dost wish to sleep?" "No, but the book wearies me." Augustinovich was reading "Dame aux Camélias." "Still, there is life and truth here." "Yes, but there is not judgment to the value of a copper." "Still, the book raises the question of such women!" "But whom do such women concern?" "They once concerned thee." Yosef said nothing; on his face a slight thoughtfulness was evident. After a time he asked,-- "What is happening with Helena? Has she been here?" Augustinovich was confused. "She has been here, she has been here." "Well, and now?" "That is--yes--she is sick, very sick." Yosef's face continued indifferent. "What is the matter with her?" asked he, leisurely. "With her?--She--Well, I will tell thee the truth, only be not frightened." "Well?" "Helena is no longer alive--she was drowned." Some sort of indefinite impression shot over Yosef's face; he made an effort as if to rise in the bed, but after a while he dropped his head on the pillow. "By accident or design?" asked he. "Rest, old man, rest; it is not permitted thee to talk much. Later I will tell everything." Yosef turned to the wall and sank into silence. At that moment a servant of the hospital entered. "Pani Visberg wishes to see you," said he to Augustinovich. Augustinovich went out; in the corridor Pani Visberg was waiting. "What has happened?" inquired he, with concern. "Is some one sick?" "No, no!" "What then?" "Lula has gone away!" said Pani Visberg, in a sad voice. "Long ago?" "Yesterday evening. I should have come here at once, for during the whole week I had not heard from Yosef, but Malinka was so afflicted, and had cried so much that I could not let her come. Lula has gone, she has gone!" "Why did she go?" "It is difficult to tell. Maybe two weeks from the time that Yosef fell ill, Pelski came again, and soon after proposed to her a second time. She experienced no small suffering from that, for evidently the little man had become attached to her seriously. Still she refused him, giving as cause that she could not marry without attachment. I liked that Pelski well enough. But that is not the point! The honest girl refused him, naturally. How much she suffered during Yosef's sickness! But that again is not the point. She and Pelski parted without anger, and he undoubtedly found her that place in Odessa. Imagine to yourself my astonishment when a few days ago she came to me and declared that Yosef's illness was all that had delayed her departure, that now, when he was better, she would not be a burden on me longer, that she wanted to work for a morsel of bread, and would go. But, my God! was she a burden to me? Malinka became educated and acquired polish in her society; besides, I loved her." Augustinovich thought awhile; only after long silence did he say,-- "No, kind lady! I understand Lula. When she took lodgings with you she was a spoiled and capricious young girl, who thought that you were receiving her for her coronet, and to be honored yourself; to-day she is quite different." "Do I reproach her with anything?" asked Pani Visberg. "That is not a question. I understand how bitter it must have been for you and your daughter to part with her, and it is too bad that you did not let me know of this before. The person whom Yosef was to marry is no longer alive." "No longer alive?" "She is not. But except pain for you, this departure will cause no harm. Yosef has not passed examination for his medical degree; he must think of that first of all, for it is his bread. When he recovers and assures a sustenance for himself, he will go to Odessa after her, but for that time is needed. Yosef has changed very much. It is no harm that Lula has done everything that can raise her still more in his esteem." Pani Visberg went away with a straitened heart. Augustinovich stood awhile on one spot, then he shook himself from his meditation and took on a gloomy look. "She has rejected Pelski a second time," thought he; "she wants to work for her living! Oh, Yosef, Yosef! even to go through greater suffering than thine--" He did not finish the thought which he had begun; he waved his hand, and went to the chamber. "What did Pani Visberg want?" asked Yosef, with an apathetic voice. "Lula has gone to Odessa," answered Augustinovich, abruptly. Yosef closed his eyes and remained motionless a long time. At last he said,-- "It is a pity! That was a good girl--Lula." Augustinovich gritted his teeth and made no answer. * * * * * The time came at last when Yosef left the hospital, and a month later he passed his examination as doctor of medicine. It was a clear autumnal day. The two friends, with their diplomas in their pockets, were returning to the house. Yosef's face bore on it yet the marks of disease, but otherwise he was perfectly healthy. Augustinovich walked arm in arm with him; along the road they talked of the past. "Let us sit here on this bench," said Augustinovich when they entered the garden. "It is a beautiful day, I like to warm myself in the sun on such a day." They sat down. Augustinovich stretched himself comfortably, drew a long breath, and said with gladsome feeling,-- "Well, old man! we ought to have had in our pockets for the last three months these wretched rolls which we have received only to-day." "True," replied Yosef, pushing away with his cane a few yellow leaves that were lying at the side of the bench. "The leaves are falling from the trees, and the birds are moving southward," said Augustinovich. Then lowering his voice and pointing to a flock of wagtails flying above the trees, he added,-- "But wilt thou not go south after the couriers of the sun?" "I? Whither?" "To the Black Sea--to Odessa." Yosef bent, and remained silent for a long time, then he raised his head; on his face was depicted something almost like despair. "I love her no longer, Adam!" whispered he. On the evening of that day Augustinovich said to Yosef,-- "We put too much energy into chasing after woman's love; later on that love flies away like a bird, and our energy is wasted." New Fiction =The King's Henchman.= A Chronicle of the Sixteenth Century. Brought to light and edited by WILLIAM HENRY JOHNSON. 12mo. Cloth, extra, gilt top. $1.50. What is more noticeable than the interest of the story itself is Mr. Johnson's intuitive insight and thorough understanding of the period. While the book is Weyman in vigorous activity, it is Dumas in its brilliant touches of romanticism.--_Boston Herald._ Mr. Johnson has caught the spirit of the period, and has painted in Henry of Navarre a truthful and memorable historical portrait.--_The Mail and Express of New York._ =The Duenna of a Genius.= By M. E. FRANCIS (Mrs. Francis Blundell), author of "In a North Country Village," "A Daughter of the Soil," etc. 12mo. Cloth, extra, gilt top. $1.50. An admirable novel; a pure, bright, pleasant, sparkling, wholesome, interesting story of musical taste, talent, and life. The idea is a beautiful one itself, and it is well carried out in the structure of the story.--_Literary World._ A novel that doesn't sound a hackneyed note from beginning to end.... One of the brightest, happiest, and most infectious of the numerous stories that have a musical basis.--_Boston Herald._ Freshly told and charmingly conceived. Very delightful reading, and, in these hurried and high-strung days, a genuine refreshment.--_Boston Transcript._ =The Count's Snuff-Box.= A Romance of Washington and Buzzard's Bay during the War of 1812. By GEORGE R. R. RIVERS, author of "The Governor's Garden," "Captain Shays, a Populist of 1786," etc. Illustrated by Clyde O. De Land. 12mo. Cloth, gilt top. $1.50. A well-conceived and well-told story, from which the reader will get an excellent idea of society and manners in the nation's capital nearly a century ago.--_Boston Transcript._ Will rank as one of the successes of the year if there is any faith to be put in a capital story in a frame fashioned of our own rugged history.--_Denver Republican._ =Each Life Unfulfilled.= By ANNA CHAPIN RAY, author of "Teddy, Her Book," etc. 16mo. Cloth, extra. $1.25. A novel of to-day, dealing with American life. Its principal characters are a young girl studying for a musical career, and an author. The scenes of the story are laid in a Western summer resort and in New York. =Hassan. A Romance of Palestine.= By HENRY GILLMAN. Crown 8vo. 600 pages. Cloth, gilt top. $2.00. The author of this powerful romance lived in Palestine for over five years, and during his residence there had unusual and peculiar advantages for seeing and knowing the people and the country, enabling him to enrich his story with local color, characteristics, and information not found in any other work of the kind on the Holy Land. The pen-portraits of the people are studies made upon the spot, and the descriptions of Jerusalem and the surrounding country are word-pictures of the land as it is to-day, and therefore of special value. A biblical, patriarchal, pastoral spirit pervades it. Indeed, the whole book is saturated with the author's reverence for the Holy Land, its legends, traditions, glory, misery,--its romance, in a word, and its one supreme glory, the impress of the Chosen of God and of the Master who walked among them.--_The Independent._ Mr. Gillman has certainly opened up a new field of fiction. The book is a marvel of power, acute insight, and clever manipulation of thoroughly grounded truths. There is no question that it lives and breathes. The story is as much of a giant in fiction as its hero is among men.--_Boston Herald._ The impression made by reading the book is like that of witnessing a great play, its scenes are so vivid, its characters so real, its surrounding horizon so picturesque, its setting so rich and varied.--_Philadelphia Item._ =Sielanka: a Forest Picture, and Other Stories.= By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ, author of "Quo Vadis," "With Fire and Sword," etc. Translated from the Polish by JEREMIAH CURTIN. Uniform with the other volumes of the Library Edition of Sienkiewicz. Crown 8vo. $2.00. This new volume by the most popular writer of the time includes the shorter stories which have not before been published in the uniform Library Edition, rendering it the only complete edition of his works in English. It comprises six hundred pages, and contains the following stories, dramas, etc.: Sielanka, a Forest Picture; For Bread; Orso; Whose Fault, a Dramatic Picture in One Act; On a Single Card, a Play in Five Acts; The Decision of Zeus; Yanko the Musician; Bartek the Victor; Across the Plains; The Diary of a Tutor in Poznan; The Lighthouse Keeper of Aspinwall; Yamyol (Angel); The Bull Fight; A Comedy of Errors; A Journey to Athens; Zola. Under the seventeen titles one finds almost as many aspects of the genius of Sienkiewicz. Detached from the intricacies of an elaborate composition, figures, scenes, and episodes become far more effective.--_New York Times._ =In Vain.= By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish by JEREMIAH CURTIN. 16mo. Cloth, extra. $1.25. A love story of modern Poland, by the author of "Quo Vadis," not before translated. The scene is laid at Kieff, and university life there is described. =The Story of Gösta Berling.= Translated from the Swedish of SELMA LAGERL�F, by PAULINE BANCROFT FLACH. 12mo. Cloth, gilt. $1.75. When "Gösta Berling" was first published in Sweden a few years ago, Miss Lagerlöf immediately rose into prominence, and, as Mr. E. Nesbit Bain writes in the October "Cosmopolis," "took the Swedish public by storm." The sagalike treatment and almost lyric mood of "The Story of Gösta Berling" render its form in keeping with the unusual character of the book itself. The harshness of Northern manners enables Miss Lagerlöf to probe human life to its depths; and with the effect of increasing the weird power of the whole, a convincing truth to nature is intermingled with the wild legends and folk-lore of Värmland. There is hardly a page that does not glow with strange beauty, so that the book exerts an unbroken charm from beginning to end.--_The Bookman._ Something Homeric in its epic simplicity runs through the history of the deposed priest. The opening chapters engage the attention at once by their mystic realism.--_Time and the Hour._ =I am the King.= Being the Account of some Happenings in the Life of Godfrey de Bersac, Crusader Knight. By SHEPPARD STEVENS. 16mo. Cloth, extra. $1.25. A fresh and invigorating piece of reading.--_Nashville American._ Characterized by those graceful touches which belong to true and pure romanticism.--_Boston Herald._ It has the straightforwardness of the old-time story-teller.--_St. Louis Globe-Democrat._ =The Duke's Servants. A Romance.= By SIDNEY HERBERT BURCHELL, author of "In the Days of King James." 12mo. Cloth, extra. $1.50. 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The author of this work is well known through his connection with the ministry. The volume gives an account of a trip made by a philosophical professor, his intellectual daughter, and a young theological student, including descriptions of various portions of England and Germany visited by the persons of the narrative. The undogmatic way in which the author discusses theology and philosophy will interest the serious-minded. =King or Knave, Which Wins?= An Old Tale of Huguenot Days. Edited by WILLIAM HENRY JOHNSON. 12mo. Cloth, extra. $1.50. This is a sequel to the author's successful romance of the time of Henry of Navarre, entitled "The King's Henchman." Much of its interest centres in the personality of the famous Gabrielle d'Estrées and the efforts of Henry of Navarre to obtain possession of the throne of France. =The Miracles of Antichrist.= By SELMA LAGERL�F. Author of "The Story of Gösta Berling." Translated from the Swedish by PAULINE BANCROFT FLACH. 12mo. Cloth, extra. $1.50. This second important work from the pen of the successful author of "Gösta Berling," which has created such a strong impression, will be widely read. "The author," says a reviewer in "Cosmopolis," "has chosen the Etna region of Sicily as the theatre of her story, and the result is a masterpiece of the highest order,--a _chef-d'oeuvre_ which places the young author in the front rank of the literary artists of her day. The merits of 'Antekrists Mirakler' are so superlative that a lesser eulogy would be inadequate.... It is worth while to learn Swedish to read this astonishing book. All who hunger after true poetry may here eat, drink, and be satisfied." =A Boy in the Peninsular War.= The Services, Adventures, and Experiences of Robert Blakeney, a Subaltern in the 28th Regiment. An Autobiography. Edited by JULIAN STURGIS. With a map. 8vo. Cloth, gilt top. $4.00. In the pages of this book will be found a spirited picture of an English soldier's life during the Peninsular War, with the allied armies against Napoleon's generals. LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, _Publishers_ 254 Washington Street, Boston, Mass. 
20537	----	Introduction Eliza Orzeszko, the authoress of "The Argonauts," is the greatest female writer and thinker in the Slav world at present. There are keen and good critics, just judges of thought and style, who pronounce her the first literary artist among the women of Europe. These critics are not Western Europeans, for Western Europe has no means yet of appreciating this gifted woman. No doubt it will have these means after a time in the form of adequate translations. Meanwhile I repeat that she is the greatest authoress among all the Slav peoples. She is a person of rare intellectual distinction, an observer of exquisite perception in studying men and women, and the difficulties with which they have to struggle. Who are the Slavs among whom Eliza Orzeszko stands thus distinguished? The Slavs form a very large majority of the people in Austria-Hungary, an immense majority in European Turkey, and an overwhelming majority in the Russian Empire; they are besides an unyielding, though repressed, majority in that part of Prussian territory known as Posen in German, and Poznan in Polish. The Slav race occupies an immense region extending from Prussia, Bohemia, and the Adriatic eastward to the Pacific Ocean. Its main divisions are the Russians, Poles, Bohemians (Chehs), Serbs, Bulgarians; its smaller divisions are the Slovaks, Wends, Slovinians, Croats, Montenegrins. These all have literature in some form, literature which in respect to the world outside is famous, well known, little known, or unknown. The Slavs have behind them a history dramatic to the utmost, varied, full of suffering, full also, of heroism in endurance or valor. The present time is momentous for all nations, the future is a tangled riddle; for the Slavs this seems true in a double measure. To involved social problems is added race opposition in the breasts of neighbors, a deep, sullen historic hostility. Hence when a writer of power appears among the Slavs, whether he takes up the past or the present, he has that at hand through which he compels the whole world to listen. Sienkiewicz has shown this, so has Tolstoy, so have Dostoyevski and Gogol. The present volume gives in translation a book which should be widely read with much pleasure. The winning of money on an immense scale to the neglect of all other objects, to the neglect even of the nearest duties, is the sin of one Argonaut; the utter neglect of money and the proper means of living is the ruin of the other. Darvid by "iron toil" laid the basis of a splendid structure, but went no farther; he had not the time, he had not the power, perhaps, to build thereon himself, and his wife, to whom he left the task, had not the character to do so. By neglect of duty Darvid is brought to madness; by neglect of money Kranitski is brought to be a parasite, and when he loses even that position he is supported by a servant. The right use of wealth, the proper direction of labor, these are supreme questions in our time, and beyond all in America. Friends have advised Madame Orzeszko to visit this country and study it; visit Chicago, the great business centre, the most active city on earth, and New York, the great money capital. If she comes she will see much to rouse thought. What will she see? That we know how to win money and give proper use to it? Whatever she sees, it will be something of value, that is undoubted; something that may be compared with European conditions, something to be compared with the story in this book. Eliza Orzeszko writes because she cannot help writing; her works, contained in forty-odd volumes, touch on the most vital subjects in the world about her. She tells the truth precisely as she sees it. We may hope for much yet from the pen of this lady, who is still in the best years of her intellectual activity. Madame Orzeszko was born a little more than fifty years ago in Lithuania, that part of the Commonwealth which produced Mickiewicz, the great poet, and Kosciuszko the hero. THE ARGONAUTS By Eliza Orzeszko (Orzeszkowa) Translated by Jeremiah Curtin Bristol, Vt., U.S.A. September 12, 1901. CHAPTER I It was the mansion of a millionaire. On the furniture and the walls of drawing-rooms, colors and gleams played as on the surface of a pearl shell. Mirrors reflected pictures, and inlaid floors shone like mirrors. Here and there dark tapestry and massive curtains seemed to decrease the effect, but only at first sight, for, in fact, they lent the whole interior a dignity which was almost churchlike. At some points everything glistened, gleamed, changed into azure, scarlet, gold, bronze, and the various tints of white peculiar to plaster-of-Paris, marble, silk, porcelain. In that house were products of Chinese and Japanese skill; the styles of remote ages were there, and the most exquisite and elegant among modern styles, lamps, chandeliers, candlesticks, vases, ornamental art in its highest development. Withal much taste and skill was evident, a certain tact in placing things, and a keenness in disposing them, which indicated infallibly the hand and the mind of a woman who was far above mediocrity. The furnishing of this mansion must have cost sums which to the poor would seem colossal, and very considerable even to the wealthy. Aloysius Darvid, the owner of this mansion, had not inherited his millions; he had won them with his own iron labor, and he toiled continually to increase them. His industry, inventiveness, and energy were inexhaustible. To him business seemed to be what water is to a fish: the element which gives delight and freedom. What was his business? Great and complicated enterprises: the erection of public edifices, the purchase, sale, and exchange of values of various descriptions, exchanges in many markets and corporations. To finish all this business it was necessary to possess qualities of the most opposite character: the courage of the lion and the caution of the fox, the talons of the falcon and the elasticity of the cat. His life was passed at a gaming-table, composed of the whole surface of a gigantic State; that life was a species of continuous punting at a bank kept by blind chance rather frequently; for calculation and skill, which meant very much in his career, could not eliminate chance altogether, that power which appears independently. Hence, he must not let chance overthrow him; he might drop to the earth before its thrusts and contract a muscle, but only to parry, make an elastic spring, and seize new booty. His career was success rising and falling like a river, it was also a fever, ceaselessly bathed in cool calculation and reckoning. As to the rest, post-wagons, railways, bells at railway stations, urging to haste, glittering snows of the distant North, mountains towering on the boundary between two parts of the world, rivers cutting through uninhabited regions, horizons marked with the gloomy lines of Siberian forests, solitary since the beginning of ages. Then, as a change: noise, glitter, throngs, the brilliancy of capitals, and in those capitals a multitude of doors, some of which open with freedom, while others are closed hermetically; before doors of the second sort the pliancy of the cat's paw is needed; this finds a hole where the broad way is impossible. He was forced to be absent from his family for long months, sometimes for whole years, and even when living under the same roof with the members of it he was a rare guest, never a real confiding companion. For permanence, intimacy, tender feeling in relations, with even those who were nearest him, Darvid had not the time, just as he had not the time to concentrate his thoughts on any subject whatever unless it was connected with his lines, dates, and figures, or with the meshes of that net in which he enclosed his thoughts and his iron labor. As to amusements and delights of life, they were at intervals love-affairs, flashing up on a sudden, transient, fleeting, vanishing with the smoke of the locomotive which rushed forward, at times luxuries of the table peculiar to various climates, or majestic scenery which forced itself on the eye by its grandeur and disappeared quickly, or some hours of animated card-playing; but, above all, relations with social magnates, who were on the one hand of use, and on the other an immensely great honor to his vanity. Money and significance, these were the two poles around which all Darvid's thoughts, desires, and feelings circled; or, at least, it might seem all, for who can be certain that nothing exists in a man save that which is manifest in his actions? Surely no one, not the man himself even. After three years' absence, Darvid had returned only a few months before to his native city, and to his own house, where he was as ever a rare and inattentive guest. Pie was laboring again. In the first week, on the first day almost, he discovered a new field; he was very anxious to seize this field, and begin his Herculean efforts on it. But the seizure depended on a certain very highly placed personage to whom, up to that time, he had not been able to gain admittance. The cat's paw had played about a number of times to open a crevice in the closed door, but in vain! He desired a confidential talk of two hours, but could not obtain it. He turned then to a method which had given him real service frequently. He found an individual who had the art of squeezing into all places, of winning everyone, of digging from under the earth circumstances, relations, influences. Individuals of this kind are generally dubious in character, but this concerned Darvid in no way. He considered that at the bottom of life dregs are found as surely as slime is in rivers which have golden sand. He thought of life's dregs and smiled contemptuously, but did not hesitate to handle those dregs, and see if there were golden grains in them. He called his dubious assistants hounds, for they tracked game in thickets inaccessible to the hunter. Small, almost invisible, they were still better able than he to contract muscles, creep up or spring over. He had let out such a hound a few days before to gain the desired audience, and had received no news from him thus far. This disturbed and annoyed Darvid greatly. He would rush into the new work like a lion into an arena, and spring at fresh prey. The evening twilight came down into the series of great and small chambers. Darvid, in his study, furnished with such dignified wealth that it was almost severe in the rich lamp-light, received men who came on affairs of various descriptions: with reports, accounts, requests, proposals. In that study everything was dark-colored, massive, grand in its proportions, of great price, but not flashy. Not the least object was showy or fantastic; nothing was visible save dignity and comfort. There were books behind the glass of a splendid bookcase, two great pictures on the wall, a desk with piles of papers, in the middle of the room a round table covered with maps, pamphlets, thick volumes; around the table, heavy, deep and low armchairs. The room was spacious with a lofty ceiling, from which hung over the round table a splendid lamp, burning brightly. Darvid's remote prototype, the Argonaut Jason, must have had quite a different exterior when he sailed on toward Colchis to find the golden fleece. Time, which changes the methods of contest, changes the forms of its knights correspondingly. Jason trusted in the strength of his arm and his sword-blade. Darvid trusted in his brain and his nerves only. Hence, in him, brain and nerves were developed to the prejudice of muscles, creating a special power, which one had to know in order to recognize it in that slender and not lofty figure, in that face with shrunken cheeks, covered with skin which was dry, pale, and as mobile as if quivering from every breeze which carried his bark toward the shores which he longed for. On his cheeks shone narrow strips of whiskers, almost bronze-hued; the silky ends of these fell on his stiff, low collar; ruddy mustaches, short and firm, darkened his pale, thin lips, which had a smile in the changeableness of which was great expression; this smile encouraged, discouraged, attracted, repelled, believed, doubted, courted or jeered-jeered frequently. But the main seat of power in Darvid seemed to be his eyes, which rested long and attentively on that which he examined. These eyes had pupils of steel color, cold, very deep, and with a fullness of penetrating light which was often sharp, under brows which were prominent, whose ruddy lines were drawn under a high forehead, increased further by incipient baldness-a forehead which was smooth and had the polish of ivory; between the brows were numerous wrinkles, like a cloud of anxiety and care. His was a cold, reasoning face, energetic, with the stamp of thought fixed between the brows, and lines of irony which had made the mouth drawn. A jurist, one of the most renowned in that great city, held in his hand an open volume of the Code, and was reading aloud a series of extracts from it. Darvid was standing and listening attentively, but irony increased in his smile, and, when the jurist stopped reading, he began in a low voice. This voice with its tones suppressed, as it were, through caution, was one of Darvid's peculiarities. "Pardon me, but what you have read has no relation to the point which concerns us." Taking the book he turned over its pages for a while and began then to read from it. In reading he used glasses with horn-rims; from these the yellowish pallor of his lean face became deeper. The renowned jurist was confused and astonished. "You are right," said he. "I was mistaken. You know law famously." How was he to avoid knowing it, since it was his weapon and safety-valve! The jurist sat down on one of the broad and low armchairs in silence, and now the architect unrolled on the table the plan of a public edifice to which the last finish was to be given during winter and before work began in spring. Darvid listened again in silent thought, looking at the plan with his steel-colored eyes, in which at times there flashed sparks of ideas coming from the brain-ideas which, after a while, he presented to the trained architect. He spoke in a voice low and fluent; he spoke connectedly and very clearly. The architect answered with respect, and, like, the jurist who had preceded, not without a certain astonishment. Great God! this man knows everything; he moves as freely in the fields of architecture, mathematics, and law as in his own chamber! Darvid noticed the astonishment of those around him, and irony settled on his thin lips. Did those men imagine that he could begin such undertakings and be like a blind man among colors? Some begin thus but are ruined! He understood that in our time immense knowledge is the only foundation for pyramidal fortunes, and his memory alone knew the long series of nights which had passed above his head while it was sleepless in winning knowledge. Next appeared before the table a young man, lean and slender; his dark eyes expressed genius, his clothing was threadbare, his gestures almost vulgar. This was a sculptor, young but already famous. The man had incipient consumption, which brought excessive ruddiness to his face, a glitter to his eyes, and a short, rasping cough from his breast. He spoke of the sculptures which he was to finish for the edifices reared by the great contractor; he showed the drawings of them, and explained his ideas; he rose to enthusiasm; he spoke more loudly, and coughed at more frequent intervals. Darvid raised his head; the sensitive skin on his cheeks quivered with a delicate movement; he touched the shoulder of the artist with the tips of two white, slender fingers. "Best," said he; "it hurts you to speak too long." "My younger daughter coughs in just this way," remarked he to the other men present, "and it troubles me somewhat." "Perhaps a visit to Italy," said the architect. "Yes, I have thought of that, but the doctors note nothing dangerous so far." Then he turned to the sculptor: "You ought to visit Italy, for its collections of art and--its climate." The artist, not pleased with this interruption, did not answer directly, but went on showing his projects and explaining them; though his short breath and the cough, which was repeated oftener, made his conversation more difficult. Thereupon Darvid straightened himself. "I know very little of art," said he. "Not because I despise it; on the contrary, I think art a power, since the world does it homage, but because I lack time. Trouble yourself no further to exhibit plans and ideas here. I confirm them beforehand, knowing well what I do. Prince Zeno, whose good taste and intellect I admire, advised me to turn to you. At his house, moreover, I have seen works of your chisel which charmed me. Some declare that we men of finance and business represent only matter, and have no concern with Psyche (the soul). But I say that your Psyche, now in Prince Zeno's palace, produced on me the impression that I am not matter only." Irony covered his lips, but with increased amiability he added: "Let us fix the amount of your honorarium, permit me to take the initiative," said he, hurriedly. In a tone of inquiry he mentioned a sum which was very considerable. The sculptor bowed, unwilling, or unable to conceal his delight and astonishment. Darvid touched him lightly on the arm, and conducted him to a great desk, one drawer of which he opened. The jurist and the architect at the round table exchanged glances. "A protege of the prince!" whispered one. "Cleverness! advertising!" whispered the other. "I know from report," said Darvid, to the young artist, "that sculptors must spend considerable sums before they begin a given work. Here is an advance. Do not hesitate. Money should be at the service of talent." The sculptor was astonished. He had imagined the millionaire as entirely different. "Money should be at the service of talent!" repeated he. "I hear this for the first time from a man having money! Do you really think so?" Darvid smiled, but his face clouded immediately. "My dear sir," said he, "I would give, I think, much money if a cough like yours were not in the world." "Because of your daughter--" began the sculptor, but Darvid had grown cold now, ceremonious, and he turned toward the round table. At the same moment a servant announced from the door a new guest. "Pan Arthur Kranitski." The guest entered immediately after the servant, and passed the outgoing sculptor in the door. This guest was a man who carried his fifth decade of years with youthful elasticity of movement, and with a pleasant, winning expression on his still handsome face. In general he seemed to be clothed with remnants of great manly beauty, from behind which, like soiled lining through rents in a once splendid robe, appeared, carefully concealed, old age, which was premature, perhaps. A tall man with a shapely oval face, he had dark whiskers, and the black curls of his hair did not cover successfully the bald spot appearing on the back of his head; his mustache was curled upward, in the fashion of young men, above ruddy lips; he passed through the study with a youthful step, and had the express intention of greeting the master of the house in a cordial and intimate manner. But in the cold eyes of Darvid appeared flashes well-nigh threatening; he barely touched with his finger-tips the hand extended by the guest-a hand really aristocratic, white, slender, and greatly cared for. "Pardon, pardon, dear Pan Aloysius, that I come at this hour, just the hour of thy important, immense, colossal occupations! But on receiving thy invitation I hastened." "Yes," said Darvid, "I need to talk with you a little--will you wait a while?" He turned toward the two men standing by the table, who when he greeted Kranitski looked at him with a curiosity impossible to conceal. Every meeting of Darvid with that eternal guest, that offshoot of aristocratic families, roused the curiosity of people. For a good while Darvid did not know this, but at last he discovered it, and now his quick glance caught on the lips of the famous jurist a barely discernible smile, to meet which a similar smile appeared on the lips of the architect. He discoursed a few minutes more with the two men. When they turned to go he conducted them to the door; when that was closed he turned to Kranitski and said: "Now I am at your service." No one had ever seen service so icy cold, and having in it the shade of a restrained threat. Kranitski in view of this spent more time than was needed in placing his hat on one of the pieces of furniture, besides an expression of alarm covered his face, now bent forward, and, in the twinkle of an eye, the wrinkling of his forehead and the dropping of his cheeks, made him look ten years older. Still with grace which was unconscious, since it had passed long before into habit, he turned to Darvid. "Thou hast written to me, dear Pan Aloysius--" "I have called you," interrupted Darvid, "for the purpose of proposing a certain condition, and a change." From a thick, long book he cut out a page, on which, previously, he had written a few words in haste, and giving it to Kranitski, he said: "Here is a bank check for a considerable sum. Your affairs, as I hear, are in a very disagreeable condition." Kranitski's face grew radiant from delight, and became ten years younger. Taking the check presented to him he began, with a certain hesitation: "Dear Pan Aloysius, this service, really friendly, which thou art rendering me, even without request on my part, is truly magnanimous, but be assured that the moment income from my property increases--" Darvid interrupted him a second time. "We know each other so long that I cannot be ignorant of what your property is, and what income you receive from it. You have no property. You own a little village, the income from which has never sufficed to satisfy even one half of your needs. In that little village you would have passed your life unknown to the great world if your mother had not been a relative of Prince Zeno, and some other coronets of nine quarterings. But since you had relationship so brilliant through your mother, high society did not suffer from the loss of your presence. I know all that relates to you, you need not try to lead me into error--I know everything." On the last words he put an emphasis which seemed to bring Kranitski into a profound confusion, which he could not master. "Parole d'honneur," began he, "I do not understand such a real friendly service with such a tone." "You will understand at once. This sum offered you is not a friendly service, but a simple commercial transaction. To begin with, I insist that for the future you cut short all relations with my son Maryan." Kranitski stepped back a number of paces. "With Maryan!" exclaimed he, as if not wishing to believe his own ears. "I break all relations with him! Is it possible? Why? How can that be? But you yourself--" "That is true, I myself began this. I wished that my family, which, during my frequent absences, resided here permanently, should move in that social sphere which I considered most desirable, and I asked you to be the link between my family and that sphere--" "I did what you desired," interrupted Kranitski in turn, and raising his head. Darvid, looking firmly into his face, said in a low voice, slowly, but the ice of his tones seemed at moments to break from the boiling of passion confined beneath them. "Yes, but you, sir, have demoralized my son. Of himself he would never have gone to such a degree of corruption and idleness. You drew him from study, you led him into all kinds of sport, you took him to all places of amusement, from the highest to the lowest. On returning, after three years' absence, I found Maryan withered morally. Luckily he is a child yet, twenty-three years of age, it is possible to save him. The process of salvation I begin by forbidding you to have any further relations whatever with my son." Darvid grew terrible during his remaining words. His fingers were sinking into the table, on which he rested his hand. The cluster of wrinkles between his brows became deeper, his eyes had the flash of steel in them; he was all hatred, anger, contempt. But Kranitski, who at first listened to him as if unable to move from astonishment, boiled up also with anger. "What do you say?" cried he. "Does not my hearing deceive me? You reproach me! Me, who during your ceaseless occupations and absences have been for many years, one may say, the only guardian of your family, and director of your son. Well! Then do you not remember our former intimacy, and this, that it was I who made you acquainted with the highest families of this city, and all this country? Do you not remember your confidential statements to me that you wished to give your daughters in marriage within those circles to which my connections might be a convenient bridge for you? Do you not remember your requests that I should introduce Maryan into the best society, and teach him the manners prevailing there? Very well! You were making your millions in peace, going after them to the ends of the earth, while I did everything that you wished, and now I meet with reproaches, which, at the very least, are expressed without delicacy--des reproches, des grossieretes--Mais ca n'a pas de nom! c'est inoui! This demands the satisfaction of honor." His indignation was genuine and heartfelt; it brought out a deep flush on his still shapely face. A stony amazement fell on Darvid. True, true, that man spoke the truth. He, Darvid, had used him for his purposes; he had liked the man, almost loved him; he had given him great confidence. He had not looked into his character; he had not tried to know him, though he had found time to analyze and know men who took no part in his business. But the fact in this case was, that whatever had happened, had happened with his own will. From the depth of his bosom, from out their mysterious den, came a coil of snakes, and a repulsive coldness and slime rose toward his throat, still he reared his head. "There is much truth in what you say; still my decisive and repeated wish is that you cease to appear in my house." Kranitski's forehead was flushed with blood, and the words were hissing on his lips when he cried: "In view of such feelings of yours toward me, how am I to explain the service rendered just now?" "As pay for service which you have rendered me, or my family. I pay, we are at quits, and part forever." "You are not the only power in this world!" cried Kranitski; "not your will alone can open or close the doors of this house to me." Darvid, so pale that even his thin lips did not seem to possess a drop of blood, took from a letter-case and showed Kranitski, between two fingers, a letter in a small elegant envelope, bearing the address of Pani Malvina Darvid. The dark flush vanished from Kranitski without a trace; he became very pale and rested his hand on the arm of the chair; his eyes opened widely. Silence lasted some seconds; between those two men with faces as pale as linen hung the terror of a discovered secret. Darvid, with a voice so stifled that it was barely audible, was the first to speak. "How this letter came into my hands we need not explain! Simply by chance. Such chances are very common, and they have in them only this good, that at times they put an end to deceit and--villainy!" Kranitski, still very pale except that red spots were coming out on his forehead, looked very old all at once; he advanced some steps and stood before Darvid, the round table alone was between them. With stifled voice, but fixing his black, flashing eyes boldly on Darvid's face, he said: "Deceit! villainy! those words are said easily! Do you not know that in early youth your wife was almost my betrothed?" Darvid's lips were covered with irony, and he said: "You deserted her at command of your mother, when she sent you to this capital in search of the golden fleece." "And when you went to the ends of the earth for it," answered Kranitski, "you thought proper to place me to guard the woman whom I loved formerly. You considered yourself invincible, even when separated by hundreds or thousands of miles from her--" "Let us stop this ridiculous discussion," said Darvid. "As for me," put in Kranitski, with animation, "I will finish it by offering you any satisfaction which you may demand. I await your seconds." Darvid laughed loudly and sharply. "A duel! Do you think that the world would not know the cause of it? Your former betrothed would appear in the matter. For that I should care less, though I must care, for she bears my name, but I have daughters, and I have business--" He was silent a while, then he finished: "A scandal might injure my business, and most assuredly would injure the future of my daughters; therefore I will neither challenge you to a duel, nor will I direct my servants to thrash you!" A trembling shook Kranitski from head to foot, as if from the effects of a blow; he straightened himself, he became manful, and crushing in his hand the bank check which he had received, hurled that paper bullet into Darvid's face so directly that it hit him at the top of his bronze colored whiskers and fell to his feet. Then with elastic movement, and with a grace which was unconscious and uncommon, he turned toward the door and strode out. Darvid remained alone. In that spacious, lofty chamber, richly furnished, in the abundant light of a costly lamp, he remained alone. Clasping his inclined head with both hands, he squeezed it with his white, lean fingers, as with pincers. How many vexations and troubles had met him here after an absence of years! There was something greater still than even these vexations and troubles. The coil of serpents rose in his breast and crawled up to his very throat. That was torture mixed with a feeling of unendurable disgust. But Darvid avoided high-sounding phrases, and would never think or say: torture, disgust. That was a manner of speaking for idlers and poets. He, a man of iron industry, knew only the words vexation, trouble. What is he to do now with that woman? Throw her out like a beast which, bathed in milk and honey by its owner, has bitten him to the blood? Impossible. His children, especially his daughters, his business, his position, his house--scandals are harmful in every way. So he must live on under the same roof with her; meet the sight of her face, her eyes--those eyes which on a time were for him--yes, it cannot be otherwise. He must endure that and master himself; master himself mightily, so as not to let things reach a scene, or reproaches, or explanation. Naturally, no scenes, disputes, or explanations. For, first of all, what can they profit? Nothing save a useless expense of energy, and he needs energy so much. Besides, the very best punishment for that woman is unbroken silence, which will raise between her and him an impenetrable wall. From words, even though they be as sharp as sword-edges, some sound may be got, some slight hope of salvation; but silence, concealing hidden knowledge of a deed, is a coffin in which, from the first hour of each day to the end of it, that woman's pride will be placed with all that in her may still be human. Contempt as silent as the grave! She will eat of his millions, seasoned with his contempt. She will array herself in his millions, interwoven with his hatred. Hatred? Oh, beyond doubt he hates her with passion, and only at times does her name move marvellously through his brain with such sounds as if they were the echo of things very dear, things lost forever and irreplaceable. Can it be? Is it possible that she did that? Malvina, once an ideal maiden, and ten years later a woman so loving that when he was going on a journey she threw herself on her knees and wept, and then besought him not to go from her! He remembers the scene perfectly. Her hair of pale gold, dropping then in disorder to her shoulders and bosom--her magnificent hair, surrounded by which the tears flowing down her face glistened like diamonds! He raised his head, straightened himself. What stupidity! On what sentiment and exaltation is he losing time and energy! He needs them for something else. He needs to concentrate all his forces to bring his new designs to the desired culmination. Why does "that hound" not show himself and bring the answer needed? Ah, if he could only get one hour of that conversation, he would convince; he would capture; he would overcome rivals, and seize into his own sole possession new fields of industry and speculation! There are hindrances, intrigues, dangerous rivalries, he knows of them, and these oppositions it is precisely which attract him most of all. Now especially, with those vexations and troubles, victory and the new work would be as a spoonful of hashish to him, or a glass of strong, invigorating wine. He must go to the club. A game of cards, to which he devotes some night hours frequently, is not specially pleasant, but he plays with persons of high position in society, or with those who are needed in his business. He will find perhaps, also, that man for whom he has been waiting, vainly, some days. He was extending his hand to the button of the electric bell when from behind the portieres which half hid the door opening to the interior of the mansion a thin and timid voice came; one could hardly tell whether it was the voice of a child or a young lady: "Is it permitted to enter?" Darvid went to the door hurriedly, saying, also hurriedly: "It is! It is!" At that moment, from the darkness which filled the adjoining room, into the abundant light of the study, came a maiden of fifteen years, in a bright dress; she was tall and very slender, with a small waist and narrow breast. An immense wealth of pale, golden hair seemed to bend back with its weight her small, shapely head somewhat; her oval face, with its delicate features, had the blush of spring on it; her lips were like cherries, and under the arches of her dark brows were large dark eyes. Right behind the bright dress of the girl came a small shaggy creature, a ball of ash colored silk, a little dog. "Cara!" cried Darvid, "well, you are here, little one! How often have I asked you to come always boldly. How do you feel to-day? You have not coughed much, I think? Have you taken your daily walk? With whom did you go? With Miss Mary, or Irene? Come, come, sit here in this armchair." He held her small hand in his and led her toward the table, which was surrounded with armchairs. In his movements there was something polished and exquisite, as it were delicacy toward a person who was very dear and not much known, pushed to the degree where it might be called gallantry. Joined with this was a feeling of delight. She was pleased and smiling, but she was blushing and embarrassed. Advancing with short steps at his side, she bent to his hand every moment and kissed it. Her act was full of a timid charm, half capricious. They both looked like persons who were greatly pleased at meeting, but who remained on a footing of ceremony with each other. He received her in his study as a queen; he seated her in an armchair, then, sitting very near, he held her hands in his. Between them, on the edge of his mistress's skirt, sat the dog with the ash-colored coat, in a posture of disquiet and uncertainty; it was evident that he was not accustomed to visit that room. Cara also, with an expression of timid happiness on her lips which were open, cast her glance with a smile on the vases and the walls, uncertain whether she was to speak, not knowing if she might say something; she bore herself very simply; her small hands rested without motion between her father's palms. At last she said, in a very low voice: "I was so anxious to see you, father, dear; I wished so much to speak with you that I have come." "You have done excellently, my little one. Why not come oftener? Your coming gives me great pleasure." While speaking he looked all the time into her face, which was almost that of a little child. She was so like her mother, that Malvina's youth was simply renewed in Cara. But Malvina, when he made her acquaintance, was considerably older; the hair was just the same, very bright, and the eyes with dark brows and pupils, the same shape of forehead. With a deepening of the wrinkles between his brows he repeated: "Why not come offener?" "You are always so occupied, father," whispered she. "What of that?" answered he hurriedly and abruptly. "There is reproach in your voice. Are my occupations a crime? But labor is service, it is the value of a man. My children should esteem my labor more than others, since I toil for them as much, or even more, than for myself." He did not even think of speaking to that child with a voice so abrupt, and with such a cloud on his forehead; but that cloud came to him from some place within, from a distant feeling of something which he had never looked at directly before. But he hardly knew the girl! When he went away the last time she was a child; now she was almost full grown. But she, in the twinkle of an eye, slipped from the low armchair to the carpet, and kneeling with clasped hands began to speak passionately and quickly: "Your child is on her knees before you, father. When you were far away she revered you, did you homage, longed for you; when you are here she loves you greatly, above everything--" Here she turned and removed from her dress the ball of ash-colored silk, which was climbing to her shoulder. "Go away, Puffie, go away! I have no time for thee now." She pushed away the little dog, which sat on the carpet some steps distant. Darvid felt a stream of pleasant warmth flooding into his breast from the words of his daughter; but on principle he did not like enthusiasm. In feelings and the expression of them he esteemed moderation beyond everything. He raised with both hands the girl's head, which was bending toward his knees. "Be not excited, be not carried away. Repose is beautiful, it is indispensable; without repose no calculation can be accurate, no work complete. Your attachment makes me happy; but compose yourself, rise from your knees, sit comfortably." She put her hands together as in prayer. "Let me stay as I am, father, at your knee. I imagined that on your return I should be able to talk often and long with you; to ask about everything, learn everything from you." She coughed. Darvid took her in his arms, and, without raising her from her knees, he drew her to his breast. "See! your cough lasts! Do you cough much? Well, do not speak, do not speak! let it pass. Does this cough pass quickly?" It had passed. She stopped coughing, laughed. Her teeth glittered like pearls between her red lips. A gleam of delight shot through Darvid's eyes. "It has gone already! I do not cough often, only rarely. I am perfectly well. I was very sick when I got chilled at an open window while you were away, father." "I know, I know. Your enthusiastic little head thought of opening the window on a winter night, so as to peep out and see how the garden looked covered with snow in the moonlight." "The trees, father, the trees!" began she, smiling and with vivacity; "not the whole garden, just the trees, which, covered with snow and frost in the moonlight, were like pillars of marble, alabaster, crystal, set with diamonds, hung with laces; and whenever the slightest breeze moved, a rain of pearls was scattered on the ground." "Great God!" exclaimed Darvid, "marbles, alabasters, laces, diamonds, pearls! But there was nothing of all this in fact! There was nothing but dry trunks, branches, snow, and hoar-frost. That is exaltation! And you see how destructive it may be! It brought you acute inflammation of the lungs, the traces of which are not gone yet." "They are!" answered she, in passing, and then she spoke seriously. "My father, is it exaltation to worship something which is very beautiful, or to love some one greatly with all our strength? If it is--then I am given to exaltation, but without exaltation what could we live for?" An expression of wonder, meditation, thoughtfulness filled her eyes and covered her finely cut face with a freshness like that of a wild rose. With a movement of wonder she opened her arms, and repeated: "What do we live for?" Darvid laughed. "I see that your head is turned a little, but you are a child yet, and your trouble will pass." Stroking her pale, golden hair, he continued: "Homage, love, and like things of the sensational sort, are very nice, very beautiful, but should not occupy the first place." Cara listened so eagerly that her mouth was open somewhat, and she became motionless as a statue. "But what should stand in the first place, father?" Darvid did not answer at once. What? What should stand in the first place? "Duty," said he. "What duty, father?" Again he was silent a while. What duty? Yes, what kind of duty? "Naturally the duty of labor, hard labor." The flush on Cara's face increased; she was all curiosity, all eagerness to hear her father's words. "Labor, for what, father, dear?" "How? for what?" "For what purpose? For what purpose? because no one labors for the labor itself. For what purpose?" For what purpose? How that child pushed him to the wall with her questions! With hesitation in his voice, he answered: "There are various purposes--" "But you, father, for what are you working?" continued she, with eager curiosity. He knew very well for what purpose he wished now to undertake the gigantic labor of erecting a multitude of buildings for the residence of an army, but could he explain that to this child? Meanwhile the dark eyes of the child were fastened on his face, urging him to an answer. "What is it?" said he. "I--labor gives me considerable, sometimes immense profits." "In money?" asked she. "In money." She made a motion with her head, signifying that she knew that this long time. "But I," began she, "if I wanted to work, should not know what to work for, I should not know for what object I could work." He laughed. "You will not need to work; I will work for you, and instead of you." "Well, father!" exclaimed she, with a resonant laugh, "what can I do? To worship, to love, is exaltation--duty is labor, but if I may not labor, what am I to do?" Again she opened her small hands with astonishment and inquiry; her eyes were flashing, her lips trembling. Darvid, with marks of disagreeable feeling on his face, reached for his watch. "I have no time," said he; "I must go to the club." At that moment the servant announced from the antechamber, through the open door: "Prince Zeno Skirgello." Delight burst forth on Darvid's face. Cara sprang up from her knees, and looking around, called: "Puff! Puff! Come, let us be off! doggy." "Where is the prince?" asked Darvid, hurriedly. "Is he here, or in the carriage?" "In the carriage," answered the servant. "Beg him to come in, beg him to come in!" In the delight which the unexpected arrival of the prince caused him at that time, he did not notice the expression of regret on Cara's face. Raising the little dog from the floor and holding him in her arms, she whispered: "This is the third time, or the fourth--it is unknown which time it is!" Darvid sprang toward her. "You may remain! You know the prince--" "Oh, no, father, I flee--I am not dressed!" Her white robe with blue dots had the shape of a wrapper, and her hair was somewhat dishevelled. With the dog on her arm she ran to the door beyond which was darkness. "Wait!" cried Darvid, and he took one of the candles which were burning on the desk in tall candlesticks. The prince was coming up the stairs slowly. "I will light you through the dark chambers." Saying this he walked with her to the second chamber, and when passing through that, she, while going at his side with the dog on her arm, and with her short step, which gave her tall form the charm of childhood, repeated: "This is the fourth time, perhaps--it is unknown how many times it will be in this way!" "What will be in this way?" "Just when I begin to talk with you. Paf! something hinders!" "What is to be done?" answered he, with a smile; "since your father is not a hermit, nor a small person on this world's chessboard." They went hurriedly, and passed through the second chamber. The flame of the candle which Darvid carried cast passing flashes on the gold and polish of the walls, and the furniture. These were like tricky gnomes, appearing and vanishing in the silence, darkness, and emptiness. Darvid thought: "How dark it is here, and deserted!" Cara divined this thought, as it were, and said: "Mamma and Ira are invited to dine to-day at--" She gave the name of one of the financial potentates, and added: "After dinner they will come to dress for the theatre." "And thou?" inquired Darvid. "I? I do not go into society yet, and so far the doctor forbids me to go to the theatre. I will read or talk with Miss Mary, and amuse myself with Puff." She stroked with her palm the silky head of the little dog. Darvid halted at the door of the third chamber, and gave Cara the light, from the weight of which her slight arm bent somewhat. "Go on alone; I must hurry to the prince." She bent down to his hands, covered them with hurried, ardent kisses. With the flame of the candle before her rosy face, with the dog at her breast, and the pale, golden hair pushed back on her shoulders, she advanced in the darkness. Darvid returned through that darkness in the opposite direction, and when he had passed the two spacious chambers hastily, he felt in the twinkle of an eye as if from behind, from that interior, some weight had been placed on his shoulders. He looked around. There was nothing but vacancy, obscurity, and silence. "Stupid! I must have the house lighted!" thought Darvid, and he hurried into the study, where, with movements a little too vivacious, with a fondling smile, and with repeated declarations that he felt happy, he greeted the prince, a man of middle age, of agreeable exterior, affable and pleasant in speech. When they had sat down in armchairs, the prince declared the object of his visit, which was to invite Darvid to a hunt which was to take place soon on one of his estates. Darvid accepted the invitation with expressions of pleasure, a little too prompt and hearty. But he was never so well able to measure his words and movements in presence of those high-born people as in presence of others. He felt this himself, still he had not the power to refrain. In presence of them he found himself under the influence of one of his passions, and it carried him too far. The prince spoke of the sculptor, whose gifts he esteemed highly; the young man had gone directly from Darvid to him and told of all that he had heard, and what he had experienced. "I was really affected by your kindness toward this youthful genius, and am delighted that he found in you a patron so magnanimous." Darvid thought that in every case his arrows always struck the mark. To that act of his he was surely indebted for this unusual visit of the prince, and the invitation. With a smile, in which honey was overflowing, he said: "That young man seems very ill. A visit to more favorable climates might save him. I must try that he does not reject the means which I shall offer him for that purpose. I foresee resistance, but I shall do what I can to overcome it, out of regard for art, and through good-will for a young man who, besides many sympathetic traits, has this on his side, that he rejoices in the exceptional favor of Prince Zeno." Had he been able, Darvid would have kissed himself for that phrase, he felt so well satisfied with it; especially when the prince answered with animation: "This, in the full sense of the words, means speaking and acting beautifully! You use the gifts of fortune in a manner truly noble." "Not fortune, prince, not fortune!" exclaimed Darvid, "but iron labor." "Such toilers as you are the knights of the contemporary world," answered the prince, with vivacity; "the Du Guesclins and Cids of the present century." He rose and, while pressing the hand of that Cid, fixed again in his memory the date of the hunt, which was not distant. Prince Zeno was an aristocrat of the purest blood, possessing a wide popularity which was fairly well deserved. Darvid was radiant. While accompanying the prince to the door of the antechamber he looked as if no coil of serpents had ever crawled up in his bosom, which was now beating with delight and with pride. The prince halted still a moment at the door, as if to recall something. "Pardon me an indiscreet question, but this interests me immensely. Is there truth in the reports which are circulating in the city, that Baron Blauendorf is to have the honor in the near future of receiving the hand of your elder daughter?" The expression of Darvid's face changed quickly, it became sharp and severe. "Were there any truth in the report," answered he, "I should try to destroy it together with the report." "And you would be right, perfectly right!" exclaimed the prince. Then he bent his lips almost to Darvid's ear and whispered: "There is no Pactolus which such a young buck as Baron Emil would not drink up. He is a genuine devourer of fortunes. He has swallowed one already and the half of another." He laughed and added at once, with immense affability: "I see your son frequently--that worthy Kranitski presented him a year ago to us; I and my wife are very, very thankful. He is sympathetic, handsome, and a highly intellectual young man, who does you honor." He went out. Darvid stood at the round table sunk in thought, with pins of irony in his smile and his eyes, with a cloud of wrinkles between his brows. That young sculptor, the favorite of Prince Zeno, with clothing almost in tatters, brought consumption on himself unhindered, till a parvenu appeared with his money-bag and rescued the pocket of the aristocrat, receiving in return a visit and an invitation to hunt. "Behold the significance of money! Almost infinite power--ha! ha! ha!" Internal laughter bore him away, and in his brain sounded the word: "Wretchedness! Wretchedness!" What was it specially that he called wretchedness? He was not clearly conscious himself of this, but the feeling of it penetrated him. Again he heard the prince saying "that honest Kranitski," and a wave of blood rushed to his forehead. Everything that he had forgotten a moment earlier returned to his mind; the prince's voice roared in his ears: "That honest Kranitski." He repeated a number of times to himself, in a hissing whisper, "honest! honest!" And then he said: "Wretchedness!" That Baron Emil, the young buck capable of gulping down many a Pactolus! And he was to possess the hand of his daughter, with a considerable part of that fortune won by iron labor. Is Irene in love with him? But the baron is a vibrio and a monkey all in one. There is need to think over this family matter, lest a misfortune might happen. He cast a glance at the door behind which was darkness, thick, silent, immovable. It resembled a window opened into a great and impenetrable secret. "I must have the house lighted up," thought he. At this moment he heard the dull rumble of a carriage in the gateway as it entered. He pressed the button of the electric bell. "Is that the lady who has come?" "Yes, serene lord." "Tell the coachman to wait. He will take me to the club." When the servant opened the door the rustle of silk came in like the sound of wind. Two long silken robes passed over the floor of the anteroom and farther on in the darkness of the chambers, which was dispelled by the light of the lamp, borne by the servant advancing in front of them. The glittering gnomes called forth by that light sprang along the gildings, polished walls, and furniture; ran out of the darkness, ran into it again; were lighted up and quenched on the inclined heads, drooping lids, and silent lips of the two women in rich array and gloomy. CHAPTER II Malvina Darvid was one of those women to whom old age is very tardy in coming, and whose beauty, modified in each season of life, never leaves them. For this last she was indebted less to the features of her face than to the immense charm of her movements, her smile, her expression, her speech. She retained yet the same pale, golden hair which she had years earlier, which she arranged high above her low forehead, calling to mind the statues of Grecian women. In contrast with that hair, and her slightly faded but delicate complexion, shone, from under dark brows, large eyes, also dark, with a very mild, warm expression, now bright, now tempered by a deep inevitable cloud of pensiveness. In a robe covered with lace, in the glitter of a star of diamonds in the bright aureole of her hair, she greeted the numerous acquaintances who entered her box at the theatre, with the affability and freedom of a perfect society lady. She was even celebrated in that great city for the qualities which constitute so-called society personages, and which, in those who knew her past, roused a certain wonder. It was known to all that that past was very modest. Darvid in his youth, which was far less brilliant than his present, married a poor orphan, a teacher. But Malvina Darvid was of those women who need only a golden setting to sparkle like diamonds. She shone in the great world with a charm, an elegance, a power of speech which were the same as if she had been its own daughter. She was radiant with satisfaction, with serenity, often even with joyous animation, and only now and then did a slight wrinkle, with a barely discernible line furrowing her Grecian forehead, sink itself and cast on her face an expression of weariness, or the corners of her lips, still red and shapely, drop downward and make that oval, white, delicate face ten years older than it seemed to be usually. But those were only short and rare moments, after which Malvina Darvid was again entirely flooded with the brilliancy of her beautiful eyes, her splendid toilet, the sounds of her metallic voice, warm and full of sweetness. She seemed barely a few years older than her elder daughter. Sometimes guests left her box with the words: "She is more beautiful than her daughter." And offener still: "She is more charming and sympathetic than her daughter." Still nature had been no stepmother to Irene Darvid; but life, though so short thus far, had stamped on her exterior a mark which, while it astonished and discouraged, repelled. If the younger sister seemed a living portrait of her mother, the elder recalled her father, with her high forehead, thin lips, and--a thing wonderful at such a tender age--the mark of irony drawn over them. Her hair, too, like her father's, changed with fiery gleams of gold and bronze, while the pale complexion of her face, which was too long, was lighted by the frequent sharp glitter of her eyes, which, as those of her father, were not large, and had gray pupils with a cold glance, penetrating and reasoning. Her shapely form was somewhat too slender; her posture and movements too stiff and ceremonious. She passed in society for a haughty, cold, unapproachable, original, and even eccentric young lady. On the stage was presented a play which had been preceded by immense praise; in the theatre had collected all that bore the name of high and fashionable society in the city. The boxes were filled, except one, which only just before the beginning of the second act was opened with a rattle and filled with loud, free, and bold conversation. It was occupied by a number of young men of elegant dress and manners; they, as it seemed, were connected by similarity in position, habits, and pleasures. Prom the higher to the lower rows of the theatre all eyes and glasses were turned toward that box, with its princes, young nabobs, sons of ancient families, or heirs to immense fortunes. Through boxes, armchairs, galleries, passed names notorious through deeds of originality, witty sayings, astonishing excesses; names interwoven with anecdotes about money and love-passages; the substance of the love-passages could be repeated only in whispers, while the amounts of money were mentioned with eyes widely opened in amazement. Two among these young men occupied public attention beyond others that winter: Baron Emil Blauendorf, and Maryan Darvid, both of families recently, but greatly, enriched. The Blauendorf house was older by some generations, and had become widely connected; on the other hand, their fortune in possession of the present descendant was vanishing quickly; in comparison with the entirely new edifice of the Darvids, it seemed a ruin. On these two general attention was concentrated with the greatest curiosity; for during that winter and the preceding one the most numerous anecdotes touching them were in circulation among those who frequented that theatre. They were so young, and still so noted! But Baron Emil was considerably older than Maryan; he was thirty and little favored in looks. Small, weakly, with red, closely-cut hair, with features which were too small, and injured by a faded complexion, with small eyes, which, because of nearsightedness, were either covered with eyeglasses, or blinked at the light from behind yellow lids, which gave them an expression of pride and weariness. An unshapely exterior, unimposing, slight, bent, sickly. But through those small, yellowish, thin hands had passed already the fortune of the old baron, who was dead some years, and now a second fortune was passing through them--a fortune left scarcely a year before to her son by the baroness, who was famous for her idolatrous love of him. People looked, and wondered how such a great river of gold could flow through a creature so small and insignificant. With Maryan it was different. He astonished also, but he roused general sympathy. Such a child! And such a perfectly beautiful fellow at the same time! He was not twenty three years of age yet; of fine stature; his manners were elegant and pleasing; he had the head of a cherub, with bright curling locks; a noble fresh face from which gazed eyes as blue as turquoise; and wise, too wise, perhaps, in so youthful a countenance, for these eyes seemed not to confide but to jeer, or to be wearied and seeking something through the world without finding it. Women whispered into one another's ears that that lad, when in England, had joined the Salvation Army; but after he had remained a short time in its ranks, he became, in Paris, a member of the Hashish Club, and brought away the habit of using narcotics to rouse dreams in himself and unusual conditions. If the city at that moment had temporary possession of Bianca Bianetti it was thanks to that lad, who, in a remote land, had won the heart of the singer. Some insisted that he had spent fabulous sums on her; others contradicted, declaring that not Bianca, the singer, had consumed them, but Aurora, that noted Amazon of the circus, for whose favor princes of blood royal had striven in various capitals. That shapely little nabob had come, seen, and conquered; and when he had got his prize at an incredible outlay, he threw it aside and brought home Bianca. But is that all that may be told of him? He and Baron Emil are fountains of histories of this sort. The baron is considerably older, but this lad has a father. That father himself is a source of unbounded credit. Young Darvid has as many debts as there are golden curls on that cherub head of his. What will his papa say? What? Not long since that papa returned from the ends of the earth, after a long absence; will he put an end to the tricks of the boy? will he be able to do so? The white forehead of the youth has an expression of maturity, and at times of something else--namely, weariness--and in his blue eyes gleams of firmness, resolve, and contempt. He looks as if he despised the whole world then. He and the baron occupy themselves much with art and literature. They expend almost as much on art as on women and joyous suppers. They are highly cultured. The baron plays like an artist; Maryan translates poetry into various languages. In the box were a number of others resembling these two, but the others had places elsewhere in the theatre: they had come for a brief time and left the box afterward, then there remained only the baron and young Darvid. Behind their chairs sat some third man, very quietly, as if to attract the least attention possible. This was Pan Arthur Kranitski. People were accustomed to see him here and elsewhere with these two young men, and with others also, but with these two most frequently; his hair curled, freshened; his black mustache, pointed at the ends above his red lips, in the fashion of young men. But to-day he looks considerably more retiring and older than usual. With much bold conversation, with laughter which cast his head back, with movements full of grace and animation, he generally strove to equal, and did equal, those two young nabobs, whose Mentor he seemed to be, and at the same time their comrade and continual guest, as well as their gracious protector. This time he was weighed down and gloomy, with spots on his aged forehead. He was sitting in a corner of the box, turning his attention neither to the play nor the audience; and, what was more, not striving to attract the attention of anyone. But from behind the shoulders of the young men in the front of the box, his hand, as if directed by an irresistible impulse, turned the opera-glass, from moment to moment, toward Malvina Darvid. He felt that he ought not to look so persistently at that woman with the gleaming star above her forehead, so he dropped his hand to raise it again and turn it in the same direction. As if imitating Kranitski, though really he did not even think of his existence, Baron Emil was acting in the same way with reference to Irene, gazing through his opera-glass at her face, which showed indifference and even weariness. He did this with a perfect disregard for the rest of the audience, and beginning at the second act, with an insolence which might have confused or angered another woman. But Irene, indifferent for some time, raised her glass also, and turned it on the baron. With these glasses the two people brought their faces near each other; they looked each other straight in the eyes, separated themselves from the audience, and gazed from the height of their two boxes in full disregard of everything happening around them. These two opera-glasses, planted in permanent opposition, attract the attention of all; but Irene and the baron do not heed that, do not care to know anything what ever about the audience, or the love scenes and tragedy represented in that theatre. They gaze long at each other with such indifference that one might ask. Why do they do that? Perhaps because it is original, perhaps to rouse the curiosity or the censure of the audience. But, after a long time, there appeared on their faces a jeering, self-willed smile, with a tinge of friendly comradeship, mixed in the baron's case with a passing gleam of the eyes; and in Irene's a pale flush, which covered her lofty forehead for a moment and then vanished. Dropping his hand with the opera-glass the baron turned to Maryan: "Tres garconniere ta soeur!" said he. "She is bold and looks down on every thing; she is disenchanted. Une desabusee! Very interesting, and grows more and more so." "Does she rouse a new shiver in you?" laughed Maryan. "Yes, an entirely new shiver. That is a type of woman which is barely beginning. Twenty years old, and a perfectly distinct individuality! Twenty years old, and knows painted pots thoroughly!" "That is a family trait with us," retorted Maryan. "Your mother," continued the baron, "has undying beauty. Such splendid hair and eyes! But hers is another type entirely." "A past one," put in Maryan. "Yes, that is true, a past type, a simple one. But Panna Irene is new and intricate; yes, that is the word, intricate! We are all intricate now, full of contrasts, dissonances, and vexations." In the theatre a thunder of applause was heard. The two young men looked at each other and laughed almost loudly. "What are they playing?" asked the baron, indicating the stage with his head. "Ma foi! I have not heard one word." "Well old man," said Maryan, turning to Kranitski, "what are they doing on the stage?" Kranitski dropped his hand with the opera-glass quickly and blurted out: "What is the question, Maryan?" His eyes, which were fine yet in their prolonged lids, were glazed with a tear. "Ho, ho! romantic, there is a tear in your eye. The subject must be affecting! Let us listen!" They began to listen, but quite differently from others. When passions exhibited on the stage quickened the beating of all hearts, or poetry, pulsating in lofty words, brightened faces with enthusiasm, Maryan and the baron laughed inattentively and with contempt; when stupidity, selfishness, or wit called out laughter, or ridicule, they were immovable in cold importance, puffed up and insolent; when the curtain came down at the end, and a deafening, prolonged thunder of applause was heard, their hands rested ostentatiously on the edge of the box. This opposition to the impressions and opinions of the audience might seem a childish wish for distinction; but one could feel besides in it, a bold throwing down of the gauntlet to common taste, and an estimate of the various elements and values in life directly in conflict with that of others. Toward the end of the last act Kranitski entered Malvina Darvid's box, and saluting each woman silently he stood motionless. Malvina bowed toward him slightly, then a shadow came out on her face; this shadow seemed to have torn itself from an internal cloud. She frowned--a deep wrinkle appeared on her forehead, the corners of her mouth drooped somewhat, and her face, with that brilliant star in the aureole of bright hair above, had an expression of pain when seen on the drapery of the box as a background. But that did not last long. The box was filled with an assembly of brilliant and agreeable men, one of whom, with his gray hair and bearing of an official, made a low obeisance before the wife of Darvid, and seemed to lay at her feet smiles full of homage. Hence she grew affable, pleasant, vivacious, elegant in gestures, and in the modulation of her beautiful voice, she answered politeness with politeness, requests with promises, and gave opinions in return for questions touching the piece just played. Baron Emil meanwhile approached Irene and, indicating the excited audience with his eyes, inquired: "How do those shouting Arcadians please you?" Taking on her shoulders the wrap which he held for her, she answered: "They are happy!" "Why?" "Because they are naive!" "You have described the position famously!" cried he, with enthusiasm. "Only Arcadians could be so happy--" "As to believe in those painted pots--" "As their great-grandfathers did," added he. "Who knows," said she, as it were, with deep thought, "whether the great-grandfathers really believed in them, or only--" "Pretended belief! Ha! ha! ha! Beyond price! excellent! How you and I converse, do we not? This is harmony!" "Not without dissonance." "Yes, yes, not without vexation. But that is nothing. That even rouses-" During this interchange of opinions, which was like the glitter of cold and sharp steel, Kranitski, in the crowd which surrounded Malvina, was able to whisper to her: "To-morrow at eleven." Without looking at him, and with a quiver of her brows, which drooped a little, she answered: "It is too early." "Absolutely necessary. A catastrophe! A misfortune!" whispered he in addition. She raised to him a glance which showed that she was tortured to her inmost soul by fear, but at the same moment Maryan gave her his arm, and said: "To be original, to edify the Arcadians, and to give myself pleasure, I shall be to-day a virtuous son, conducting his own beautiful mamma downstairs!" Adroit, with almost childish delight in his blue eyes, but with a sarcastic smile which seemed to have grown to his lips, which were shaded by a minute mustache, this youth led through the theatre corridor that woman not young, but whose beautiful and original head, and whose rich toilet drew all eyes to her. "I am proud of you, dear mamma. To-day I have heard whole odes sung in your honor; even Emil declares that you are eclipsing Irene with your beauty." She was smiling and also angry. Her dark gleaming eyes rose with love to the shapely face of her son, but, striving to be dignified, she said: "Maryan, you know that I am displeased at hearing you talk to me in such a tone." He laughed loudly. "Then, my dear mamma, you should grow old as quickly as possible, put on a cap, and sit in a jacket at the fireplace. I should be filled then with timid respect, and would hurry away with all speed from such an annoying mamma!" "But since I am not annoying you will be good and come home with us. We shall drink tea together." "Au desespoir, chere maman! But that cannot be. The rest of this day, or night, I have promised to friends." "Is to-day the only time promised?" asked she, with a shade of sadness. "For the true sage to-morrow and yesterday have no existence," answered Maryan. They were at the open door of the carriage; Maryan bent and kissed his mother's hand. "Be not angry, mamma dear! But you are never angry. If there is anything on earth that I worship yet it is your marvellous sweetness of temper." "It is excessive," answered Malvina. "If I only knew how to dominate--" He interrupted her, with a laugh: "I should avoid you in that ease; but now, all relations between us are excellent, though they are constitutional or even republican." "I go for anarchy!" put in Baron Emil, helping Irene to a seat in the carriage. He spoke somewhat through his nose and teeth, it was difficult to say whether by nature or habit, but that gave to his speech a character of contemptuousness and indolence. "But of dissonances to-morrow n'est ce pas?" asked he. "And of vexations!" concluded Irene with a smile, wherewith her hand remained on the baron's palm a few seconds longer than was necessary. Soon after, Malvina Darvid was sitting at a small table covered with a tea service, in a study which was like the lined and gilded interior of a costly confectionery box. Massive silver artistically finished, expensive porcelain, exquisite tid-bits, enticing the eye by their ornamentation, and the taste by the odor from them, tempered, however, by the strong fragrance of hyacinths, syringa, and violets which were blooming at the window and the walls, and on largo and small tables everywhere. The dress worn at the theatre was replaced now by a wrapper, composed of lace and material soft as down. Her posture in the low and deep armchair, the very manner even in which she arranged the folds of her robe seemed to exhale the luxury of rest; but her mind was at work, and filled her eyes with an expression of disquiet. "'Catastrophe! Misfortune!' What could that be?" Marks of pain had begun to wind around her mouth; her hands were firmly clasped on her knees. "It may be that lost letter? A man must have a head filled with exaltation, and a character as weak as Kranitski's to write such a letter. It may be--it is even sure to be so, for during a number of days she has felt in the air a catastrophe. But if?--Well! Is that a misfortune? Oh, rather the opposite?" The supposition that the dark, grievous truth of her life might be discovered by him who would seek vengeance because of it roused no fear in her; it caused her to hope for a thing disagreeable and yet desired. Let that horrid knot in which her life was involved be untied or torn apart sometime, in any way whatever. Alone she would never have strength to untie or to cut it, she is such an eternally weak, weak, weak creature! And still anything would be better than the present condition. Two glittering tears rolled slowly down her cheeks; above the drooping eyelids a deep wrinkle cut a dark line across her forehead. The diamond star flashing rainbow gleams from her hair, and the flowers, which dotted the room thickly with their pale colors, gave a background of wealth to that woman's life tragedy. With a teacup in her hand Irene stood in the opposite door and looked at her mother uneasily, keenly, with such attention that her eyelids blinked repeatedly. Far from her now were those dry and sneering smiles in conversation with the baron. But she passed through the room calmly and sat in front of her mother. "It seems that the play of to-night did not amuse you much, mamma." She looked into the teacup so steadily that she could not see her mother's tears or expression of face. But that face grew bright on a sudden and was covered with an unrestrained smile. "Is Cara sleeping?" inquired she. "Of course; her room is quite silent, and so is Miss Mary's. Why do you not drink tea, mamma?" Malvina raised the spoon slowly to her lips, and Irene began to speak calmly: "I heard very unexpected news to-day. It seems that father has told Prince Zeno, who inquired about the matter, that he will not consent to my marriage with Baron Blauendorf." "Why call that news unexpected?" asked Malvina, looking at her daughter. Irene shrugged her shoulders slowly. "I did not suppose that father would devote his precious time to things so trivial. This is unexpected and may bring trouble." "What trouble?" inquired Malvina, with alarm. "Father's opinions and mine may be in opposition." "In that case your opinion will yield." "I doubt that. I have my plans, my needs, my tastes; of these father can know nothing." They were silent rather long; during this time Malvina raised her eyes to her daughter repeatedly, with the intent to say something, but she was unable, or at least she hesitated. At last she inquired in irresolute, almost timid, tones: "Irene, do you love him?" "Do I love the baron?" These words coming from the lips of the young girl expressed immense astonishment. "If Baron Emil should hear that question he would be the first to call it Arcadian or great-grandfatherly." And she laughed. "That is one of those things which do not exist, or which, at least, are changeable, temporary, dependent on the state of the nerves and the imagination. I have a cool imagination and calm nerves. I can do without painted pots." As these words came slowly and coldly from the lips of her daughter, Malvina straightened herself, and her face was covered with a faint blush. She had preserved the rare, and at her age even wonderful, faculty of blushing. "Ira!" cried she, "I hear these opinions not for the first time, and they give me such pain!" She clasped her hands. "Love, sympathy, when a choice is made--" The voice broke in her throat all at once. Her eyelids drooped; her shoulders fell back on the chair; she was silent. Irene laughed and made a gesture of despair with her hands. "What can I do with the situation?" began she in a jesting tone. "It was not I who made this world, and cannot reconstruct it. I might like to do so, perhaps, but I cannot." Then she grew serious, and continued: "Love and sympathy may be very charming. I admit even that most assuredly they are when they exist; but usually if they exist it is for a short period, they flash up and quench--a few years, a few days, most frequently only days, and they pass--they are as if they had never been. Why illusions, when after them disenchantment must conic? They merely cause useless exertion in life, disappointment, and suffering." Irene's words and sententious, hard tones were in marvellous contrast with the maiden-roundness of her arms, which were bare in the broad sleeves of her dressing-gown, with the fresh red of her delicate lips, and the gleam of her blue eyes. "Besides," added she, "I feel a sympathy for the baron; a certain kind of sympathy." Malvina, after a moment's silence, asked in a low voice: "What kind of sympathy is it?" After a little hesitation Irene answered with a harsh, abrupt laugh: "What kind of sympathy? A kind very common, it seems known universally. Sometimes his way of looking at me, or his pressure of the hand, moves me. But he pleases me most by his sincerity; he makes no pretence. He has never told me, like those three or four other suitors of mine, that he loves me. He has for me, as I have for him, a certain kind of sympathy; he considers me financially an excellent match, and for these two reasons he wishes to share with me his title of baron, and his relationship with certain families of counts and princes. And as I, on my part, need independence at the earliest, and my own house, so one thing for another, the exchange of services and interests is accomplished. We do not hide from each other these motives of ours, and this creates between us sincere and comrade-like relations, quite agreeable, and leading to no tirades or elegies in which there is not one bit of truth, or to any exaltation or despair which has no title to the future. This is all." "Ira!" whispered Malvina after a long silence. "What, mamma?" "If I could--if I had the right--" Both were silent. "What, mamma?" "If I could believe in spite of--" The gilded and artistic clock ticked among the pinks and lilies: tick-tack, tick-tack. "What is it, mamma?" "A cake, Ira!" As Irene took a cake from the silver basket with her trembling hand, she cried, with glad laughter: "At last you will eat even a cake! You have changed immensely, mamma. I cannot call you now as I once did, a little glutton, since for some time past you eat so little that it is nearly nothing." Malvina smiled fondly at the name which on a time her daughter had given her jestingly, and Irene continued in the same tone: "Remember, mamma, how you and I, with one small assistant in Cara, ate whole baskets of cakes, or big, big boxes of confectionery. Now that is past. I notice this long time that you eat almost nothing, and that you dress richly only because you must do so. At times, were it possible, you would put on haircloth instead of rich silks, would you not? Have I guessed rightly?" While a faint blush covered her forehead and cheeks again, Malvina answered: "Rightly." Irene grew thoughtful; without raising her eyes to her mother she inquired in a low voice: "What is the cause of this?" "Returning currents of life are the cause," answered Malvina after a rather long silence, and she continued, thoughtfully: "You see, my child, currents of a river when once they have passed never come back again, but currents of life come hack. My early youth was poor, as you know, calm, laborious, brightened by ideals, from which I have deviated much! That was long ago, but it happened. In life so many years pass sometimes, that events which precede those years seem a dream, but they are real and come back to us." Irene listened to this hesitating, low conversation with drooping eyelids and forehead resting on her hand. She made no answer. Malvina, sunk in thought, was silent also. A few minutes later the tea things vanished from the table, removed without a sound almost, and borne out by the young waiting-maid. With eyelids still drooping, as if she were finishing an idea circling stubbornly in her head, Irene said with pensive lips: "A haircloth!" She rose then, and, suppressing a yawn, said: "I am sleepy. Good-night, mamma, dear!" She placed a brief kiss on her mother's hand: "Shall I call Kosalia?" "No, no! Tell her to go to sleep. I will undress myself and go to bed unattended." "Good-night!" Stepping quietly along the carpet Irene passed out. Malvina followed the young lady to the door with her eyes, and the moment she was alone she threw her arm over her head, turned her face upward, and repeated a number of times, audibly: "God! God!" Then she rested her elbows on the arms of the chair, covered her face with both palms, the broad sleeves of her dress fell from her arms like broken wings. Thus, altogether motionless, she dropped into an abyss of regrets, reminiscences, and fears. The night flowed on. The clock among the flowers in that study struck the first hour after midnight, then the second hour, and each time in the darkness of the drawing-rooms another clock answered in tones which were deeper and more resonant. The syringa and hyacinths gave out a still stronger odor, though the cold increased in that chamber. The frosty winter night was creeping in, even to dwellings which were carefully heated, and was filling them with darkness penetrated with cold; along Malvina's shoulders, which were bent over the arm of the chair, shivers began to pass. In the darkness and cold a slight rustle was heard, and on the background of this darkness, in the doorway, appeared Irene. She wore a short, embroidered dress of cambric, and her fiery tresses were on her shoulders. She stood in the doorway with neck extended toward her mother, then walking in soft slippers silently she passed through the room like a shadow, and vanished beyond the opposite door. There was something ghostlike in those two women; one passed, without the slightest rustle, by the other, who was sleeping in a low chair, without making the least movement. Outside that mansion the streets of the city were entering into a deeper and longer silence. The clock in the study struck three, in the darkness three strokes, remote and deep, answered. In the air the volatile and languid odor of syringas was overcome by the narcotic and stronger odor of hyacinths. The increasing cold flowed around them with painful contrast. In the door, beyond which she had vanished, Irene appeared again, just as silently as before. She passed through the room and placed a shawl upon her mother's shoulders. Malvina, feeling the soft stuff, woke as if from a dream. "What is this?" exclaimed she, raising her face, the cheeks of which were gleaming in the light of the lamp; but when she saw her daughter she smiled with relief immediately. "That is you, Ira? Why are you not asleep?" "I cannot sleep, and I came for the book which we began to read together. It is growing cold, so I brought a shawl. Good-night." She went aside but did not leave the room. She had no book in her hand; perhaps she was looking for it in the beautifully carved ease filled with books, for she opened the case and stood before it with arms raised toward the upper shelves, her hair lying motionless on the white cambric covering her shoulders. Malvina was looking at her daughter, in her eyes was impatience; she was waiting for her to go. "Is it late?" asked she. "Very late," answered Irene, without turning her head. "Does Cara cough to-night?" "I have not heard her cough to-day." Malvina rose, but tottered so much that she was forced to rest her hand on the edge of the table. She seemed greatly wearied. "Go to sleep. Good-night!" said she, passing her daughter. Irene looked at her tottering step and followed her quickly a number of paces. "Mamma!" cried she. "What, Ira?" Irene stood before her mother a moment, her lips were quivering with words which she withheld, till she bent, kissed her mother's hand gently, and said in her usual manner: "Good-night!" Then she stood a while longer before the open case, listening to the rustle made by her mother while going to bed, and when that had ceased she closed the case and moved quietly into the darkness behind the outer door. At that same time a carriage thundered in the silence and passed through the gateway. Restrained movement rose in the antechamber from which one servant ran out into the dimly lighted stairway, and another rushed to the study and bedroom of the master of the mansion to increase quickly the light of the lamps there. Darvid went up the stairs quickly and with sprightliness; he threw into the hands of the servant his fur, which was costly and original, since it was brought from the distant North, and began at once to read at the round table, through an eyeglass, that which he had jotted down recently in his pocket notebook. The book was in ivory binding with a gold monogram, and a pencil with a gold case. While reading Darvid put a brief question to the servant: "Has Pan Maryan returned?" The answer was negative. Large and heavy wrinkles appeared between Darvid's brows, but he continued to read his notes. Almost a quarter of an hour later he wrote something more while bending over the desk, and standing. Soon in the bedchamber, furnished by the most skillful decorator of the capital, a night-lamp on the mantel of a chimney illuminated a bed adorned with rich carving; a white and lean hand stretched out on a silk coverlet, and a face also, which was like ivory, and shining with two blue sleepless eyes, keenly glittering. Darvid cast an inattentive glance through the room, over which, in the pale lamplight, two beautiful female heads seemed to hover, reflected and multiplied in mirrors standing opposite each other. This was a most beautiful work--a genuine Greuze. To win this masterpiece Darvid outbid a number of men of high standing; he triumphed and was delighted. But now his sleepless glance passed over that pearl of art inattentively. His night at the club instead of diverting and calming had bored and irritated. His honorable partner was annoying, and rude in addition. Never would he have forced himself to play with the man, had not that relation been an honor, and--what was more--had it not been needful. Women say: one must suffer to be beautiful; men need to change only the last word and say: one must suffer to be powerful. But that was beginning to be repulsive, and, above all, to be wearisome. Only when in bed did he feel that he was weary. He could not sleep. He had slept badly for some weeks--since the time of that wretched letter. At thought of that letter the serpents stirred in Darvid's breast, but he shut them down in their den by hissing: "Stupidity!" And he fell into long and uneasy thought about that man whom he had sent on weighty business, but who had not returned yet. Perhaps chance will not favor him this time, and another hand will seize the field of action and the great profits. He knows that he has enemies and rivals who envy, who undermine him. Well, he will win also in this case, only he would like something afterward--what? He himself does not know what--perhaps rest. To go for a time to Switzerland or Italy. For what purpose? He is not over curious about art and nature, he has no time to fall in love with them. Without occupation he would be bored in all places, and besides he must finish these family questions. He must tame Maryan, and hinder Irene's marriage to the baron. He is fighting a battle with his own son and daughter. Cara is the only one with whom he has no trouble. She is mild and beautiful. Her head is turned also, but in another, a more agreeable direction. She is greatly attached to him, the dear child! She is frail. He must speak to the doctor about her. Perhaps send her to Italy. With whom? With her mother? He would never permit that. The child is his. He will go himself with Cara. But in that case what will become of his enterprise? In the interior of the mansion were heard deep, metallic sounds. The clock struck five. In that same mansion, at the distant end of it, in a chamber lighted by a blue night-lamp, was heard a low, dry cough, and a frail, tall maiden, in night-clothing covered with lace, sat up in a blue and white bed. "Miss Mary! Miss Mary!" cried she, with fear in her voice. From the adjoining chamber came a voice of agreeable tone and somewhat drowsy: "You are not asleep, Cara?" "I have slept. The cough woke me, but that is well, for I had a dreadful dream. I dreamed that papa and mamma--" She stopped suddenly, and, though no one was looking at her, she hid her delicate face in the blue coverlet. So only in a whisper did she tell the end of her dream: "They were angry at each other--so awfully angry--Ira put her arms around mamma--Maryan went away hissing. I hung to papa, and cried so, and cried." In fact her eyes were then filled with tears from the dream. But she stretched in the bed, and, with her head on the pillows, thought, till she called again: "Miss Mary! Are you sleeping?" "No, dear; do you wish anything?" Cara began in a loud voice: "I wish immensely, immensely, Miss Mary, to go with you to England, to your father and mother. Oh, how I should like to be in that parsonage a while, where your sisters teach poor children and nurse the sick, and your mother makes tea at the grate for your father when he comes home after services. Oh, Mary, if you and I could go to that place! It is so pleasant there." In the blue light and in the silence her thin voice recalled the twittering of a lark. "We will go there sometime, dear. Your parents will permit, and we will go. But sleep now." "Very well, I will sleep. Good-night, Miss Mary--my dear, good Miss Mary." She lay some minutes quietly thinking, till she sat up again in bed coughing. When the cough had passed, she called in a low voice: "Miss Mary! Miss Mary!" There was no answer. "She is sleeping," whispered Cara, and after a while she looked around, and, in a lower voice, called: "Puffie! Puffie!" At this call the little dog sprang from a neighboring chair, and in the twinkle of an eye was on the bed. Cara stroked the silken coat of the dog, and bending toward him whispered: "Puffie! Puffie! dear, little dog! lie here, sleep for thyself!" She put him on her breast almost at her chin; with her hand on his coat, and with the whisper: "Puffie! good Puffie!" she fell asleep. Then was heard the sound of a drozhky, coming quickly, with uproar in front of the house, and again there was an end to voices and movement. Two men ascended the stairway, one much older than the other, with a carefully brushed, but somewhat worn hat, in a fashionable but somewhat worn fur. He spoke in a low voice: "Yes, yes! c'est quelque chose d'inoui! he commanded me to break off all relations with you, and to stop visiting his house." "A thousand and one nights! Why is it? What is it for?" exclaimed the other. Suddenly he stopped part way on the stairs, and asked with a half jeering, half pitying look at his companion: "If he should find out?" Kranitski turned his face away. "My Maryan--with you--of that--" "Painted pots!" laughed Maryan. "Do you take me for my great-grandfather? Well, has he found it out?" With red spots on his cheeks and forehead Kranitski blinked affirmatively. "Sapristi!" imprecated Maryan, and immediately he laughed again. "And why? for what reason? Did he also believe in painted pots? I thought him modern." "Alas!" sighed Kranitski. They advanced in silence, passed the first story of the house. Maryan's bachelor chambers were on the second story. "My dear old man, I am sorry for you, enormously sorry," began young Darvid again. "I have grown so accustomed to you. You will have to suffer, and poor mamma, too. Where did he get all this? A man of such sense! I thought that his head was better ventilated--" He could not finish, for Kranitski threw himself on his neck at the very door of his apartments. He wept. Drying his eyes with his perfumed cambric handkerchief, he said: "My Maryan, I shall not survive this blow! I love you all so much--you are--for me--as a younger brother--" He tried to kiss him, but Maryan broke away from his embrace, and his tears, the moisture of which he felt on his face, with discomfort. "But it is absurd!" exclaimed he. "Are we to break our relations because they displease someone? Are we slaves? Laugh at that, my dear. Come to me as before, but pass the night now with me, for it would be difficult for you to go home at this hour." He touched the button of the electric bell, and when the door opened at once, he said to his companion on the threshold: "Bianca sings that aria from the 'Cavalier' gloriously, does she not? La, la, la----" He tried to give the music, but his voice failed. So he disappeared behind the closing door, humming the aria of the splendid singer which he had just heard at supper. Below, two clocks, one after the other, sounded out six. Through the great windows light began to enter from the snow-covered streets. That seemed the gradual and slow drawing aside of a dark curtain, from behind which came out with increasing distinctness, furniture, pictures, mirrors, candlesticks, vases, rugs, plushes, velvets, polish, gilt, mosaics, ivory, porcelain. Until all standing forth in the full light of that winter morning began like a pearl shell to interchange various colors and lustres, and to drop from the walls and ceilings reflections of gold on the shining floor. CHAPTER III Kranitski ascended a carpeted stairway, which was adorned with lamps and statues. His fur coat with a costly collar was over worn somewhat; his hat was shining; his step free, and there was a cheerful smile under his mustaches, which were turned up at the ends carefully. The stairway was almost a street. People were passing up and down on it, and whenever you met them and caught their eyes you noted freedom, self-confidence, elegance; you saw the eleventh commandment of God, which Moses, only through some inconceivable forgetfulness, neglected to add to the Decalogue. Entering the antechamber he threw the servant his fur, from which issued the odor of excellent perfumes. From the pocket of his coat peeped the edge of a handkerchief. He arranged before a mirror his hair, thick yet above his forehead, but showing from behind a small, circular, bald spot. Hat in hand, and with a springy, self-confident tread, he entered the drawing-room. Only two red spots above his brow interrupted the whiteness of his forehead, which was slightly wrinkled; his eyes, usually gleaming or affable, were mist-covered. In a door, opposite that by which Kranitski entered, stood Irene, under a crimson drapery of curtains, with an open book in her hand. Kranitski, with that light-swaying of the body, with which elegants are accustomed to approach ladies, approached Irene and, bending easily before her, kissed her hand. "May one enter?" inquired he, indicating with his eyes the door of an adjoining; chamber. "I beg you to enter, mamma is in her study." The inclination of head, and sound of Irene's voice, contained only that measure of cordiality which was absolutely demanded by politeness, but that was her way always and with every one. Cold radiated from her, and such indifference that it was sometimes a contemptuous disregard for people and things. But when Kranitski, hat in hand, passed two drawing-rooms she followed him with her glance, in which, besides disquiet, there was a kindly feeling, and more, perhaps, a feeling of pity. She was accustomed from childhood to see him; he was gentle, as ready as a slave to render service, as ready as a friend to oblige; he noted the wants not only of the lady of the house, but of each of her children. He had the subdued manner and pliancy of people who do not feel that they merit what they have, and are ever trembling lest they lose it. He had, besides, the gift of reading beautifully in various languages. For a number of years Irene could not remember pleasanter evenings than those which, free from society demands, she had passed in her mother's study when Kranitski was present. Sometimes Cara and her governess took part in these domestic gatherings; sometimes, also, though more and more rarely, they were enlivened by the presence of Maryan, who, in the intervals of reading, chaffed with his sister and mother, and argued with Kranitski about various tendencies in taste and literature. Most frequently, however, Cara was occupied with lessons, and Maryan by society, and only she and Malvina, with artistic work in hand, listened in silence and thoughtfully to that resonant, manly voice, which rendered masterpieces of thought and poetry with perfect appreciation and feeling. During such evenings Irene was seized at moments by a dream of certain grand solitudes, pure, surrounded by cordial warmth, remote from the uproar of streets, the rustle of silks, the noise of vain words, whose emptiness and falsehood she had measured; but straightway she said to herself: "Painted pots, ideals! these have no existence!" and she made a gesture, as if driving from above her head a beautiful butterfly, feeling convinced that that butterfly was merely a phantom. To-day, from minute observation, the conjecture rose in her that something uncommon had happened, and that something more must happen, also; she was colder and more formal than ever, with a burning spark of fear in the depth of her blue, clear eyes. Her dress was of cloth, closely fitting, somewhat masculine in the cut of the waist, and on the top of her head was a Japanese knot of fiery hair, pierced by a pin with steel lustres. In her hand was an open book, and she walked along slowly through the two spacious drawing-rooms. She did not raise her eyes from the book, though she did not turn a page in it. At one door she turned immediately, at the other, which was closed, she stopped for a few seconds when she caught the sound of conversation, carried on beyond the door, in low voices, by two people. She did not wish to hear that conversation. Oh, she did not! How long ago was it since she had striven to be deaf as well as blind, and frequently so deal that no glance of the eye, no movement of the face might betray that she had sight or hearing. But now, as often as a louder sound struck her ears from beyond the closed door she stood immovable, and her eyelids quivered like leaves stirred by wind. For a long time it had seemed to her that something terrible might happen in that house some day, something to which she would not be able to remain deaf and blind. Might it not happen just that day? With slow, even step along the gleaming floor, between purple, azure, and various shades of white, which filled the drawing-rooms, she walked, in her closely-fitting dress, from one door to the other, her eyes fixed on the book, her manner colder, more formal than ever, her delicate motionless face, above which the long pin threw out metallic gleams. Suddenly an outburst of silver laughter was heard at another door. Till that moment two female voices had been heard, speaking English, beyond this door, now thrown open with a rattle. Golden strips of light, cast in by the winter sun, were lying on the purple and white of the drawing-room. Into this drawing-room rushed a strange pair; a maiden of fifteen, in a bright dress, golden-haired, rosy, and tall, bent low; she held by the forepaws a little ash-colored dog, and with him went waltzing around the furniture of the room, humming as she moved the fashionable: La, la, la! La, la, la! A pair of small feet, in elegant slippers, and a pair of shaggy, beast paws, whirled over the gleaming inlaid floor, around long chairs, tables, columns holding vases; swiftly, swiftly did she go till she met Irene at the door of the next drawing room. Cara raised the little dog from the floor, straightened herself, her eyes met the strange glance of her sister. Irene blinked repeatedly, as if some disagreeable light had struck her eyes. "Always so gladsome, Cara!" "I?" cried the girl. "Oh, so! Puffie made me laugh--and--the sun shines so nicely. The day is beautiful, isn't it, Ira? Have you noticed how diamond sparks glitter on the snow? The trees are all covered with frost. Let us go with Miss Mary for a walk. I will take Puffie, but I will cover him with that blanket which I finished embroidering yesterday. Is mamma well?" "Why do you ask about mamma?" "Because, when I gave her 'good-morning,' I thought that she was ill, she was so pale--pale. I asked her, but she said: 'Oh, it is nothing, I am well.' Still it seems to me--" "Let nothing seem to you!" Irene interrupted her almost angrily. "The surmises of children like you have no sense in them most of the time. Where are you going?" "To father." She pointed with her eyes to her mother's rooms. "Is that--that man there?" It was not to be discovered why she spoke in lowered tones, but Irene's voice sounded almost harsh when she inquired: "What man?" "Pan Kranitski." Now Cara's red, small lips, in the twinkle of an eye, formed a crooked line in spite of her; then, bending toward her sister, she said, almost in a whisper: "Tell me, Ira, but tell the truth. Do you like that man--Kranitski?" Irene laughed aloud, freely, almost as she had never laughed. "Ridiculous! Ah, what an amusing baby you are! Why should I not like him? He is our old and good acquaintance." And returning to her usual formality, she added: "Besides, you know that I do not like anyone very much." "Not me?" asked Cara, fondly touching with her red lips the pale cheeks of her sister. "You? A little! But go away. You hinder my reading." "I will go. Come Puffie--come!" And with the dog on her arm she went off, but she stopped at the door, and turning to Irene, she bent forward a little, and said, in a low voice: "But I do not like him--I do not know why this is. First I liked him, but for some time I cannot endure him--I do not know myself why." At the last words she turned away, capriciously, and went on. "She does not know! does not know!" whispered Irene over her book. "That is why she dances with the dog. What happiness in Arcadian life!" The little one, going on, began to hum again, but near the door of her father's study she grew silent and stopped. The sound of a number of men's voices in conversation reached her. She dropped her hand, and whispered: "Father has visitors! What shall we do now, Puffie? How shall we go in there?" After a moment's thought and hesitation she stepped in very quietly under the drapery of the portiere, and in the twinkle of an eye was sitting on a small, low stool which stood behind a tall case of shelves filled with books, which, placed near the door, formed with two walls a narrow, triangular space. That was an excellent corner, a real asylum which she could reach unobserved, and which she had selected for herself earlier. The books on the shelves hid her perfectly, but left small cracks through which she could see everyone. Whenever there were guests with her father she entered directly from the door, with one silent little step she pushed in, waited longer than the guests, and when they were gone she could talk with her father. At the round table, which was covered with books, maps, and pamphlets, in broad armchairs were sitting, hat in hand, men of various statures and ages. They had not come on business, but to make calls of longer or shorter duration. Some were giving place to others, who came unceasingly, or rather flowed in as wave follows wave. Some went, others came. The pressing of hands, bows more or less profound, polite and choice phrases, conversation, interrupted and begun again, conversation touching important and serious questions of European politics, local questions of the higher order, and problems of society, especially financial and economic. Darvid's voice, low but metallic, filled the study, it was heard by all with an attention almost religious; in general, Darvid seemed to ride over that ever-changing throng of men, by his word, by his gestures, by his eyes, with their cold and penetrating gleam, from behind the glasses of his binocle. He was radiant with a certain kind of power, which made him what he was, and the world yielded to the charm of this power, for it created wealth, that object of most universal and passionate desire. He himself felt all its might at that moment. When at the door of the study were heard, announced by the servant, names famous because they were ancient, others known for high office, or for the reputation which science and mental gifts confer, he experienced a feeling like that which a cat must feel when stroked along the back. He felt the hand of fate stroking him, and the delight caused by this became very pleasing. He was eloquent, he was gleaming with self-confidence, judgment, and ease of utterance. Not the least pride was to be observed in him, only the gleam of glory issuing from his smooth forehead, and the mysterious sensation of apotheosis, which pushed an invisible pedestal under the man, and made him seem loftier than he was in reality. At a certain moment a number of men entered, they seemed almost sunk in humility, and at the same time filled with solemnity. That was a delegation from a well-known philanthropic society in the city; they had come to Darvid with a request to take part in their work by a money contribution and by personal assistance. He began by the gift of a considerable sum, but refused personal assistance. He had not the time, he said, but even had he time, he was opposed in principle to all philanthropic activity. "Philanthropy gives a beautiful witness touching those who engage in it, but it cannot prevent the misfortunes which torture the race; nay, it strengthens them needlessly, and offers premiums to sloth and incompetence. Only exertion of all forces in untiring and iron labor can save mankind from the cancer of poverty which tortures it. Were there no help behind any man's shoulders, no hands would drop down unoccupied; each man would exercise his own strength, and misery would vanish from this earth of ours." Among those present, a guarded and immensely polite opposition rose, however. "The weak, the cripples, lonely old men and children?" "Philanthropy," answered Darvid, "cannot stop the existence of these social castaways, it merely continues and establishes them." "But they have hungry stomachs, sad souls and hearts--like our own." "What is to be done," inquired Darvid, with outspread palms which indicated regret. "There must be victors and vanquished in the world, and the sooner the latter are swept from existence the better for them and for mankind." A look of displeasure was evident on the faces of some, but they were silent, the oldest man rose, and smiling most agreeably, ended the argument: "But if philanthropy had many patrons like you its activity would correct the injustice of fate very frequently." "Let us not call fate unjust," retorted Darvid with a smile, "because it favors strength and crushes incompetence. On the contrary its action is beneficent, for it strengthens all that is worthy of life, and destroys that which is useless." "It has been just to you, and in this case we all owe it gratitude," concluded the oldest man in the delegation, ending the dispute hurriedly. Holding, meanwhile, Darvid's hand in his two palms he shook it with a cordial pressure, and his gray head, and face, furrowed with wrinkles, were bent in a profound obeisance. For those whom his honest heart pitied he carried a gift so considerable that, in spite of words which were not to his mind, the homage and gratitude which he gave came from perfect sincerity. At last Darvid's study was deserted, and on his lips was fixed a smile which resembled a pricking pin. Why had he poured out such a great handful of money for an object which to him was indifferent, the need of which he did not recognize? Why? Habit, relations, public opinion, expressed orally, and by the printed word. A comedy! Misery! He frowned, the wrinkles between his brows were growing, when he heard a slight rustle behind. He looked around, and exclaimed: "Cara! How did you come in? Ah! you were sitting in the corner behind the books! Only a reed such as you are could squeeze in through that cranny! What is your wish, my little daughter?" He smiled at his daughter, though his glance turned to the clock standing in the corner of the room. But Cara, with seriousness on her rosy face, stretched out to him the little dog, which had just wakened and was still sleepy. "First of all, I beg father to stroke Puffie--Puffie is pretty, and he is good, stroke him just once, father." Darvid drew his palm a number of times, absent-mindedly, over the back of the dog. "I have stroked him. But now if you have nothing else to say--" "I have no time!" added she, finishing her father's sentence. She laughed, and dropping Puff on the armchair, she caught her father in both her arms: "I will not let you go!" cried she; "father must give me a quarter of an hour, ten minutes, eight minutes, five minutes, I will speak quickly, quickly. 'If I have nothing more to say.' I have piles of things to say! I was sitting in the corner looking and listening, and I don't understand, father, why so many men come to you. When one looks at it all from a corner, it is so funny! They come in and bow--" Here she ran to the door and began with motions and gestures to enact that of which she was talking. Puff sprang after his mistress, and, stopping in the middle of the room, did not take his eyes from her. "They come in, they bow, they press your hand, father, they sit down, they listen." She sat on the chair in the posture of a man, and gave her delicate features an expression of profound attention. Puff fixed his eyes on her and began to bark. "Or in this way." She changed her expression from attention to gaping. Next she sprang up from the chair. Puff sprang up, too, and caught the end of her skirt in his little teeth. "They rise, they bow again, they all say the same things: I have the honor! I shall have the honor! I wish to have the honor!" She bowed man-fashion, knocking her heels together, and then pushing apart her little, slippered feet, and Puff tugged at the edge of her dress, sprang away, barked repeatedly, and seized her dress in his teeth again. "Puffie, don't hinder me! Puffie, go away! Some go out, others come. Again: 'I have the honor! I wish to have the honor!' Puffie, go away! They press your hand, father. Oh, I have tired myself!" Her breath had become hurried from quick motions and rapid speaking, a bright flush covered her face, she coughed and coughed again, she seized her father's arms. "Do not run away, father! I have much to tell you. I will talk quickly." Darvid had been standing in the middle of the room, and following her quick movements with his eyes, at first with an indulgent, and then with a more gladsome smile. That child was beaming with exuberant life, with wit also, which had the power to penetrate things and people; a most delicate sensitiveness, which made her an instrument of many strings, and these never ceased quivering. She reminded him marvellously of Malvina in her youth. When she began to cough he caught her, and said: "Do not hurry so; do not speak so much; talk less; sit down here." "I have no time, father, to talk slowly--I cannot sit down--for you will run away that moment. I must hold you and hurry. I want you to tell me why so many men come to you, and why you go to their houses. Do you love them? Do they love you? Is it agreeable and pleasant for you in their company? What do they want? What comes of these visits, pleasantness or profit? And whose profit, theirs or yours? or the profit of someone else, perhaps? What is all this for? Do not these visits remind you of the theatre? Though I have never been in the theatre. Here, as in the theatre, every man plays some part, pretends, puts on a face, does he not? Why does he do so? Do you like this, father? I beg you to tell, but only tell me everything, everything; for father, I want you to be my master, my light--you are so wise, so respected, so great!" "Enthusiasm put sparks into her dark eyeballs which were turned up to her father's face. Darvid stroked her pale, golden hair. "My dear child," said he, "my little one!" After a while he added: "Are you a wild girl from Australia or Africa to ask me such questions? You have seen visits from childhood. Have you not seen your mother receiving many visitors, also?" "Yes, yes, father; but mamma amuses herself with them, and is taking Ira into society. But what are visits to you? Are you amusing yourself, also?" "How amuse?" laughed Darvid, "they annoy me oftenest of all, though an odd time they give me pleasure." "What pleasure?" "You do not understand this yet. Relations, position in the world, significance." "What do you want of significance, father; why do you wish for a high position in society? What profit does significance give? Does it give happiness? See, father, I know one little history--Miss Mary's father, an English clergyman, has a parish in a poor, far-away corner, where there are no people of significance, and no rich men, but there are many poor and ignorant people there; and he has significance only among those poor people--that is, he has no significance whatever, still he is so happy, and all those people are so happy. They love one another, and live together. It is so warm and bright in that pastor's house, there, among the old trees. Miss Mary came away from there to get a little money for her youngest sister, whom she loves dearly. She lives pleasantly here, but she yearns for her family, and has told me so much of them; and some time, father, I will beg you to let me go with Miss Mary to England, to that poor country parish, and see that great, warm, bright happiness which exists in it." Tears glittered like diamonds in her gleaming eyes, and Darvid, with his arm around her slender waist, stood silent, in deep meditation. That child, by her questions, had let his thoughts down, as if by a string, to the bottom of things, at which he had never looked before--he had had no time. He might tell her that high significance in the world tickles vanity, flatters pride, helps, frequently, to carry business to a profitable conclusion--that is to pecuniary profit. He might confess to himself, also, that that English clergyman, in his quiet parsonage, under his ancient trees, seemed to him a very happy man all at once in that moment. After a while, he said: "It must be so. Happiness and unhappiness are one thing for poor people, and another for the rich." He looked at the clock. "But now--" "Now, I have no time!" laughed Cara. "No, no, father, two minutes more, a minute more--I will ask about something else." "You will ask more!" exclaimed he, with such a laugh as he had hardly ever given. "Yes, yes--something even more important than the last. I am troubled about it--it pains me so--" She changed from foot to foot, and embraced her father with all her strength, as if fearing that he might run away. "Did father mean really to say that one should not uphold the poor, the hungry, the sorrowful, the sad, nor comfort them; that it is only necessary to leave them so that they may die as soon as possible? When father said that I felt sick in some way. Mamma and Ira this long time support two old men, so gray and nice, whom Miss Mary and I visit often. Do mamma and Ira do badly? Should we let them die as soon as possible from hunger? Brrr! it is terrible! Does father think so really, or did he only say what he did to get rid of those gentlemen the more quickly? Father you are good, the best, a dear, golden father. Do you really believe what you said, or was it to get rid of those men? I beg you to answer me, I beg you!" This time her eyes were fixed on his face, with a gleam which was almost feverish, and again he stood in silence, filled with astonishment. Why could his mouth not open to tell that girl his profoundest conviction? With all the wrinkles between his brows, he said, without a smile: "I said that to get rid of them; I wished to be rid of those gentlemen as quickly as possible." The soles of Cara's feet struck the floor time after time with delight. "Yes, yes! I was sure of that! My best, dearest father--" Stroking her hair, he added: "We must be kind. Be kind always. Keep the life in gray-haired, nice old men. You will never lack money for that." She kissed his hands; suddenly her glance fell on her father's desk, and she cried: "Puffie! Puffie! where have you climbed to? There you are, you have crawled on to the desk and done so much mischief!" The ash-colored little dog was on the great desk of the celebrated financier, on the top of a huge pile of papers; he was sitting with his nose against a window pane, growling at crows that were flying past and cawing. In that study, which was so dignified as to be almost solemn, Cara's laughter was heard in silver tones: "Look, father, how angry he is! He is angry at the crows! Oh, how he sticks his little nose up when one of them flies past. Do you see, father?" "I see, I see! Never has such a dignified assistant been in charge of my desk. Oh, you little one!" He put his arm around her and pressed her to his bosom, briefly, but heartily. Through his head passed at that moment the recollection of something unimportant which he had seen on a time: a golden sun-ray, which, flashing from behind clouds, had torn them apart, and disclosed a strip of clear azure beyond. He saw this through a window of a railroad car, mechanically, as we see things to which we are indifferent. Now he remembered it. "The carriage is ready!" called the servant from the anteroom. "You are a little giddy-head," said Darvid, looking at the clock. "I should have left the house a quarter of an hour ago." She ran to bring his hat, and gave it with a low bow. Stooping quickly she raised a glove which he had dropped. "Don't forget to leave Puffie here to keep my papers in order!" With this jest on his lips he went to the antechamber, but, while putting on his fur and descending the stairway, he thought of the auction, where he was to buy a house sold for debt--an excellent investment. "Is Pan Maryan at home?" asked Darvid of the Swiss at the street door. The Swiss learned from servants that the young master was sleeping yet. "What a miserable method of life! I must put a curb on this wild buck immediately. Well, lack of time, a chronic lack of time!" "Quickly! as quickly as possible!" called he to the driver, while entering the carriage. He had left the house too late, his daughter had broken in on him with her twittering and fondling--but she is a ray of sunlight! Cara removed Puff from her father's papers, and, putting him on her breast, almost under her chin, as usual, passed through the drawing-rooms hurriedly. She was late for her lessons with Miss Mary. In one of the drawing-rooms she passed Irene. The slow promenade of the tall and formal young lady, with an open book in her hand, continued yet. Cara, while passing, and without stopping, said, with evident gladsomeness: "But I talked long with father to-day, long." "You have done that trick!" answered Irene, indifferently. Cara stopped as if fixed to the floor. In the careless voice of her sister she heard irony; she seemed ready for conflict; her brows contracted suddenly; her eyes were full of sparks. But Irene, absorbed in reading, was already a good number of steps away. After a few seconds, Cara vanished behind the door of her own room and Miss Mary's. Irene's features, rather meagre and elongated, continued motionless; her paleness increased their formality. But as time passed, weariness settled the more deeply on her drooping eyelids. Whenever she passed a window of the drawing-rooms, the pin in her hair east quick, sharp gleams in the sunlight. At last the door of Malvina's room opened and out came Kranitski, quite different from what he had been at his arrival. His shoulders were bent; his head drooping; on his cheeks were red spots; his forehead was greatly wrinkled. He looked as though he had been weeping a moment before. Even his mustaches were hanging in woefulness over his carefully shaven chin. Irene stopped, and with the book in her two hands, which she had dropped, gazed at the man approaching her. He hastened his step, took her hand, and said in a low voice and hurriedly: "I am the most wretched of beings! I was not worthy of such great happiness as--as--your mother's friendship, so I lose it. Je suis fini, completement et cruellement fini. I take farewell of you, Panna Irene--so many years! so many years! I loved you all so greatly, so heartily. Some people call me a romantic old dreamer. I am. I suffer. Je souffre horriblement. I wish you every happiness. Perhaps, we may never meet again. Perhaps, I shall go to the country. I take farewell of you. So many, so many years! O Dieu!" His eyelids were red; he was bent more than ever as he passed out. On Irene's face great alarm appeared. "It is true, then. It is true!" whispered she. Springing forward like a bird she passed through the drawing-room, quickly and silently. Invisible wings bore her toward the closed door of her mother's room; when entering, her manner was calm and distinguished, as usual, but her eyes, in which there was anxious concern, beheld the form of a woman lying in a deep armchair, her face covered with her hands. Malvina was weeping in silence; her sobs gave out no sound, they merely shook her shoulders at regular intervals. These shoulders were drooping forward, and it seemed as though an unseen weight were crushing them to the earth and would crush them down through it. Irene hurried, silently; brought a vial from the adjoining bedchamber, poured some liquid on her palm, and touched her mother's forehead and temples with it, delicately. Malvina raised her face, which was deeply agitated by an expression of dread. At that instant one might have thought the woman feared her daughter. But Irene, in her usual calm voice, said: "Insomnia always harms you, mamma. Again you have that horrible neuralgia!" "Yes, I feel a little ill," answered Malvina in a weak voice. She rose, and tried to smile at Irene, but her pale lips merely quivered, and her eyelids drooped; they were swollen from weeping. With a step which she strove to make firm and steady she went toward her bedroom. Irene followed some steps behind. "Mamma?" "What, my child?" Irene's lips opened and closed repeatedly; it seemed as though some cry would come from them, but she only said in low tones: "A little wine or bouillon might be brought?" Malvina shook her head, advanced some steps, looked around: "Ira!" The daughter stood before her mother, but now Malvina in her turn was speechless. She inclined her forehead, which covered slowly with a blush; at last she inquired in a low voice: "Is your father at home?" "I heard him drive away some moments ago." "On his return, should he wish to see me, say that I am waiting for him." "Very well, mamma." In the door she turned again: "Should someone else come--I cannot--" Irene halted a number of steps from her mother in the formal posture of a society young lady, and said: "Be at rest, mamma; I shall not go a step away, and I shall not let anyone interrupt you. Not even father if you wish--perhaps to-morrow would be better?" "Oh, no, no!" cried Malvina, with sudden animation. "On the contrary, as soon as possible--beg your father to come, and let me know at the earliest." "Very well, mamma." Malvina closed the bedroom door, advanced a few steps, and fell on her knees at her richly covered bed. Amid furniture, finished in yellow damask, on a downy bed, covered with cambric and lace, she raised her clasped hands, and said, in whispers broken with sobs: "O God! O God! O God!" She was of those weak beings who to live need heartfelt love as much as air, and who are infected by this love without power of resisting it. To such a love had she yielded once in the chill and emptiness of rich drawing rooms. That was a happening of long ago; she was the weaker at that time because she was caught by a breeze from the spring of her life, passed in the company of that man who was casting himself at her feet then. In that moment of yielding a pebble had dropped on her, the weight of which increased with the course of years and the growth of her children. She had not thought for an instant that she was the heroine of a drama. On the contrary, she repeated, with a face always blushing from shame: "Weak! weak! weak!" and, from a time rather remote, it was joined with another word, "Guilty." She was weak, still to-day she had found strength at last to cut one of those knots in which her life had been involved so repulsively. Oh, that the other might be torn apart quickly; then she could go far from the world into lone obscurity, an abyss occupied only by her endless penitence. In her head a plan had matured. She wished to speak with Darvid as soon as possible, and she doubted not that in the near future he would agree with her. Her daughters? Well, was it not better that such a mother should leave them, vanish from their eyes? Irene pushed to the window a small table, on which were painting materials; she took her place at the table, and with fixed attention in her eyes began to outline a cluster of beautiful flowers. They were chrysanthemums, and seemed to be opening their snowy and fiery petals to mystic kisses. Deep silence reigned in the mansion, and only after a certain time had passed did the sound of glasses and porcelain come from a remote apartment, and at the door of the study a servant appeared, announcing that lunch was served. Irene raised her head from her work: "Tell Panna Caroline and Miss Mary that mamma and I will not come to the table." She added a command to bring two cups of bouillon and some rusks. A while later she stood with a cup in her hand at her mother's door. "May I come in?" She held her ear to the door; there was no answer. Her lids blinked anxiously; she repeated the question, adding: "Mamma, I beg--" "Come in, Ira!" Covered with silken materials Malvina was like a glittering wave on the bed. Irene entered with the bouillon and the rusks, then slipped through the room quietly and let down the shades. A mild half-gloom filled the chamber. "This is better. Light when one has the headache is hurtful." She went to the bed. "You cannot sleep in these tight boots, try as you like, and without some hours of sleep the neuralgia will not leave you." Before these words were finished, her slender hands had changed the tight boots for roomy and soft ones. She bent down, and with a touch of her fingers unfastened a number of hooks at her mother's breast. "Now, it will be well!" Irene dropped her arms on her dress and smiled a little. Despite her fashionable robe and fantastic hairdressing there was in her at that moment something of the sister of charity, she seemed painstaking and cautious. "And now, mamma, be a little glutton," added she with a smile; "you will drink the bouillon and eat the rusk; I will go to paint my chrysanthemums." She was at the door when she heard the call: "Ira!" "What, mamma?" Two arms stretched toward her, and surrounded her neck; and lips, so feverish that they burnt, covered her forehead and face with kisses. Irene in return pressed her lips to her mother's forehead and hand, but for a few seconds only, then she withdrew from the embrace with a gentle movement, moved away somewhat, and said: "Be not excited, for that may increase the neuralgia." At the door she turned again: "Should anything be needed, just whisper; you know what delicate hearing I have; I shall hear. I shall be painting in your study. Those chrysanthemums are beautiful, and I have a new idea about them which interests me greatly." In the tempered winter light from the window, in that study full of gilding, artistic trifles, syringas, and hyacinths, Irene sat at the table with painting utensils, sunk in thought and idle. From beneath her brows, which had each the outline of a delicate little flame, her fixed eyes turned toward the past. She had in mind a time when she was ten years old, and was fitting a new dress on her doll with immense interest. At first she did not turn attention to her parents' conversation in the next chamber, but afterward, when the dress was fitted to the doll as if melted around it, she raised her head, and through the open door began to look and listen. Her father, with a jesting smile, was sitting in an armchair; her mother, in a white gown, was standing before him, with such an expression in her eyes as if she were praying for salvation. "Aloysius!" said she, "have we not enough? Is there nothing in the world except property and profits--this golden idol?" "I beg you to consider that there is something else," interrupted he, with a slight hiss of irony; "this luxury which surrounds you and becomes you so well." Then she seated herself opposite him, and, bending forward, spoke somewhat quickly, disconnectedly: "Do we live with each other? We do not by any means. We only see each other. There is nothing in common between us. You are swallowed up by business, I by society. I have taken a fancy, it is true, for amusement, but in the depth of my heart I am often very gloomy. I feel lonely. My early life, as you know, was modest, poor, toilsome, and often it calls to me reproachfully. You do not know of this, for we have no time to exchange ideas. I am of those women who need to feel guardianship, to have near them an ear which might listen to their hearts, and a mind which would direct their conscience. I am weak. I am full of dread. I fear that in view of your frequent, almost continual absence, I shall not be able to rear the children properly. I only know how to love them, I would give my life for them, but I am weak. I beg you not to leave me and them so frequently; that is, almost continuously--rather let this luxury decrease--I shall be glad, even, for the decrease will bring us nearer together. I beg you!" She seized his hands, and it seemed as though she kissed them; but it was certain that the pale, golden wave of her dishevelled hair fell on them. Irene, though she was only ten years old then, felt pity for her mother, and waited with intense curiosity for her father's answer. "What do you wish in particular?" asked he. "I listen, I listen, still I do not know exactly what the question is. Is it this, that I should stop work, which I love and which succeeds with me? You must be in a waking dream. Those are ideas from another society, mere childish fancies." Here Irene's thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of Cara. "Ira, is mamma sick, since she did not come to luncheon?" "Mamma has neuralgia often; you know that well." Cara turned to the door of her mother's bedroom, but Irene stopped her. "Do not go; she may be sleeping." The girl approached her sister: "It seems to me--" she whispered and stopped. "What seems to you a second time?" "That there is something going on in this house--" Irene frowned. "What an imagination you have! You are ever imagining something uncommon. Now all these uncommon things are painted pots, or illusions. Life rolls on always in a common, prosaic movement. Stop making painted pots, and go out to walk with Puff and Miss Mary." Cara listened attentively, but with an incredulous expression of eyes, which were fixed on her sister's face. "Very well, I will go to walk, but what you have said is not true, Ira. It is not painted pots that mamma is suffering and sick, that father goes out to dine for a whole week, and does not come to her at all; even that--man, going out to-day, began to cry in the antechamber--I saw him by chance--he wanted to say something to me, but I ran away--" Irene shrugged her shoulders. "You will be a poetess, perhaps, you exaggerate everything so terribly. Mamma is not troubled, she only has neuralgia. Father does not dine with us because he has so many invitations, and Pan Kranitski struck his nose against something which you, in poetic imagination, took for crying. Men never cry, and sensible girls, instead of filling their heads with painted pots, go to walk while good weather lasts and the sun shines. The doctor tells you to walk every day, not in the evening, but about this hour." "I am going, I am going! You drive me away!" She went on a number of steps, and turned again toward her aster: "Father is angry at Maryan--I see that very clearly. Everything in this house is, somehow, so strange." She went out, but Irene clasped her hands, and for some seconds squeezed them with all her might, and thought: "That child will soon look at life just as I have been looking at it for some time past. It is necessary to foresee, absolutely necessary!" She returned to her reminiscences. Her mother said to her father: "Our fortune is now considerable." "In that direction," answered her father, "it never can be too great, nor even sufficient." Then, playing with her beautiful hair, he asked: "But do you believe that I love you?" After some hesitation she answered: "No. I have lost that faith, I lost it some time ago." Later there were many other words, some of which Irene remembered: "The very best guardianship in this world," said her father, "is wealth. Whoso has that will never lack mind, even; since, in ease of need, he can buy mind from other men. "In the training of our children you will expend all that is requisite. You will rear for me our daughters to be grand ladies; will you not? Educate them so that when mature they may feel as much at home in the highest social circles as in their own father's household. As to you, amuse yourself, make connections, dress, be brilliant. The more you elevate the name which you bear, by beauty, wit, knowledge of life, the more service will you render me in return for the services which I render you. Besides, if you have any difficulty with the house, with teachers, with social relations, you have that honest Kranitski, who will serve you with great good will. I am very much pleased with that acquaintance. Just such a man did I need. He has extensive and very good connections; he is perfectly well-bred, obliging, polite. Foreseeing that he might be very useful to us, I became familiar with him. It is true that he has borrowed money a number of times of me, but he has rendered a number of services. Pay in return for value, that is the best method." He walked up and down through the room repeatedly; on his forehead, in his look, in his movements, he had an expression of perfect confidence in himself, his rights, and his reason. Suddenly, turning toward the door of remoter rooms, he cried with delight: "Speak of the wolf, and he is before you! I greet you, dear sir." With these words he extended his hand to the guest who was entering. This was Kranitski, at that time in his highest manly beauty; petted, and a favorite in the best social circles because of it, and for other reasons also. He gave a hearty greeting of Darvid, who met him with delight, and then he stood before Malvina in such a posture, and with such an expression on his face, as if he desired only one thing on earth, to be able to drop on his knees before her. That conversation and scene remained fixed in Irene's memory. She drew from it formerly, extensive conclusions, then she ceased altogether to recall it; now she thought again of it, forgetting her painted chrysanthemums, which, on the blue satin, seemed to gaze at her, having as subtle and enigmatical a look as she herself had. A servant at the door announced: "Baron Emil Blauendorf!" "Not at ho--" began she at once; but, halting, instructed the servant to ask him to wait. At her mother's desk she wrote on a narrow card of Bristol-board, in English: "Mamma is ill with neuralgia; I am nursing her, and cannot see you to-day. I regret this, for the talk about dissonances began to be interesting. Bring me the continuation of it to-morrow!" She gave this card, in an envelope addressed to the baron, to a servant, and sat down again to her chrysanthemums, this time with a smile both malicious and gladsome. With his appearance in that house, though unseen by her, Baron Emil had lent form in her head to a certain whimsical idea. She knew that it was whimsical, but just for that reason it pleased her, and must also please the baron. She began quickly, almost with enthusiasm, to paint dark outlines of imps among the flowers. She disposed them so that they seemed to separate the flowers and keep them apart from one another. Some imps were climbing up, others were slipping down; they peeped out from behind petals, climbed along stems, but all were malicious, distorted, capricious, and pushed the tops of the flowers apart in such fashion that they did not let the half-bending petals meet in kisses. Painting quickly, Irene laughed. She imagined Baron Emil saying at sight of this work: "C'est du nouveau! It is not a painted pot! it is an individual thought. There is a new quiver there. It bites." The expressions "painted pots," "Arcadians," "it bites," "new quivers," "rheumatism of thought," and many more she had from him. And she was not the only one who borrowed. These expressions had spread in a rather largo circle of people who despised everything existing, and were seeking everything which was new and astonishing. Baron Emil was cultured, had read much. He read frequently Nietsche's "Zarathustra," and spoke of the coming "race," the super-humans. He spoke somewhat through his nose and through his teeth. The superhuman is he who is able to will absolutely and unconditionally. When Irene thought that perhaps she would soon become the baron's wife, and leave that house, her brows contracted and her jeering smile vanished. Oh, she would not let him escape her! She had an absolute condition to put before the baron; he would accept it most assuredly, through deference to the amount of her dower. Energy glittered in her blue eyes. She turned her face toward the door of her mother's room with so quick a movement that the metallic pin in her hair cast a gleam of sharp steel above her head. "One must know how to will," whispered she. CHAPTER IV When Kranitski entered his own lodgings, after passing the night with Maryan, and after the long conversation with Malvina, old widow Clemens looked at him from behind her great spectacles, and dropped her hands: "Are you sick, or what? Arabian adventure! Ah, what a look you have! What has happened? Maybe those pains have come; you have had them a number of times already. Why not take off your fur? Wait! I will help you this minute. Oh, you will be sick in addition to everything else." She was a squatty woman, heavy, with a striped kerchief on her shoulders, and wearing a short skirt, from under which appeared flat feet in tattered overshoes. She was seventy years old, at least; her large, sallow face was much withered. Bordered by gray hair and a white cap that face was bright with the gleam of dark eyes, still fiery, and quickly glancing from under a wrinkled, high forehead. Her whole figure had in it something of the fields, something primitive, which seemed not to have the least relation to that little drawing-room and its owner. That room contained everything which is found usually in such apartments, therefore: a sofa, armchairs, a table, a mirror with a console, a low and broad ottoman with cushions in Oriental fashion, porcelain figures on the console, old-fashioned shelves with books in nice bindings, a few oil paintings, small but neat, on the walls, a number of photographs, tastefully grouped above the ottoman, a large album on the table before the sofa. But all this was a collection brought together at various seasons, and injured by time. The covering of the cushions had faded, the gilding on the mirror frame was worn here and there, the leather covering on the furniture was worn and showed through cracks the stuffing within, the album was torn, the porcelain base of the lamp was broken. At the first cast of the eye the little drawing-room seemed elegant, but after a while, through spots and rents mended carefully, want was observed creeping forth. This want was hidden chiefly by perfect and minute cleanliness, in which one could recognize active, careful hands, industrious, untiring sweeping out, rubbing out, sewing, mending--those were the lean, aged hands, with broad palms and short fingers, which were now helping Kranitski to remove his fur coat. Meanwhile, a scolding, harsh voice, with tenderness at the base of it, continued: "Again a night passed away from home. Surely off there with cards, or with madams of some sort! Oi, an offense against God! And this time you come home sick. I see that you are sick, your whole face is covered with red spots, you are hardly able to stand on your feet. Arabian adventure!" "Give me rest!" answered Kranitski in a complaining voice. "I am sick, the most wretched of men. Everything is past for me--I beg you to look to the door, so that no one may enter; I am suffering too much to let in impertinent people." There were tears in his eyes, and his appearance was wretched. No one was looking at him then, except his old servant, who was as faithful as a dog, so he let the fetters of artificial youth and elegance drop from him. His shoulders were bent, his cheeks pendant, above his brows were red spots and thick wrinkles. He vanished then beyond the half-closed door of his bedroom, and widow Clemens went back to the work interrupted by his coming. In the middle of the drawing-room, on an open card-table, lay, spread out, a dressing gown of Turkish stuff. That gown, beautiful on a time, was then faded; moreover, its lining was torn. Widow Clemens while repairing that lining and patching it had been interrupted by Kranitski's return; and now, wearing great steel-rimmed glasses, and with a brass thimble on her middle finger, she sat down again. She examined a rent through which wadding peeped out on the world, cautiously. But in spite of her attention fixed on the work she whispered, or rather talked on in a low and monotonous mutter: "'Look to the door, let no one in!' As if anyone ever comes here. Long ago, comrades and various protectors used to come; they came often at first, afterward very seldom; but now it is perhaps two years since even a dog has looked in here. He could not bear impertinent people. Oh, yes! they come here, many of them, princes, counts, various rich persons. Oh, yes! while he was a novelty and brilliant they amused themselves with him as they would with a shining button, but when the button was rubbed and dull they threw it into a corner. The relations, the friends, the companions! Arabian adventure! Oh, this society!" She was silent a while, put a piece of carefully fitted material on the rent, raised her hand a number of times with the long thread, and again muttered: "But is that society? It is sin, not society! Roll in sin, like the devil in pitch, and then scream that it burns! Oi, Oi!" Silence reigned in the room; only the clock, that unavoidable dweller in all houses, that comrade of all people, ticked monotonously on the shelf, beneath the mirror, among the porcelain figures. Widow Clemens, while sewing, industriously, muttered on. Her unbroken loneliness, the store of thoughts put away in her old head, and the care in her heart had given her the habit of soliloquy. "And it will be worse yet. He has debts beyond calculation. He will die on a litter of straw, or in a hospital. Oh, if his dead mother could see this! Arabian adventure! Unless Stefanek and I drag him out of this pit!" She stopped sewing and raised her spectacles to her forehead, their glass eyes gleamed above her gray brows, and she fell into deep thought. She moved her lips from time to time, but did not mutter. By this movement of the lips, and by her wrinkles, it could be seen that she was forming some plan, that she was imagining. Just then Kranitski's voice was heard from the bedroom. She sprang up with the liveliness of twenty years, and, with a loud clattering of old overshoes, ran to the door. "Give me the dressing-gown, mother; I am not well; I will not go anywhere to-day." "Here is the dressing-gown; but if the lining is torn?" "Torn or not, give it here, and my slippers, too; for I am not well." "Here they are! Not well? I have said not well! O beloved God, what will come of this?" But, while helping him to put on the dressing-gown, she inquired, with incredulity: "Is it true, or a joke, that you will not leave the house to-day?" "A joke!" answered he in bitterness. "If you knew what a joke this is! I will not leave the house to-day, or to-morrow, or perhaps ever. I will lie here and grieve till I grieve to death. Oh, that it might be very soon!" "Arabian adventure! Never has it been like this! It is easy to see that the pitch has burnt!" whispered widow Clemens to herself. But aloud she said: "Before you grieve to death we must get you some dinner. I will run to the town for meat. I will lock the door outside, so that impertinent counts, and various barons should not burst in," added she, ironically. Kranitski, left alone, locked up in his lodgings, robed in his dressing-gown, once costly, now faded, its sleeves tattered at the wrists, lay on the long-chair in front of his collection of pipes, arranged on the wall cunningly. In the society in which he moved collecting was universal. They collected pictures, miniatures, engravings, autographs, porcelain, old books, old spoons, old stuffs. Kranitski collected pipes. Some he had bought, but the greater number, by far, he had received on anniversaries of his name's-day, in proof of friendly recollection, and as keepsakes after a journey. During years many were collected, about a hundred; among them some were valuable, some poor but original, some even ridiculous, some immense in size, some small, some bright colored, some almost black; they were arranged on shelves at the wall with taste, and effectively. Besides these pipes there were in the bed-room other objects of value: a writing-desk of peculiar wood, a porcelain frame, with Cupids at the top, surrounding an oval mirror, at which were bottles, vials, toilet boxes, and a rather long cigarette-case of pure gold, which Kranitski kept with him at all times, and which, as he lay now in the long-chair, he turned in his fingers, mechanically. This cigarette-case was a precious memento. He had received it soon after his arrival in the city, twenty and some years before, from Countess Eugenia, his mother's aunt. Prom their first meeting the countess was simply wild about him. Society even insisted, notwithstanding her more than ripe years, that she was madly in love with that uncommonly beautiful and blooming young man, who had been reared by his mother with immense care, and trained to appear successfully in that society to which she had been born. Kranitski's mother, through various causes, had become the victim of a mesalliance; she grieved out, and wept away secretly; her life, in a village corner, after marrying a noble who was perfectly honorable, but neither a man of the world, nor the owner of much property. She desired for her only son a better fate than she herself had had, and prepared him for it long beforehand. He spoke French with a Parisian accent, and English quite well; he was versed in the literatures of Western Europe; he was a famous dancer; he was obliging; he had an inborn instinct of kindness toward people; he was popular, sought after, petted; when the money with which his mother furnished him proved insufficient he obtained a small office, through the influence of wealthy relatives, which, besides increasing his revenue, gave him a certain independent aspect. He passed whole days in great and wealthy houses, where he read books, aloud, to old princesses and countesses, and for young princesses and countesses; he held skeins of silk on his opened hands. He carried out commissions and various small affairs; at balls he led dances; he amused himself; fell in love, was loved in return; he passed evenings and nights in clubs, and in private rooms at restaurants, at theatres, and behind the scenes in theatres, where he paid homage to famous actresses of various degrees and qualities. Those were times truly joyous and golden. At that period he was served not by widow Clemens, but by a man; he dined--if not with friends or relatives--at the best restaurants. At that time, too, he did something magnanimous, which brought reward in the form of great mental profit: He passed a whole year in Italy with Count Alfred, his relative, who was suffering from consumption; Kranitski nursed, amused, and comforted his cousin with patience, attachment, and tenderness which were perfectly sincere, and which came from a heart inclined to warm, almost submissive feelings. In return that year gave him skill in the use of Italian, and a wide acquaintance with the achievements and the schools of art, of which he was an enthusiastic worshipper. Soon after he went with Prince Zeno to Paris, learned France and its capital well, and on his return remained for some time as a reader with the prince, whose eyes were affected. His power of beautiful reading in many languages brought him a wide reputation; he was distinguished in drawing-rooms by the ease of his speech and manners; to some he became a valued assistant in entertaining guests, and a pleasant companion in hours of loneliness; to others he was a master in the domain of amusements, and elegance in the arts of politeness and pleasure. At this period also he made the acquaintance of Darvid, and met his wife, whom he had known from childhood, and who had been his earliest ideal of womanhood. Thenceforth, his relations with other houses were relaxed considerably, for he gave himself to the Darvid house soul and body. Though Malvina's children had many tutors, he taught one of her daughters Italian, and the other English; he did this with devotion, with delight; and, therefore, that house became, as it were, his own, and was ever open to him. Moreover, during the last ten years great changes had happened in that society of which he was the adopted child, and so long the favorite. Countess Eugenia had given her daughter in marriage to a French count, and resided in Paris; Count Alfred was dead; dead, also, was that dear, kindly Baroness Blauendorf from whom he had received as a gift that mirror with porcelain frame and Cupids. Others, too, were dead, or were living elsewhere. Only Prince Zeno remained, but he had cooled toward his former reader, notably because of the princess, who could not forgive Kranitski; since, as was too well known by all, he was occupied with the wife of that millionaire--the eternally absent. There were still many acquaintances, and more recent relations, but these had neither the charm nor the certainty of those which time had in various ways broken, brought to an end, or relaxed. His mother, the foundress of his destiny, had ceased to live some time before that. "Pauvre maman! pauvre maman!" How tenderly and unboundedly he had loved her. How long he had hesitated and fought with himself before he left at her persuasion, the house in which she had given birth to him. He regretted immensely the village, the freedom, and that bright-haired maiden in the neighborhood. But the wide world and the great city took on, in his mother's narrative, the outlines of paradise, and his worthy relatives, the forms of demi-gods. When at last, after long hesitation and struggles, he resolved to go away, how many were the kisses and embraces of his mother! how many were her maxims and advices; how many her predictions of happiness. He began to look at his own form in the mirrors, and to feel in his own person the movement of desires, hopes, ambitions. Once he caught himself bowing and making gestures, almost involuntarily, before the mirrors. He laughed aloud, his mother laughed also, for she had caught him in the act red-handed. "Pauvre maman! pauvre, chere maman!" And on the background of that domestic gladness, of those wonderful hopes, only one person by her conduct had raised a cloud on that heaven, beaming serenely. That was widow Clemens, an old servant of the house, and once his nurse, not young even at that time, and a childless widow. She was morose, grumbling, peevish, but for a long time she said nothing; she did not hinder the thin, gray-haired mother, nor the youth, beautiful as a dream, from rejoicing and imagining; till at last she spoke when alone with the petted stripling. It was the end of an autumn day, twilight had begun to come down on the yard in Lipovka, and the linden grove, in a black line, cut through the evening ruddiness glowing in the western heavens. Widow Clemens, with her eyes fixed on the grove and the red of evening, said: "Oi! Tulek, Tulek! how will this be? You will go away; you will take up and go away; but the sun will rise and set; the grove will rustle; the wheat will ripen; and the snow will fall when you are gone." He sat on the bench of the piazza, and said nothing. But in the distant fields, in the growing darkness, a shepherd's whistle gave out clear tones, simple, monotonous, they flew along the field like the weeping of space. "Why go; do you know why--God alone knows. What are you throwing away? The beauties of God. What will you bring back? Perhaps the mud people cast at you." A cow bellowed in the stable; a belated working-woman muttered a song somewhere behind in the garden. The evening red was quenched; and above the roof the crescent of the moon came out, thin and like silver. Widow Clemens whispered: "Ill-fated! ill-fated boy!" He was immensely far from considering himself ill fated, but something in his heart felt pain at leaving that village where he was born, at leaving Malvina, and it seemed to him that he ought to stay. But he went. The Argonaut, of twenty and some years of age, went out into the world, slender, adroit, with eyes dark and fiery as youth, with cheeks shapely and fresh as peaches, with a forehead as white and pure as the petal of a lily; he went for a wife with a fortune, for the pleasures of the world--for the golden fleece. Now he wrapped himself closely in the skirt of his faded dressing-gown, and let his head droop so low that the bald spot seemed white on the top of it; his lower lip dropped; the red spots came out over his dark brows on his wrinkled forehead. In his hand he held the cigarette-case presented by Countess Eugenia, now living in Paris, and at times he turned it in his fingers, with an unconscious movement, and that glittering object cast on the tattered sleeve of his dressing-gown, on his suffering face, on his long, thin fingers, its bright, golden reflection. Meanwhile widow Clemens had returned to the kitchen, and there, not without a loud clattering of overshoes, had begun to cook the dinner. But Kranitski neither heard nor saw anything. From time to time the head, with its great cap, looked in through the kitchen door, gazed on him unquietly and pushed back to look in again soon. "Will you have dinner now?" inquired she at last. "It is ready." In a low voice he asked for dinner, but he ate almost nothing; the woman had never yet seen him so broken, still she made no inquiry. When the moment came he would tell all himself. He was not of those who bear secrets to the grave with them. She waited on the man, gave him food, brought tea, cleared the table in silence. Once she fell into trouble: Passing hurriedly through the room she lost one of the overshoes which she had on her feet: "Ah! may thou be!--they fall off every moment!" grumbled she, and for some minutes she struggled with that overshoe, which, dropping from her foot, slipped along the floor noisily. Kranitski raised his head: "What is that?" inquired he. She made no answer, but when she was near the kitchen door, he cried: "What have you on your feet that clatter so? It is irritating!" She stopped at the door: "What have I on my feet? Well, your old overshoes! Am I to wear out shoes every day, and then buy new ones? 'Irritating!' Arabian adventure! God grant that you never have worse irritation than overshoes clattering on the floor!" And she grumbled on in the kitchen while going with an empty glass to the samovar: "You wouldn't have a pinch of tea in the house if I went around in new shoes all my time!" Darkness came down. Kranitski smoked cigarettes one after another, and was so sunk in thought that he trembled throughout his body. When widow Clemens brought in a lamp, with a milk-colored globe, which filled the room with a white, mild light, Kranitski looked at the head of the old woman in the white lamp-light, and, for the first time in a number of hours, he spoke: "Come, mother, come nearer!" said he. When she came he seized her rude fist in both his hands and shook it vigorously. "What could I do; what would happen to me now, if you were not with me? No living soul of my own here! Alone, alone, as in a desert." The onrush of tenderness burst through all obstructions. Confidences flowed on. He had loved for the last time in life, le dernier amour, and all had ended. She had forbidden him to see her. That decision of hers had been ripening for a long time. Reproaches of conscience, shame, despair as to her children. One daughter knew everything; the other might know it any day. She had let out of her hands the rudder of those hearts and consciences, for when she was talking with them her own fault closed her lips, like a red-hot seal. She thought herself the most pitiful of creatures. She did not wish to make further use of her husband's wealth, or the position which it give her in society. She wished to go away, to settle down in some silent corner, vanish from the eyes of people. Kranitski was so excited that he almost sobbed; here his speech was interrupted by a rough, sarcastic voice: "It is well that she came to her senses at last--" "What senses? What are you weaving, mother? You know nothing. Love is never an offense. Ils ont peche, mais le ceil est un don." "You are mad, Tulek! Am I some madam that you must speak French to me?" Still he finished: "Ils ont souffert, c'est le sceau du pardon. I will translate this for thee: They have sinned, but heaven is a gift-----They have suffered; suffering is the seal of pardon." "Tulek, let heaven alone! To mix up such things with heaven--Arabian adventure!" "Are you a priest, mother? I tell you of my own suffering and the suffering of that noble, sweet being--" In the antechamber, the door of which widow Clemens, in returning from the city, had not locked, was heard stamping, and the youthful voice of a man called: "Is your master at home?" "Arabian adventure!" muttered widow Clemens. "Maryan!" exclaimed Kranitski with delight, and he answered aloud: "I am at home, at home!" "An event worthy of record in universal history," answered the voice of a man speaking somewhat through his nose and teeth. "And the baron!" cried Kranitski; then he whispered: "Close the drawing-room door, mother; I must freshen up a little," and from behind the closed door he spoke to those who were in the drawing-room: "In a moment, my dears, in a moment I shall be at your service." In the light of the lamp, placed by widow Clemens in the drawing-room, he appeared, indeed, after a few minutes, dressed, his hair arranged, perfumed, elegant with springy movements and an unconstrained smile on his lips. Only his lids were reddened, and on his forehead were many wrinkles which would not be smoothed away. "A comedian! There is a comedian!" grumbled widow Clemens, returning to the kitchen, with a terrible clatter of overshoes. The two young men pressed his hand in friendship. It was clear that they liked him. "Why did you avoid us all day?" inquired Baron Emil. "We waited for you at Borel's--he gave us an excellent dinner. But maybe you are fasting?" "Let him alone, he has his suffering," put in Maryan. "I am so sorry, mon bon vieux (my good old man), that I have persuaded the baron to join me in taking you out. I cannot, of course, leave you a victim to melancholy." Kranitski was moved; gratitude and tenderness were gazing out of his eyes. "Thanks, thanks! You touch me." He pressed the hands of both in turn, holding Maryan's hand longer than the baron's, with the words: "My dear-dear--dear." The young man smiled. "Do not grow so tender," said he, "for that injures the interior. You are, however, a son of that generation which possesses an antidote for melancholy." "What is it?" "Well, faith, hope, charity, with resignation and--other painted pots. We haven't them, so we go to Tron-tron's, where Lili Kerth sings. We are to give her a supper tonight at Borel's. Borel has promised me everything which the five parts of the world can give." "As to the problematic nature of that Lili," remarked the baron, "there are moments in which she takes on the superhuman ideal." "What an idea, dear baron!" burst out Kranitski. "Lili and superhumanity, the ideal! Why, she is a little beast that sings abject things marvellously." "That is it, that is it!" said the baron, defending his position, "a little beast in the guise of an angel--the singing of chansonettes with such a devil in the body--and at the same time a complexion, a look, a smile, which scatters a kind of mystic, lily perfume. This is precisely that dissonance, that snap, that mystery with which she has conquered Europe. This rouses curiosity; it excites; it is opposed to rules, to harmony--do you understand?" "Stop, Emil!" cried Maryan, laughing. "You are speaking to the guardian of tombs. He worships harmony yet." Kranitski seemed humiliated somewhat. He passed his palm over his hair, and began timidly: "But that is true, my dears; I see myself that I am becoming old-fashioned. Men of my time, and I, called a cat a cat, a rogue a rogue. If a Lili like yours put on the airs of an angel we said: 'Oh, she is a rogue!' And we knew what to think of the matter. But this confounding of profane with sacred, of the rudest carnalism with a mystic tendency--" The baron and Maryan laughed. "For you this is all Greek, and will remain Greek. You wore born in the age of harmony, you will remain on the side of harmony. But a truce to talk. Let us go. Come, you will hear Lili Kerth; we shall sup together." "Come, we have a place in the carriage for you," said the baron, supporting young Darvid's invitation. Kranitski grew as radiant as if a sun-ray had fallen on his face. "Very well, my dears, very well, I will go with you; it will distract me, freshen me. A little while only; will you permit?" "Of course. Willingly. We will wait." He hurried to his bedroom, and closed the door behind him. In his head whirled pictures and expressions: the theatre, songs, amusement, supper, conversation, the bright light--everything, in a word, to which he had grown accustomed, and with which he had lived for many years. The foretaste of delight penetrated through his grievous sorrows. After the bitter mixture he felt the taste of caramels in his mouth. He ran toward his dressing-table, but in the middle of the room he stood as if fixed to the floor. His eye met a beautiful heliotype, standing on the bureau in the light of the lamp; from the middle of the room, in a motionless posture, Kranitski gazed at the face of the woman, which was enclosed in an ornamented frame. "Poor, dear soul! Noble creature!" whispered he, and his lips quivered, and on his forehead appeared the red spots. Maryan called from beyond the door: "Hurry, old man! We shall be late!" A few minutes afterward Kranitski entered the drawing-room. His shoulders were bent; his lids redder than before. "I cannot--as I love you, I cannot go with you! I feel ill." "Indeed, he must be ill!" cried Maryan. "See, Emil, how our old man looks! He is changed, is he not?" "But a moment ago you looked well!" blurted out Emil, and added: "Do not become wearisome, do not get sick. Sick people are fertilizers on the field of death--and sickness is annoying!" "Splendidly said!" exclaimed Maryan. "No, no," answered Kranitski, "this is not important, it is an old trouble of the liver. Returned only to-day--you must go without me." He straightened himself, smiled, tried to move without constraint, but unconquerable suffering was evident on his features and in the expression of his eyes. "May we send the doctor?" asked Maryan. "No, no," protested Kranitski, and the baron took him by the arm and turned him toward the bedroom. Though Kranitski's shoulders were bent at that moment, his form was shapely and imposing; the baron, holding his arm, seemed small and frail; he made one think of a fly. In the bedroom he said, with a low voice: "It is reported in the city that papa Darvid is opposed to my plans concerning Panna Irene. Do you know of this?" For some months the baron had spoken frequently with Kranitski about his plans, taking counsel with him even at times, and begging for indications. Was he not the most intimate friend of that house, and surely an adviser of the family? Kranitski did not think, or even speak, of Baron Emil otherwise than: "Ce brave garcon has the best heart in the world; he is very highly developed and intelligent; yes, very intelligent; and his mother, that dear, angelic baroness, was one of the most beautiful stars among those which have lighted my life." So through the man's innate inclination to an optimistic view of mankind, and his grateful memory of "one of the most beautiful stars," he was always very friendly to the baron and favorable to his plan touching Irene; all the more since he noted in her an inclination toward the baron. So, usually, he gave the young man counsel and answers willingly and exhaustively. This time, however, an expression of constraint and of suffering fell on his face. "I know not, dear baron; indeed, I can do nothing, for to tell--for I--" A number of drops of perspiration came out on his forehead, and he added, with difficulty: "It seems that Panna Irene--" "Panna Irene," interrupted the baron, without noticing Kranitski's emotion, "is a sonnet from Baudelaire's Les fleurs du mal (The flowers of evil). There is in her something undefined, something contradictory--" Kranitski made a quick movement. "My baron--" "But do you not understand me, dear Pan Arthur? I have no intention of speaking ill of Panna Irene. In my mouth the epithets which I have used are the highest praise. Panna Irene is interesting precisely for this reason, that she is indefinite and complicated. She is a disenchanted woman. She possesses that universal irony which is the stamp of higher natures. Oh, Panna Irene is not a violet unless from the hot-house of Baudelaire! But, just for that reason she rouses curiosity, irritates, une desabusee--une vierge desabusee. Do you understand? There is in this the odor of mystery--a new quiver. But with natures of this sort nothing can ever be certain--" "Hers is a noble nature!" cried Kranitski, with enthusiasm. "You divide natures into noble and not noble," said the baron, with a smile; "but I, into annoying and interesting." Beyond the door the loud voice of Maryan was heard: "Emil, I will leave you and go to Tron-tron's. I will tell Lili Kerth that you remained for the night to nurse a sick friend." These words seemed to them so amusing that they laughed, from both sides of the closed door, simultaneously. "Good!" cried the baron. "You will create for me the fame of a good Christian. As the Brandenburger fears only God, I fear only the ridiculous, and go." A few minutes later the two friends were no longer in the dwelling of Kranitski, who was sitting on his long chair again, with drooping head, turning in his fingers the golden cigarette-case. The street outside the window was lonely enough, so the rumble of the departing carriage was audible. Kranitski followed it with his ear, and when it was silent he regretted passionately for a moment that he had not gone to where people were singing and jesting, and eating, and drinking in bright light, in waves of laughter. But, straightway, he felt an invincible distaste for all that. He was so sad, crushed, sick. Why had not those two young friends of his remained longer? He had rendered them the most varied services frequently, he had simply been at their service always, and had loved them; especially Maryan, the dear child--and many others. How many times had he nursed them, also, in sickness, consoled them, rescued them, amused them. Now, when he cannot run after them, as a dog after its mistress, his only comrades are darkness and silence. Darkness reigned in the little drawing-room, silence of the grave in the whole dwelling. A clatter of overshoes broke this silence; widow Clemens stood in the kitchen door. On her high forehead, above her gray eyebrows, shone the glass eyes of her spectacles; her left hand was covered with a man's sock which she was darning. She stood in the door and looked at Kranitski, bent, grown old, buried in gloomy silence, and shook her head. Then, as quietly as ever was possible for her, she approached the long-chair, sat on a stool which was near it, and asked: "Well, why are you silent, and chewing sorrow alone? Talk with me, you will feel easier." As he gazed at her silently, she asked in a still lower tone: "Well, the woman? Did she love you greatly? Was her love real? How did you and she come to your senses?" After a few minutes' hesitation, or thought, Kranitski, with his elbows on the edge of the chair, and his forehead on his palms, said: "I can tell all, mother, for you are not of our society, and you are noble, faithful; the only one on earth who remains with me." Throughout the silent chamber was heard, as it were, the sound of a trumpet: that sound was made by widow Clemens, who had drawn from her pocket a coarse handkerchief and held it to her nose. Her eyes were moist. Kranitski quivered and squirmed, but continued: "When we met the first time after parting, the spring season was around us. You know that we parted only because I had too little fortune to marry a portionless maiden, and my mother would not hear of my marrying a governess. Soon after, that rich man married her. Fiu! fiu! what became of that governess, that girl more timid than a violet? She became a society lady, full of life, elegance, style--but springtime breathed around us, memories of the village, of the flowers, of the fields, of our earliest, heartfelt emotions. Did she love her husband? Poor, dear, soul! It seems that at first she was attached to him, but he left her, neglected her, grasped after millions throughout the whole world. He was strong, unbending--she was ever alone. Alone in society! Alone in the house--for the children were small yet, and she so sensitive and weak, needing friendship and the fondling of a devoted heart. I fell on my knees in spirit before her--she felt that. He, when going away, left me near her as an adviser, a guardian for the time, even a protector, yes, a pro-tec-tor--the parvenu! the idiot! So wise, yet so stupid--ha! ha! ha!" Sneering, vengeful laughter contorted Kranitski's face, the red spots spread over his brows and covered half of his forehead, which was drawn now into thick wrinkles. "Do not vex yourself, Tulek, do not vex yourself, you will be ill," urged widow Clemens; but once his confessions were begun he went on with them. "For a year or more there was nothing between us. We were friends, but she held me at a distance; she struggled. You, mother, know if I had success with women--" "You had, to your eternal ruin, you had!" blurted out widow Clemens. "From youth I had the gift of reading; I owe much to it." "Ei! you owe much to it! What do you owe to it? Your sin against God, and the waste of your life!" said the widow, ready for a dispute, but he went on without noting that. "Once she was weak after a violent attack of neuralgia; it was late in the evening, the great house was empty and dark, the children were sleeping--I gave her the attention that a brother or a mother would give; I was careful; I hid what was happening within me; I acted as though I were watching over a sick child which was dear to me. I entertained her with conversation; I spoke in a low voice; I gave her medicine and confectionery. Afterward I began to read. More than once she had said that my reading was music. I was reading Musset. You do not know, mother, who Musset is. He is the poet of love--of that love exactly which the world calls forbidden. She wanted something from the neighboring chamber; I went for it. When I returned our eyes met, and--well, I read no more that evening." He was barely able to utter the last words; he covered his face with his handkerchief, rested his head on the arm of the long-chair, was motionless; wept, perhaps. Widow Clemens bent down, the corner of her coarse handkerchief came from her pocket, and through the chamber that sound of a trumpet was heard for the second time. Then she drew her bench up still nearer, and, with her hand in the stocking-foot, touched Kranitski's arm, and whispered: "Say no more, Tulek; despair not! Let God up there judge her and you. He is a strict judge, but merciful! I am sorry for you, but also for her, poor thing! What is to be done? The heart is not stone, man is not an angel! Only drive off despair! Everything passes-, and your sorrow also will pass. You may be better off in the world than you now are. You may yet enjoy pleasant quiet in Lipovka, in your own cottage. Stefanek and I may think out something, so that you will escape from the mud of this city." Kranitski made no answer; the woman spoke on: "I have had another letter from Stefanek." "What does that honest man write?" asked Kranitski. The widow flushed up in anger: "It is true that he is honest, and there is no need to call him that--as if through favor, or sneering. Arabian adventure! He is only my godson, but better than men of high birth. He writes that management in Lipovka goes well; that again he has set out a hundred fruit-trees in the garden; that in four weeks he will come and bring a little money." "Money!" whispered Kranitski; "but that is well!" "It is surely well, for that Jew would have taken your furniture if I had not pushed him down the steps, and a second time begged him to wait." She laughed. "To push him down was easier than to beg, for I am strong, and he is as small as a fly. Well I almost kissed his hands, and he promised to wait. 'For widow Clemens I will do this,' said he, 'because she is a servant who is like a mother.' Indeed, I am like a mother! I have no children, I have no one of my own in the world--I have only you." Kranitski looked at her and began to shake his head with a slow movement. She, too, fixing her fiery and gloomy eyes on his eyes, shook slowly her head, which was covered with a great cap. The lamp burning on the bureau threw its white light on those two heads, which, discoursing sadly, continued their melancholy converse without words; it shone also on the varied collection of pipes at the wall, and cast passing gleams on the golden cigarette-case which Kranitski turned in his hand. CHAPTER V Darvid was in splendid humor--he had bought at auction a house and broad grounds very reasonably. He cared little for the house--it was a rubbishy old pile which he would remove very soon--but the grounds, covered then with an extensive garden, represented an uncommonly profitable transaction. Situated near one of the railroad stations, he would, of course, receive a high price for it, because of the need to put there a great public edifice. Darvid would sell the ground to those who needed it, and then make proposals to build the edifice. This was the third undertaking which had fallen to him since his return, a few months before. What of that, when the most important, for which he would have given the other three willingly, had not fallen yet to him, and he did not know well what had been done concerning it? This affair did not let him sleep sometimes, still it did not disincline him from working at that which he had begun already. The day was clear, slightly frosty, myriads of brilliants were glittering in the white rime which covered the trees, and in the snow which lay on the extensive garden. Darvid, in company with a surveyor, an engineer, and an architect, walked through the garden, but the object of his walk was in no way the contemplation of nature bound up under marbles, and alabasters sprinkled with brilliants. The engineer brought him a plan for the purchase of the place, and supported the interests of his employers energetically; the surveyor and the architect spoke of their part, pointed out with gestures the proportions and various points of the open area. Darvid, in a closely fitting fur coat, finished with an original and very costly collar, with a shining hat on his head, walked over the ground with even tread; he listened rather than spoke, there was a silent satisfaction in his smile, when suddenly an immense brightness reflected from a tree, directly in front, dazzled his eyesight. The tree, which resembled a lofty pillar, had on each of its branches a plume, cut as it were delicately from alabaster, every feather of this plume flamed like a torch lighted in a rainbow. Sheafs of rainbow gleams shot out of that wonderful carving, and from that fountain of many-colored light. Darvid put his glasses on his nose suddenly, and said with a painful twist of the mouth: "What unendurable light!" The architect looked at the tree and said, with a smile: "No man, not even a Greek master, has ever finished a pillar like that." "The only pity is that it cannot be used," replied Darvid, smiling also. "You are not a lover of nature, that is true; while I--" began the engineer. "On the contrary, on the contrary. During intervals I have looked at nature here and there," said Darvid, playfully. "But to become her lover, as you say, I have not had leisure. To love nature is a luxury which iron toil does not know--a luxury which must have leisure." With these words he turned from the beautiful work of nature and intended to go on, but again he halted. He found himself at the picket fence, which divided the garden from the street, and in the movement of the street he saw something which occupied him greatly. It was the hour of departure for one of the railroad trains. The street was wide, and the ground on both sides of it was not entirely occupied yet with houses, many carriages on wheels, and a multitude of sleighs were hastening toward the near railway station. The sleighs shot forward with clinking harness, the snow under wheels squeaked complainingly, the drivers uttered brief shouts. The hats of men and women, various kinds of furs, the liveries of coachmen, the horses puffing steam, covered here and there with colored nets, formed a motley, changing line, moving forward with a rattle and an outcry along the white snow, in an atmosphere glittering from frost and sunlight. One of the carriages looked like a flower garden. Roses, camelias, pinks, and violets were creeping out--simply pouring out--through its windows. The carriage was filled with bouquets, garlands, baskets. Among these, as in a flood of various colors, appeared in the heart of it the broad-rimmed hat of a woman. Immediately behind the carriage rushed a sleigh drawn by a pair of grand horses, the driver wearing an enormous fur collar, and in the sleigh were two young men, at whose feet again was a basket of flowers, but the finest and costliest, very rare and expensive orchids. The carriage and sleigh shot forward through the many-colored crowd of the street, as if some enchanted vision of spring had risen through the snow and then vanished. "Who is that lady in the carriage filled with flowers?" asked Darvid, turning to his companions. "Bianca Biannetti." That was a name which needed no commentary. Darvid smiled, with satisfaction. It was not wonderful that Maryan and the little baron were escorting to the station that woman of European fame, and were taking flowers to her. Of course, of course. He himself a number of times in his life--and if it was not offener, it was because time had failed him. "There will be an amusing history to-day at the station," said the engineer. "A special train for Bianca; it is to leave five minutes after the regular one." "For what purpose?" asked the architect. "It is easy to divine: to have five minutes longer to enjoy the society of the great singer." "An extra train! That is madness!" said Darvid. "Who did this?" The engineer and architect exchanged significant glances, and the former answered: "Your son." The skin on Darvid's face quivered, but he answered with perfect composure: "Ah, true! I remember Maryan told me something of this. I persuaded him a little, but he insisted. What is to be done? Il faut que la jeunesse se passe (youth must have its day)." Then he gave his hand to the three men in farewell: "I am sorry that we cannot finish our discussions to-day, but I remember an important affair. I beg you, gentlemen, to come to-morrow at the usual hour of my receptions." He raised his hat and left them. "To the station! Hurry!" said he to the driver while entering the carriage. At the station stood a row of cars with a locomotive sending up steam. A throng of people were moving toward the snow-covered platform, and hurrying to the train. Darvid came out also, searching with his eyes for a youthful face which filled his sleepless nights with care. At first he could not find it, but when many people had entered the train, those assembled for the passive role of spectators formed a group and turned their glances toward one point upon the platform. There in the hands of a number of people bloomed a garden of beautiful flowers, and near them two persons were conversing with great animation. The opera singer was an Italian, a beautiful brunette, with eyes blazing like dark stars. Conversing with her in her own language was a young man, younger than she, very youthful, light haired, shapely, elegantly dressed. At some steps from this pair, in a careless posture, with an unoccupied air, stood Baron Emil, fragile and red-haired. The bell, summoning passengers, was heard in the frosty air for the second time. The lady, with a charming smile, bowed in sign of farewell, and made a step toward the train, but the young man barred the way with a movement made adroitly, talking meanwhile, and holding her under the determined glance of his blue eyes. Without showing alarm she delayed, smiled, and listened. Darvid stood on the platform, lost in that crowd of the curious, and snatches of conversation struck his ear. "She will not go!" said one man. "She will! There is time enough yet!" said another. "He detains her purposely, so that she may not go." "He does, for she is beautiful. Her smile is as charming as her song." "He is a daring boy," said some third man near Darvid's other ear. "Look, look, how he talks her down purposely--poor woman, she will go back to the city beaten." "But no! That would be an impoliteness on his part." "Who is this handsome young man with golden hair?" asked some woman. "Young Darvid. The son of the great financier. How young! He is a child." "A man with millions ripens quickly, like a peach in sunlight." "What language are they speaking? I cannot hear, but it is not French." "Italian; she is Italian." "But he chatters in that language as if he were her compatriot." "Millions are like the tongues at Pentecost," said the man who had mentioned peaches, "whoever is touched by them speaks every language on earth right away." All the passengers had vanished in the cars, the doors of which were fastened now with loud clinking. This time the opera singer stepped forward quickly, but young Darvid spoke a few words which brought to her face astonishment and the most beautiful smile in the world; she nodded, agreed to something, gave thanks for something in the same way that kindly queens consent to receive marks of the highest honor from their subjects. In the crowd surrounding Darvid someone laughed: "Ah, he is a stunning fellow! he will not let her go!" "How handsome he is, that young Darvid!" said a woman. "He looks like a young prince," added another. "But what will come of this? She will not go." "She will go!" "She will not go!" "I will bet!" "I will bet!" In a moment a number of bets were made behind Darvid as to whether the woman, who was talking to his son, would go from the city that day or not. On his thin lips a smile of satisfaction appeared, the eyes from behind his glasses looked at his son with an expression which was almost mild. A young prince! Yes, that is true. What freedom of manner, what grace! What fine disregard for the common throng gazing at him! Triumphant even with women! That woman, famous throughout Europe, is simply devouring him with those black eyes of hers. The bell was heard on the platform for the third time, and at the same moment a prolonged whistle pierced the air. The wheels of the train began to turn with a slow, measured movement. "It is over!" cried someone in the crowd. "She has not gone!" "I have lost the bet!" said a number of voices. "How splendid that that handsome youth has carried his point," said a woman. Meanwhile, from the remotest end of the platform, new whistling of a locomotive came up, and the measured beat of wheels on the rails was heard; at some distance a certain black mass appeared, it pushed forward faster and faster, until under the smoke came out clearly the cylinder of a locomotive, drawing behind it a short row of wagons. This was the train, and small, fresh, elegant. This train glittered in the sunlight with its yellow brass fittings, gleamed in its sapphire-colored varnish. Its rich interior, with cushions of purple velvet, was visible through the windows. A conductor opened the door of a car and stood near it in an expectant position. Maryan, with a motion of request, indicated it to the celebrated singer. Now the people standing on the platform understood everything, and fell into enthusiasm. The spirit, which rose to that plan and threw out a large sum of money for the sake of it, struck the imagination and roused the sympathy of people inclined to gold and strange acts, without reference to their object or value. On the platform was heard the sharp clapping of some tens of hands, and soon after the locomotive whistled once more, and that small, special train pushed forward into space, only five minutes later than the regular train which preceded it. Darvid stood near the door of the station whence he could see his son, who passed with slow step along a part of the platform. And he looked at him with unquiet curiosity, for something unexpected in Maryan astonished him. In contradiction to what one might expect, and which seemed natural, there was not in the expression of face and the movements of. Maryan either the pleasure of youth at something accomplished, or sorrow at the departure of the woman, for whom he had accomplished it. When a moment before applause was heard on the platform, he looked around and cast on the hand-clapping crowd a passing glance, as indifferent as if they were an object not worthy of contempt, even. Now, too, his whole person expressed perfect indifference, nay, even annoyance, which contracted his lips, and yellowed the rosiness of his round cheeks somewhat. In his blue eyes, fixed glassily on the distance, was depicted something like dissatisfaction, or a feeling of disappointment, a dreaming, or a pondering in vain over deceitful visions which pass over space, but which no one can seize upon. He did not see his father, for his glassy eyes were looking far away at some point. Even the baron did not see Darvid; he was searching for something in his pocketbook carefully, till he took out a ten-rouble note and threw it at the porters who had borne in the baggage and flowers of the primadonna. At the same time he cast these words through his teeth at them: "I have no small money!" Maryan, without rousing himself from thought, said, as if mechanically: "It is wonderful!" "What?" asked the baron. "That everything in the world is so little, so little." "Except my appetite, which is immense at this moment," cried the baron. "But those fabulous sums which Maryan must expend!" thought Darvid going to his carriage; before he reached it he heard other snatches of conversation: "To throw away so much money for a few moments' talk with a beautiful woman--that is a character!" "It promises trouble, does it not?" "Especially for papa." "He has as many debts, no doubt, as curly hairs on his head." "He borrows, of course, on the security of papa's pocket." "Or his death." Others said: "In such hands ill-gotten gains will go to the devil quickly." "Why ill-gotten gains?" "Well, can you imagine Saint Francis of Assisi making millions?" While his carriage was rolling along the streets of the city, Darvid's head was full of conflicting ideas. True, true; that green youth had a special capacity for devouring the golden sands of Pactolus! But in what a charming and princely fashion he did that! Darvid was proud of his son, and at the same time greatly dismayed and troubled; for this could not last. That lad was making debts in view of--his father's death. And this absolute idleness! What good was a man who did nothing? The results also of idleness were evident in him: a certain premature withering, a certain dreaming without object--a handsome fellow! He looked as if born to a princely coronet. As Darvid was ascending the marble steps of his mansion he said to the Swiss: "When Pan Maryan comes home say that I request him to come to me." Darvid passed an hour or more in his study, alone, over papers, writing, taking notes, examining various accounts, and letters; but over his face, from time to time, ran a disagreeable quiver, and the nervous movements of his hand caused sheets of paper to rustle unpleasantly. At last the door of the antechamber opened and Maryan appeared, hat in hand. "Good-day, my father," began he on entering. "I am glad that you invited me, for it is long since I have had the pleasure of talking with you. We both have been greatly occupied. For some weeks Bianca Biannetti has taken all my time." He was perfectly unconstrained, though not at all gladsome in his manner. Darvid, standing at the round table, looked at his son quickly. "Are you in love with that singer?" asked he. Only then did Maryan laugh unaffectedly, almost loudly. "What a question, my father; love is a sanctuary, built on a poppy-seed; love then is sacred; while my fancy for that beautiful Bianca--" "Is a poppy-seed which you are transporting through the world on special trains," finished Darvid. "Have you heard of that, father?" "I have seen it." "Ah, you were at the station! Strange that I did not see you." He made a gesture of contempt with his hand. "I was disappointed. I planned that surprise for Bianca, and felt sure of a lively pleasure. When the time came I convinced myself that the affair was a trifle, not new, and, like everything, stupid. So it is always: what imagination builds up in a long time, criticism overturns in a twinkle. It is impossible to invent anything important. The world is so aged that it has come to us a worn-out old rag." He took a seat on one of the armchairs surrounding the table, and put his hat on the carpet. Darvid replied without changing his posture: "Nothing wonderful; when imagination builds up stupidities criticism overturns the building in a twinkle--" "Who can be sure that he is building up wisdom?" interrupted Maryan. Then, taking a cigarette-case from his pocket, he asked: "Do you permit, father?" Then, handing the cigarette-case, with great politeness, to Darvid, he added: "But, perhaps, you will smoke also?" Darvid, with thick wrinkles between his brows, shook his head and sat down. "Why did you leave the university soon after I went away?" asked he. "I inquired of you touching this several times by letter, but you have never given me a definite answer." "I beg pardon for that, father, but I am wonderfully slow in writing letters. I will explain all to you willingly in words--" Darvid interrupted: "I have no time for long talk, so tell me at once. Have you no love for science?" Maryan let out a streak of smoke from his lips, and spoke with deliberation: "I feel no repugnance whatever toward science. I read much, and mental curiosity is just one of the most emphatic traits of my individuality. In childhood I swallowed books in monumental numbers, but I have never learned school lessons. All were astonished at this, and still the thing is simple, it lies quite on the surface. Common individualities yield to rules, but energetic and higher ones will not endure them. Rules and duty are stables in which humanity confines its beasts, to prevent them from injuring fields under culture. Cattle and sheep stand patiently in the enclosures, higher organisms break them down and go out into freedom. I need absolute freedom in all things; and,-therefore, I stopped going to inns of science, which give out this science at stated hours, in certain sorts and doses. Though, even in this regard, I showed many good intentions, owing to the entreaties and persuasions of mamma. From legal studies I betook myself to the study of nature, and turned from that to philosophy, thinking that something would occupy me, and that I should be able to still that real storm of desperation which seized poor mamma. But I was not able. The professors were contemptible, my fellow-students a rabble. Society relations amused me in those days, and occupied me: imagination swept me farther and higher. So I stopped a labor which was annoying and irritating, and which, moreover, had no object." He quenched his cigarette stump in the ash-pan, and, sinking again into the deep armchair, continued: "So far as I have been able to observe, people study science regularly for one of two purposes: either they intend to devote themselves to what is called the salvation of mankind, or they need to win a morsel of bread for their stomachs. Neither of these objects could be mine; for, as to the first, I hold the principle of individuality carried quite to anarchy. The so-called salvation of society is, for our decadent epoch, a fable, quite impossible; and the naked truth is, that each man lives for himself, and in his own fashion. The man whom fate serves well passes his life in a manner more or less agreeable; if it serves him ill--he perishes. Luck, and the chance meeting of causes, arranges everything. It is impossible to turn the earth into a general paradise, just as it is to change a small planet into an immense one. The salvation of society is one of the narcotics invented to lull the sufferings of people. Altruists possess a whole drug-shop of these narcotics; whoever wishes has the right to use them; but, as for me, I prefer not to be lulled to sleep. I am an individualist, and do not understand why Pavel must suffer for the purpose of decreasing the pains of Gavel. Let Gavel, as well as Pavel, think of himself; and, if they are clever, they will both help themselves somehow without turning to labelled bottles. This is my conviction about one of the objects for which people make regular studies in science. As to the other--" He took out his cigarette-ease again, and, lighting a cigarette, finished: "As to the other object, that is a simple thing; since being your son, my father, I shall not need to bake my own bread. Such is my confession of faith which I have laid down before you; all the more readily since I have long cherished a genuine reverence for your strength of mind and independence. I am certain, too, that by no one could I be understood better than by you, my father." He was mistaken. The man to whom he was talking so fluently and politely did not understand him in any sense. For the first time in his life, perhaps, Darvid did not understand the person with whom he was talking. The millionnaire was astounded. He had expected to find a frivolous youth, whom passions had pushed into extravagance and idleness; meanwhile, a reasoning, disenchanted sage sat before him, with bitterness on his lips and irony in his speech and eyes. That sour wisdom, the measureless belief in himself and his opinions, with the independence which accompanied it, were found in a slender, delicate, and rosy-faced youth, with eyes as blue as forget-me-nots, and came from lips slightly faded, but marked by a tiny, youthful moustache. Besides, the perfect elegance of manner, the aestheticism and irreproachable grace in movements, in voice, in compliments, the utterance of which he rounded very beautifully. Darvid was astounded. He had found no time in his life to observe the new directions which thought and character were taking in the world; nor for observing the changed forms in which time moulds the various generations of mankind. He was dumbfounded, speechless, and only after a while did an ironical smile appear on his lips--that lad with his theories was absurd! "All that you have said is simply ridiculous. You are making a principle out of a thorough absence of principles. At your age such opinions and such coolness are incredible. At your age, which is almost that of a child, and with your scant training, they are, out and out, ridiculous." Maryan, with a quick movement, raised his head and looked with astonishment at his father. He, too, had expected something entirely different. "Ridiculous!" cried he; "what does this mean, father? This is not argument. I felt sure that we should agree perfectly. With the profoundest astonishment I see that this is not the case. How is it, my father, then, you do not take up the motto: each for himself, and in his own way? Still, it is impossible for any man to carry contempt for all painted pots farther than you do; than you have carried it all your life. But, perhaps, this difference in our opinions is only apparent? I beg you to give me argument. The charge of ridiculousness is not argument. I may be ridiculous, and be right. A lack of principles? Very well; principles form one of the most brightly painted of all pots, and, therefore, it is most difficult to see the clay. But, never mind; I ask for a closer description. What principles do you value, father?" Darvid, with a strong quiver in his face, answered: "What? Oh, moral. Naturally, moral principles--" "Yes, yes, but I ask for an accurate definition. What are they called; what are the names of those principles?" Darvid was silent. What are they called? Was he a priest, or a governess, to break his head over such questions? If it were a question of law, mathematics, architecture, guilds, banks--but he had never occupied himself with morals; he had not had the time. A deep anger began to possess him, and his words hissed somewhat through his lips; when, after some silence, he added: "My dear, you have made a mistake in the address. It is not the office of a father to instil moral principles into children. That is the province of mothers. Fathers have no time for that work. Go back in memory to your childhood; recall the principles which your mother implanted in you, and you will find an answer to your question." Maryan laughed. "What you say, father, reminds me of one of my friends who writes books. A poor devil, but we receive him into our set, for he has talent--that legitimizes. Well, on a time, someone asked him: 'What do you do when, in writing, you meet a difficulty?' 'I try to overcome it,' answered he. 'But if you can't overcome it?' 'Then I dodge; or, I run to one side like a rabbit, and avoid saying that which I know not how to say.' Well, you have acted, dear father, like this author. You have dodged! Ha! ha! ha!" He laughed, but Darvid grew gloomier and stiffer. It was strange, but true, that in presence of that professor he felt himself more and more a pupil. "Let us leave poor, dear mamma in peace," continued Maryan. "She is the impersonation of charm and sweetness. If there is still anything of this sort which for me is not a painted pot yet, it is the tenderness which I feel for mamma. She has spoken to me often, indeed; and she speaks, even now, of principles, but the best and dearest of women is only a woman. Sentiment, routine, and, besides, want of logic: theory without end and practice nowhere, is not that the case with women? You know them better than I, father; for you have had more time to explore this part of the universe." His azure eyes glittered with sparks; his golden curls fell low on his white forehead; and from his lips, shaded by a tiny mustache, the words came out with increasing boldness and fluency, and more thickly intermingled with a sarcastic smile: "As for me, were I an old maid, I should become a Sister of Charity; for that office has always a certain position in the world, and the stiff bonnet casts a saving shadow on wrinkles. Since I am who I am, I think thus of principles: they depend on the place; the time; the geographical position; and the evolution which society is accomplishing. If the heavens had created me an ancient Greek, my principle would have been to battle for freedom against Asiatics, and to be enamoured of a beautiful boy. If in the Middle Ages, I should have fought for the honor of my lady and burnt men alive on blazing piles. In the Orient, I should possess, openly, a number of wives, accommodated only to my wish; in the West, principle commands a man to pretend that he has only one wife. In Europe, it is my duty to honor my father and mother; in the Fiji Islands it would be criminal for me not to put them to death at the proper moment. Wretched makeup--hash, with which our age does not wish now to feed itself. Our age is too old, and its palate is too practised, not to distinguish figs from pomegranates. We children of an advanced age, decadents, know well that man may win much, but will never gain absolute truth. It does not exist. All things are relative. My only principle is, that I exist, and use my will, my only interest is to know how to will. Many other things might be said, but what use? Still, I will add to what is already said. You, my father, are an uncommonly wise man. You must think, therefore, just as I do; you speak differently only because people have the habit of talking in that way--to children!" Darvid seemed to hear this speech out, only mechanically; and when Maryan, with a short and somewhat sharp laugh, pronounced the last words and was silent, the following words broke from him more quickly than words had ever left his mouth before: "Not true. You are greatly mistaken. I think and act differently from what you say. I have not had time to meditate over the theory of principles; but all my life has rested on one of them--on labor. Skilled and iron labor was my principle, and it has made me what I am--" "Pardon me for interrupting," exclaimed Maryan. "I beg you earnestly, but permit one question: What was the object of your labor? What was the object? That will settle everything; for a principle can be found only in the object, not in the labor, which is only the means of obtaining an end. What was your object, my father? Of course, it was not the salvation of the world, but the satisfaction of your own desires--your own--not any put on you beforehand, and accepted obediently; but your own individual desires. The object of them was great wealth--a high position. Through labor you strive to acquire these, and I do not see here any principle except that which I myself possess--namely: it is necessary to know how to will. In the very essence of things we agree; only I, with the sincerest homage, have recognized in you a master. Frequently have I thought with what perfect logic, with what unbending will, you have freed yourself from the labels which other men, even wise ones for the period, have never ceased from pasting on their persons. If in your career you had knocked against painted pots, labelled: birthplace, fatherland, humanity, charity, etc., you would have gone at considerably less speed, and not gone so far. But you were astonishingly logical. With amazing strength and unsparingness you have known how to will. It is from this point precisely that I looked, and I was filled with real admiration. During your absence, of more than three years, I called you frequently, in thought, a superhuman. Friederich Nietsche imagined such men as you when--" He stopped here, raising a glance full of astonishment at his father's face. Darvid, very pale, with quivering temples, stood up, leaned firmly on the table, and said: "Enough!" Unable to conceal the violent emotion which he felt, under an ironical tone and laugh, he continued: "Enough of this mockery of reasoning and argument, and of all this empty twaddle. If it was your intention to pass an examination before me, I give you five with plus. You have fluent speech, and quite a rich vocabulary of words. But I have no time for those things and proceed to facts and figures. The life which you are leading is impossible, and you must change. You must begin another life." He put emphasis on the word must. Maryan looked at his father with an amazement which seemed to take away his speech. "You have not ended your twenty-third year yet, and the history of your romances has acquired broad notoriety in the world a number of times--" Maryan recovered from his amazement slowly. "Affairs so completely personal--" began he with a hesitating voice. Darvid, paying no attention to the interruption, continued: "The sum which you lost in betting at the last races was, even for my fortune, considerable--thirty thousand." Maryan had now almost recovered his balance. "If this shrift is indispensable I will correct the figures--thirty-six thousand." "The suppers which you give to friends, male and female, have the fame of Lucullus feasts." Maryan, with sparks of hidden irritation in his eyes, laughed. "An exaggeration! Our poor Borel has no idea of Lucullus, but that he plunders us, unmercifully, is true." "He knows how to will!" threw in Darvid. Maryan raised his eyes to him, and said: "He is making a fortune." This time, in his turn, astonishment was depicted on the face of Darvid, indignant to that degree that a slight flush appeared on cheeks generally pale. "Folly!" hissed he, and immediately restrained himself. "You are incurring enormous debts; on what security?" Maryan, at least apparently, had regained perfect confidence in himself. With eyes slightly blinking he seemed to look at a picture on the wall. "That is the affair of my creditors," said he. "They must have this in view, that I am your son." "But if I should wish not to pay your debts?" Maryan smiled with incredulity. "I doubt that. Such a smash-up, as refusal to pay my debts, would injure you also, my father. Besides, the sums are not fabulous." "How much?" "I cannot tell the exact figure, but approximately they are--" He mentioned figures. Darvid repeated them indifferently. "About a quarter of a million. Very good. I shall be far from ruin this time, but in future--I make no reproaches; for to do so would be to lose time. What has dropped into the past is lost. But the future must be different." On the word must he laid emphasis again. With a quick movement he put his glasses on his nose, and taking a cigarette from a beautiful box, he put the end of it at the flame of one of the candles burning on the desk. He seemed perfectly calm; but behind his eyeglasses steel sparks flew, and the cigarette did not ignite, held by fingers which trembled somewhat. Turning from the desk to the table, he said: "I will pay your debts at once; and the pension which, three years ago, I appointed to you--that is six thousand yearly--I leave at your disposal. But you will leave the city two weeks from now, and go to--" He named a place very remote, situated in the heart of the Empire. "In that place is an iron mill, and also glass-works; in these two establishments I am one of the chief shareholders. You will take the office designated by the director, who is a shareholder, and a friend of mine; under his guidance and indications you will begin a life of labor." In Maryan's eyes again appeared amazement without limit; but on his lips quivered a smile somewhat incredulous, somewhat jeering. "What is this to be?" asked he. "Penance for sins? Punishment?" "No," answered Darvid; "only a school. Not a school for reasoning, for you have too much of that already; but for character. You must learn three things: economy, modesty, and labor." Quenching in the ash-pan the fifth or sixth cigarette, Maryan inquired: "But if--perchance--I should not agree to enter that school?" Darvid answered immediately: "In that case you will remain here, but without means of independent existence. You will be free to live under my roof, and appear at the parental table; but you will not receive a personal income of any kind. At the same time, I will publish in the newspapers that I shall not pay your debts hereafter. What I have said, I will do. Take your choice." That he would do what he had said any man who saw him then might feel certain. The bloom on Maryan's cheeks took on a brick color; his eyes filled with steel sparks. "The system of taking fortresses through famine," said he, in an undertone; and, then with head inclined somewhat, and eyes fixed on the carpet, he said: "I am astonished. I thought, father, that in spite of my seeing you rarely, I knew you well; now I find that I did not know you at all. I admired in you that power of thought which was able to strike from you the bonds of every prejudice; now, I have convinced myself that your ideas are not only patriarchal, but despotic. This is a deception which pains. I wonder myself, even, that this affects me so powerfully; but in falling from heights one must always hurt, even the point of the nose. This is one lesson more not to climb heights. I have in me a cursed imagination which leads me astray. One more mirage has vanished; one more painted pot has lost its colors. What is to be done?" He said this in a low voice, biting his lower lip at times; he was pained in reality, and deeply. After a while he continued: "What is to be done? I must be resigned to the disappointment which has met me; but as to disposing of my person so absolutely, I protest. Had it been your intention, my father, to make a mill-hand of me, you should have begun that work earlier. My individuality is now developed, and cannot be pounded in through the gate of a given cemetery. To rear me as a great lord and permit--even demand--during a rather long period that I should use all the good things of society, and be distinguished most brilliantly for your sake, and then thrust into a school of economy, modesty, and labor is--pardon me if I call the thing by its name--illogical and devoid of sequence. I might even add, that it lacks justice; but I do not wish to defend myself with arguments taken from painted pots. One thing is certain--namely this: that I shall not be the victim of patriarchal despotism." He rose, took his hat from the carpet, and calmly, elegantly, but with a brick-colored flush on his cheeks, and a blue, swollen vein on his forehead, he added: "I know not what I shall do. It may happen me to be the creator of my own destiny. I know how to be this; and I shall decide more readily to be a workman at my own will than at the will of another. I shall surely leave this place. Expatriation has come to my mind more than once, but not in the direction in which you have seen fit to indicate. Besides, I do not know yet, for this has fallen suddenly. I shall look into myself; I shall look around me. Meanwhile, I must go; for I have promised one of my friends to be at a certain collector's place at a given hour, to examine a very curious picture. It is an original; an authentic Overbeck. A rare thing; a real find--I take farewell of you, my father." He made a low bow and went out. Exquisite elegance did not desert him for an instant; still, in the expression of his face, and especially his excited complexion, and his voice, too, indignation and distress were evident in a degree which bordered on suffering. The door of the antechamber opened and closed. Darvid was as if petrified. What was this? What had happened? Was it possible that this should be the end of the conversation, and that such a conversation should end in Overbeck, and a perfectly elegant bow? Wonderful man! Yes, for that was no petulant child, with childish requests, evasions, outbursts; but a premature man, almost an old man. A reasoner; a pessimist; a sceptic. A genial head! What elegance! What command of self. A princely exterior. Marvellous man! What could he do with him? If he had asked for forgiveness; had promised, in part, even to accommodate himself to his father's wishes; even to change his life a little. But this iron persistence and unshaken confidence in himself, joined with perfect politeness, and with reason which would not yield a step! What was to be done with him? Fortresses are taken sometimes through famine; but, suppose it is resolved on everything except yielding. Well, he would try; he would keep his word; he would see. A servant at the door announced: "The horses are ready." He was invited to dine at the house of one of the greatest dignitaries in the city. He would have given much to remain that day in quiet. But he had to go. In his position--with his business--to offend such a personage might involve results that would be very disagreeable. Besides, he would meet someone there whose good will also was necessary. He did not wish to go; but he would do violence to himself and go. Is not that the firm and strict observance of principle? What had that milksop said? That he did not recognize principles, and would not observe them? Who could treat himself more sternly and mercilessly than he? How many of the most beautiful flowers of life had he east aside; how many sleepless nights had he passed, and borne even physical toil for the principle of untiring labor--merciless iron labor! In a dress-coat, his bosom covered with the finest of linen, and with glittering diamond buttons, with ruddy side-whiskers, a pale and lean face, unbending, irreproachable in dress, and correct in posture, he stood in the middle of his study, and was drawing on his light gloves very slowly. Taking his hat he thought that he felt a decided sourness and a bitterness in his person, which would make the most famous dishes, on the table of the dignitary, ill-tasting. What was to be done? He had to go. Principle beyond all things else! When he was descending the stairway, in his fur-coat and hat, he heard the rustle of silk garments on the first landing, and a rather loud conversation in English. He recognized the voices of his elder daughter and Baron Emil; but he saw Malvina first; she was in front of the young couple. With elegant politeness he pushed up to the wall so that his wife might have more room, and raising his hat, with the most agreeable smile which his lips could give, he asked: "The ladies are coming from visits, of course?" There were witnesses of the meeting. Malvina, wrapped in a fur, the white edges of which appeared from under deep black velvet, answered, also with a smile: "Yes, we have made some visits." But Irene, who was standing some steps lower, caught up the conversation with a vivacity unusual for her. "We are coming just now from the shops, where we met the baron." "What are your plans for the evening?" inquired Darvid again. "We shall remain at home,'" answered Malvina. "How is that?--but the party at Prince and Princess Zeno's!" "We had no intention--" said Malvina, in an attempt at self-defence; but she saw the look of her husband, and the voice broke in her throat. "You and your daughter will go to that party," said he, with a low whisper, which hissed from his lips. And immediately he added aloud, with a smile: "Ladies, I advise you to be at that party." Malvina became almost as white as the fur which encircled her neck, and at that moment Irene asked: "Will you be there, father?" "I will run in for a while. As usual, I have no time." "What a pity," said Baron Emil, "that I cannot offer you a part of mine as a gift. In this regard I am a regular Dives." "And I a beggar! For this reason I must take farewell of you." He raised his hat and had begun to descend when he heard Irene's voice behind him, calling: "My father!" She told her mother and the baron that she wished to exchange a few words with her father, and ran down the steps. The splendid entrance was empty and brightly lighted with lamps; but the liveried Swiss, at sight of the master of the house, stood with his hand on the latch of the glass door. At the foot of the stairs a tall young lady, in a black cloak lined with fur, very formal and very pale, began to speak French: "Pardon me, that in a place so unfitting, I must tell you that the ball, of which you have spoken to Cara, cannot take place this winter." Darvid, greatly astonished, inquired: "Why?" Irene's blue eyes glittered under the fantastic rim of her hat, as she answered: "Because the very thought of that ball has disturbed mamma greatly." After a moment of silence Darvid asked, slowly: "Has your mother conceived a distaste for amusements?" "Yes, father, and I need not enlighten you as to the cause of this feeling. There are people who cannot amuse themselves in certain positions." "In certain positions? In what position is your mother?" He made this inquiry in a voice betraying a fear which he could not conceal. This thought was sounding in his head: "Can she know it?" But Irene said, in a voice almost husky: "You and I both know her position well, father--but as to this ball--" "This ball," interrupted Darvid, "is necessary to me for various reasons, and will take place in our house after a few weeks." "Oh, my father," said Irene, with a nervous, dry laugh, "je vous adresse ma sommation respectueuse, that it should not take place! Mamma and I are greatly opposed to it; therefore, I have permitted myself to detain you for a moment, and say--" The smile disappeared entirely from her lips when she finished; "and say to you that this ball will not take place." "What does this mean?" began Darvid; but suddenly he restrained himself. The Swiss stood at the door; at the top of the stairs was another servant. So, raising his hat to his daughter, he finished the conversation in a language understandable to the servants: "Pardon me; I have no time. I shall be late. We will finish this conversation another time." When the carriage, whining on the snow, rolled along the crowded streets of the city, in the light of the streetlamps which fell on it, appeared Darvid's face, with an expression of terror. That pallid, thin face, with ruddy whiskers, and a collar of silvery fur, was visible for a moment with eyes widely open, with raised brows, with the words hanging on his lips: "She knows everything!--ghastly!" and after a while it sank again into the darkness which filled the carriage. CHAPTER VI For the first time surely in that city, separated from England by lands and seas, a certain number of people, very limited, it is true, might admire small, bachelor's apartments, fitted up with tapestry, sculpture, and stained-glass, from the London factory of Morris, Faulkner, Marshall & Co. The drawing-room was not large, but there was in it absolutely nothing which had its origin elsewhere than in that factory founded by a famous poet and member of the pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. The famous poet and artist, William Morris, had become a manufacturer for the purpose of correcting aesthetic taste in the multitude, and filling people's dwellings with works of pure beauty. The objects in this apartment were really beautiful. The tapestry on the walls represented a series of pictures taken from romances of knighthood, and from marvellous legends: Tristan and Isolde, on the deck of a ship; Flor and Blancheflor, in a garden of roses; the monk Alberich, in a Dominican habit, descending into hell. The tapestry on the furniture was full of winged heads and fantastic flowers; on all sides were seen great art in weaving and masterly borders, which recalled the margins of old prayer-books. Dulled and dingy colors, producing the impression of things which had emerged from the mist of ages, and only glass window-screens, framed in columns and pointed arches, were brilliant with the colors of rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. The window-panes were stained with roses and with the figures of saints having pale profiles and wearing bright robes. On one of the tables was a bronze pulpit in the form of a Gothic chapel; in another place was a lamp-support, which represented the Triumph of Death; Death was a woman with the wings of a bat; she was in a flowing robe; she had curved talons on her feet, and a scythe in her hand. This was a sculptured copy of Orcagna, from the Campo Santo of Pisa. In the middle of the dining-room, which was seen beyond an open door, stood a table, in the style of the eighteenth century. Altogether simple was this table, and like those under which, instead of carpets, men (of that century) used to put a layer of hay. The side table (fourteenth century), with painted carvings; a box (fourteenth century, a copy from the Museum of Cluny), with fantastic beasts carved on its cover, and with small figures on the front side, on very narrow niches, figures representing the twelve peers of France; another box, which was in the bedroom, was like this one, but the carving which covered it represented the anointing of Louis XI at Rheims (Museum of Orleans). It stood at the feet of Brother Alberich, who, in his white habit, was entering the black jaws of hell; it took the place of a sofa, there being no sofa in the room. Both these boxes of wood and iron, immensely artistic, though merely copies of authentic relics, served as places in which to keep objects of art, and served as seats also. Besides these, there were only a few stools, with arms carved in trefoil shape (fourteenth and fifteenth century), and still fewer armchairs, immensely deep and wide--so-called cathedras--covered with most wonderful stuffs; but everything was there which was needed, if the dwelling was to preserve a purely Middle Age character as to style. In the air, slightly colored by the brightly stained-glass, hovered something archaic and exotic--hoary antiquity reigned--and a critical spirit with the odor of mysticism might be felt floating around there. But all this seemed quite comprehensible and natural to anyone who knew Baron Emil, the owner of that dwelling--a trained and exacting aesthete--moreover, the baron was of that school called Mediaeval; and as a Mediaevalist he professed homage for Middle Ages romances and legends; for subtle works of art and for inspirations touching a world beyond the present which resulted from them. Three years before Maryan Darvid, in company with, or more strictly under the protection of Kranitski, entered for the first time this dwelling, which had been recently furnished. The baron had brought home, from one of the Mediterranean islands, the mortal remains of his mother, who had died just before; he had received from her a great inheritance, and to put his interests in order he had settled in his native city for a period. Kranitski, long a friend in the house of his father and mother, had known him from childhood, and exhibited on greeting him an outburst of tenderness. This amused the baron, but pleased him also a little. "He is a trifle odd, good, poor devil--on the whole: gentle, perfectly presentable, and active." Kranitski was very active. He went to the boundary to take out of the custom-house everything which had come to the baron's address from England; and then helped him in the arrangement of the dwelling, which was attended with considerable labor. Upholsterers and other assistants lost their heads at sight of those knights, ladies, monks, peers of France, and the Triumph of Death, which came out of the boxes. Kranitski was astonished at nothing, for he had read much, and knew many things also, but he could not be very enthusiastic in this case. When the installation was accomplished, with his active and skilful assistance, he thought: "The place is funereal, and there is little comfort here." He looked askance somewhat at the boxes with the peers of France and Louis XI. on them. The covers of these boxes, rough with carving, did not seem to him the most agreeable places to sit on. He said nothing, however, for he was ashamed to confess that he did not understand or did not favor that which was the flower of the newest exotic fashion. He visited the baron and spent many hours in his dwelling, and soon he took there a second man--a young friend of his. When Maryan Darvid found himself for the first time in the company and at the house of a Mediaevalist, he was confused, like a man who is standing in the presence of something immensely above him. Almost ten years older, the baron surpassed Maryan immeasurably in all branches of knowledge, both of books and life; and his little dwelling was a marvel of originality and outlay. Maryan felt poor both in body and spirit. Though a yearly allowance of six thousand received from his father had not been enough up to that time, it seemed to him then a chip, only fit to be kicked away. As to the mental side, he was simply ashamed that he could still find any pleasant thing in that world which surrounded him, and in the life which he was leading. Commonness, cheapness, vulgarity! The meaning of these words he understood clearly after he had been in the baron's society. Even earlier he had begun to feel the need of something loftier; something beyond those pleasures of the senses--of fancy and of vanity--which he had experienced, though these were considerable. The substance and nature of these pleasures lay on the surface--they were accessible to a considerable number of people. The baron, in the manner usual with him, speaking somewhat through his nose and teeth, said: "We, the experienced and disenchanted, seek for new shivers, just as alchemists of the Middle Ages sought for gold. We are in search of the rare and of the novel." In search of the rare and the novel in shivers, or universal impressions: sensuous, mental, and aesthetic, Maryan went once with the baron, and a second time alone, on a journey through Europe. He visited many countries and capitals. To investigate the Salvation Army, he joined its ranks for a period in England. In Germany he was connected with the almost legendary, politico-religious sect which bears the name Fahrende Leute; and, again, for some time, in an immense wagon drawn by gigantic Mechlenburgers, he wandered through the mountainous Hartz forest and along the banks of the picturesque Saal; he spent most time in Paris, where, with the theosophists he summoned up spirits, and with the decadents, otherwise known as incoherents, and still otherwise as the accursed poets; in the club of hashish-eaters he had dreams and visions brought on by using narcotics. Besides, he saw many other rare and peculiar things; but he was ever hampered by slender financial means and the need of incurring great debts; and was irritated by the impossibility of finding anything which could satisfy him permanently, or, at least, for a long period. He felt satisfactions, but brief ones. Everything of which he had dreamed seemed less after he had attained it--more common, weaker than in his imagining. The brightness was dimmed; on the glitter there were defects; the warm inspirations which came from afar, grew stiff when they were touched, stiffened, as oil does when floating on water. In the taste of things, sweetness and tartness became insipid and nauseous, the moment they reached his palate. This was by no means a surfeit devoid of appetites; but, on the contrary, such an immense flood of appetites that the insurgent wave of them struck the region of the impossible with fury, because it could not rush over that barrier. This was also an inflammation of the fancy, which had risen from an active mind, and which early and numerous experiences had turned into a festering wound. Finally, it was also the placing of self on some imagined summit, standing apart and aloft, beyond and above all. I--and the rabble. What is not I, and a handful like me--is the rabble. What is to be mine cannot be of the rabble; what is of the rabble must be not of mine. This pride was not of birth or money; it might be called nervous mental arrogance. Mental summits other than those of the rabble, and other requirements of the nerves; the highest bloom of human civilization--sickly, but the highest; the crash, but also the coronation of mankind. In all this there was a principle--one, but indestructible: the respect of individuality; the preservation of it from all limitations and changes which might come from outside; a respect reaching the height of worship. Everything might be, according to time and place, a painted pot; but individuality (that is, the way in which a man's wishes, tastes, way of thinking were fashioned) was sacred--the only sacred thing. It was not permitted to give this into captivity to anyone or anything, or to submit it to criticisms, or corrections. I am what I am; and I will remain myself. I will and I am obliged to know how to will--something like the superhuman preached by Friedrich Nietsche. The baron's dwelling was not only original and fabulously expensive, but it had in itself besides, that which the Germans define by the word Stimmung. A number of young polyglots examined for a long time various languages of Europe to find a word which would answer best to the German Stimmung, till Maryan first, possessing the greatest linguistic capacity, came on the Polish expression nastroj (tone of mind). Yes, they agreed, universally, that the baron's dwelling produced a tone of mind; an impression not of what was in it, but of something of which it was the mysterious expression or symbol. It produced an impression which had its cause beyond this world. To believe in something beyond this world does not mean to profess a religion--as that of Buddha, Zoroaster, or Chrystos. No, of course not; that would be well for early ages and infantile people; ..old ones, too, run wild after fables, for the principle of the beautiful is in these fables; but they do not let fables lead them off by the nose. An impression from beyond the world is something entirely different; it is a shiver of delights which are unknown here, and only anticipated, coming from a world inaccessible to the senses. That such a world exists is shown by the enormous poverty of this one, and the mad monotony of those sources of pleasure which are contained in the world accessible to human senses. A poet is so far a poet, an aesthete so far an aesthete, as he is able, by intuition and unheard-of delicacy of nerves, to burst into the world above the senses and to experience the taste, or rather the odor, which goes before it. For it is an absolute condition that the feeling should be hazy, something in the nature of an odor; or, better still, the echo of an odor. No key of a musical instrument is to be touched; no definite features are to be drawn; the tone of mind alone is to be produced. The baron's dwelling gave the tone of mind for another world. He and his associates believed in another world, beyond the earth and the grave; on the basis of the poverty and commonness of the world before the grave--that is, in despair of the case. For them it was not subject to doubt--that world, the slight odors of which flew to them in moments when they were in the tone of mind, was filled with perfect beauty, nothing but beauty; a beauty which, in this world, even by itself alone, raises men above the level of the rabble. If this beauty did not exist, we should be justified in accepting Hartmann's theory of the collective suicide of mankind, and in throwing a "bloody spittle of contempt" at life. A "bloody spittle," as is known from Arthur Rimbaud's sonnets on consonants, stands before the eyes of everyone who pronounces the vowel i, just as the vowel a brings up the picture of "black, shaggy flies, which buzz around terribly fetid objects." "Ah, no, my friend! No, no! That passes my power! In heaven's name I beg you not to say another word!" With this exclamation Arthur Kranitski, like a pike out of water, struggled in the immensely deep cathedra; and, with his arms in the air kept calling out: "Terribly fetid objects! Bloody spittle! that is not poetry--it is not even decent! And those shaggy flies whirling around--that--No! I feel a nausea, which mounts to my throat. No, my friends, I will never agree that that is poetry!" His voice broke, so wounded was he in his aesthetic conceptions. The young men laughed. That dear, honest Pan Kranitski is an innocent. In spite of his forty and some years clearly sounded, and his romantic experiences, his love for good eating and other nice things, the highest point of extravagance of all sorts for him were Boccaccio, Paul de Kock, Alfred Musset--simpletons, or babies. Kranitski, after his first impression, had a feeling of shame. "Pardon, my dears! An innocent! Not so much of an innocent as may seem to you. I am far from being an innocent; I understand everything and am able to experience everything. But, do you see, there is a difference in tastes. Clearness, simplicity, harmony, these are what I like, but yours--yours--" Again he was carried away by aesthetic indignation, so, throwing himself back in the chair, with outspread arms, he finished: "Your making poetry of spittle and foul odor is--do you know what? it is sprinkling a cloaca with holy water! That is what it is." In the little drawing-room between the screens of stained glass and that part of the wall on which a knight of the Pound Table was bowing to Isolde stood a small organ, and before the organ, at the midday hour, sat Baron Emil playing one of the grandest fugues of Sebastian Bach. Small and fragile, in his morning dress of yellowish flannel, in stockings with colored stripes, and shoes of yellow leather with very sharp tips, he was resting his shoulder against the arm of the chair carved in a trefoil (fourteenth century); he stretched his arms stiffly and rested his long bony fingers on various keys of the piano. His delicate, sallow features had an expression of great solemnity; his small, blue eyes looked dreamily into space, and from the glass shade, brightened by the sunlight falling in through the window, purple and blue rays fell on his faded forehead and ruddy, closely cut hair. Besides the baron, who was playing, was present Kranitski, who had come an hour before and heard from the servant that the baron was sleeping yet. But that was not true, for a few minutes after Kranitski heard farther back in the building an outburst of female laughter, to which the nasal voice of the baron, who spoke rather long about something, gave answer. The guest smiled and whispered to the "Triumph of Death," at which he was looking, "Lili Kerth." Then he sank into the cathedra so that in spite of his lofty stature he almost disappeared in it. Soon the baron appeared at the door, and, accustomed to seeing Kranitski at various times, he nodded to him with a brief "Bon jour!" and turned to the organ. Sitting at the organ he threw these words over his arm: "We expect Maryan at lunch." "But she?" inquired Kranitski from the depth of the long and high arms of the cathedra. "She will finish her toilet and go." Then he played the Bach fugue. He played, and Kranitski, sank in the chair, listened and grew sadder and sadder. During recent days he had grown evidently old; he had become thin; wrinkles had appeared on his forehead. His person had lost elasticity and self-confidence, lie looked like a man who had received a heavy blow, but he was, as always, dressed carefully, the odor of perfumes was around him, and a colored handkerchief appeared in his coat pocket. In presence of the baron's music he grew sad and then sadder. That music made the place more and more church-like. The figures of saints on the shade under the golden haloes seemed to melt in profound adoration. The "Triumph of Death" spread its wings on the background of subdued colors in the chamber; in that atmosphere the organ and silence sang a majestic duet. Kranitski began to feel the tone of mind mightily. His shoulders bent forward mechanically; he took out of his pocket the gold cigarette case, and thought, while turning it in his fingers: "Everything passes! Everything is behind me--love and the rest! The grave swallows all things. The days fly, like dust, fly into the past--into eternity! Eternity! the enigma." All at once into the duet, sung by the organ and silence, broke the loud rattle of a door, then the rustle of silk skirts, till there had shot through the dining-room, and halted in the door of the drawing-room, a creature who was pretty, not large, excessively noisy, and active of body. She had a short skirt, small feet, a fur-lined cape of the latest style, and a gigantic hat which shaded a small, dark, thin, wilted face, with eyes burning like candles and hair gleaming like Venetian gold. The silk, the sable, the incredibly long ostrich feathers, the diamonds in her ears, and the loud burst of laughter cut through the music of Bach like a silver saw. "Eh bien, ne veus-tu pas me dire bon jour, toi, grand beta? Tiens, voila!" (Well, wilt thou not say good-day to me, thou great beast? Here it is!) With the expression voila! was heard a loud kiss, impressed on the check of the baron, then Lili Kerth, the gleaming of silk, diamonds, eyes, and hair turned toward the door of the antechamber and saw Kranitski. "Oh, te voila aussi, vieux beau!" (Oh, here thou art too, old beau!) She sprang toward the cathedra, and, wringing her hands, exclaimed: "What a funereal face!" And she spoke on, or rather babbled on in French: "Hast disappointments? That is bad! But one must not think of them. Do as I do. I have disappointments, but I mock at them. This is how I treat disappointments." She made a stop so elastic that her little foot flew into the air, and she touched Kranitski's chin with the point of her shoe. That was a model indication of the method with which one should treat disappointments. "Now adieu to the company!" cried she, and rattling her bracelets she vanished. In the chamber there was silence again, in the midst of which Tristan gave a knightly bow to Isolde, and the monk Alberich let himself down into the jaws of hell; "Triumph of Death" spread her bat-wings, and the saints with their golden haloes crossed their pale hands on their bright robes. The baron was sitting before the organ with his head dropped to his breast. Kranitski, buried in the cathedra, panted aloud for some seconds till he said, with a complaining voice: "It is abominable! I do not wish a cocotte to throw her foot on my neck when I am thinking of eternity. What confounded tastes you have! Immediately after leaving Lili Kerth to play that divine Bach. Nonsense! mixture! I am not a monk, far from it--but such shaking up in one bottle of the profane and the sacred, no, that is vileness swaddled in art. Yes, yes, I beg forgiveness once more, but in the Holy Scriptures something is said about a gold ring in a pig's nose. Voila!" The baron smiled under his ruddy mustache and said, after a while: "That is subtle and not to be understood by everyone. Bach after Lili Kerth--that is the bite, that is the irony of things. Do you know Baudelaire's quatrain?" He stood up, and, without declamation, even carelessly, through his nose and teeth, gave the quatrain: "Quand chez le debauche l'aube blanche et vermeil, Entre en societe de l'Ideal rongeur, Par l'operation d'un mystere vengeur, Dans la brute assoupie un Ange se reveille." With his hands in the pockets of his flannel sack he paced through the room. Maryan had translated that quatrain quite beautifully. Without interrupting his pacing he repeated the translation. The bell rang in the antechamber; Maryan entered the drawing-room. He was paler than usual and had dark lines under his eyes, which were very bright. Kranitski rushed from the cathedra, and, seizing the young man by both hands, looked into his face with tenderness: "At last, at last! I have not seen you for almost a fortnight. I have not left the house. I had a little hope that you would visit me." "All right, all right!" answered Maryan, and touching the hand of the baron, he sat down on the box on which was the anointing of Louis XI, he rested his shoulders on the bare foot of Alberich and became motionless. Maryan continued to be so motionless that not only the limbs of his body, but the features of his face seemed benumbed. Had it not been for his eyes, which were gleaming brightly, he might have been mistaken at a distance for a stuffed and elegantly dressed manikin. Baron Emil and Kranitski knew what this meant. According to Maryan that was a chill into which he fell always after disappointment or disenchantment. He was possessed at such times by a lack of will, which made all movements, even those which were physical, unendurable and difficult. At the same time he had such a contempt for all things on earth that it did not seem worth the while to him to move hand or lips for any cause. Some French writer has called such a condition of desiccation of the heart's interior. Maryan found that definition quite appropriate. When he sat motionless, deaf and dumb, or walked like an automaton moved by springs, he felt exactly as if the interior of his heart were drying up. The baron, too, passed through similar states with some differences, however, for feeling contempt instead of lack of will, he felt a "red anger," or what the French call colere rouge. He was carried away then by the wish to shut his fist, heat and break, in fact he did beat the servants sometimes, and break costly articles. He considered the desiccation of his friend's heart in its interior portions with respect, even with sympathy. He, with hands thrust into his yellowish flannel pockets, walked up and down in the chamber and hissed through his teeth: "We are all stunted. We are breaking down! bah! it is time. The world is old. Children of an aged father born with internal cancer." Kranitski, hearing this, thought: "Why should a man break down and get a cancer when he is young and rich?" But he did not oppose. He pitied Maryan. He looked at him with an expression of eyes similar to that with which loving nurses look on sick or capricious children. At lunch Maryan's handsome face was sallow and motionless as a wax mask; as a wax mask it stood out on the background of the high arms of the chair. He was as silent as a stone. He had no appetite. He ate only a little caviar, and then fell to swallowing an endless number of small cups of black coffee, which the baron himself prepared, according to some special recipe, and poured out. The baron himself drank goblet after goblet of wine, and as to the rest he yawned a great deal more than he ate. But Kranitski's appetite was a success. After some weeks of Widow Clemens' meagre kitchen he ate eggs, cutlets, cheese, till his eyes were gleaming. According to his old acquaintances gastronomy had always been his weak point--and women. But he drank little and did not play cards. In spite of hearty eating he did not forget the duties of a welcome guest. He kept up conversation with the master of the house, who told him carelessly of a rare and beautiful picture found at some collector's. "A real, a genuine Overbeck. We were to examine it with Maryan, but since Maryan did not come--" He turned to young Darvid: "Why did you not come?" There was no answer. The waxen mask, supported on the arm of the chair, remained motionless and gazed with gloomy eyes into space. "Overbeck!" began Kranitski, and added, "a pre-Raphaelite." Over Maryan's fixed features ran a quiver caused by better thoughts. Without the least movement of features or posture he grumbled: "Nazarene." Kranitski corrected himself hurriedly and with a shamed face. "Yes, pardon! A Nazarene." "But, naturally, a Nazarene pure blood," said the baron, growing animated, "the uninitiated confound Nazarenes with pre-Raphaelites quite erroneously. They form a separate school. This Overbeck is a find. I will say more, it is a discovery. If it were dragged out of that den and taken abroad one might do a splendid business with it." Warmed by a considerable quantity of wine, his complexion made somewhat rosy, the baron fell to giving Kranitski an idea which had circled long in his brain: "There is in Poland a number of ancient families who are failing financially, and who possess many remnants of former wealth. There are frequently things of high value not only objects of pure art, but the most various products of former wealth and taste; as, for instance, hangings, tapestry belts, china, tapestry, furniture, and jewellery. The owners, pushed to the wall by evil circumstances, would sell willingly, and for a trifle, articles which have great value now in both hemispheres. One must search for them, it is true, almost as the humanists once sought for Greek and Latin manuscripts, but whoever could find, purchase, and sell these would open a real mine of great profits. In Europe, England is the country most favorable for commercial operations of this kind, but the richest field is America. To buy here for a trifle and sell in the United States for gold weighed out to you. But, before beginning business, one should go to America, examine the field, form connections, take initial steps. Above all approach the undertaking with considerable capital and great knowledge." While explaining his idea and the plan of operations which had come to his head long before, and drawing from the glass excellent liquid, the baron became animated, grew young, his little eyes under their ruddy brows gleamed sharply. And even Maryan said all at once in grumbling tones: "It is an idea!" "Is it not?" laughed the baron. Kranitski listened in silence, with curiosity. Then, halting a little, he said, with some indecision: "If your project becomes a fact then you will take me as your agent. I know a little of those things; I know where to look for them, and I offer you my earnest services--very earnest." In spite of the jesting tone one could note in his imploring look, and in his smile full of timid, uncertain quivers, that he felt keenly the need of fixing himself to someone or something and escaping from the great void yawning under him. All three lighted cigars and went to the drawing-room where Maryan sat again on the Louis XI box, Kranitski sank into a cathedra, and the baron opened at the window one sheet of an English paper, which shielded him before the light from his knees to the crown of his head. He was silent rather long, then from behind the paper curtain was heard his nasal voice: "Crushing!" "What?" inquired Kranitski. "The fair at Chicago." And he read aloud an account of the preparations for the colossal exhibition which was to be in that American city. He accompanied the reading with judgments which contained comparisons: The old part of the world--the old civilizations, the old common methods and proceedings. Besides narrow spaces, familiar horizons--too familiar. But America was something not worn to rags yet. By a wonderful chance the baron had not been there, but when he thought of America Rimbaud's verses occurred to him. He rose, and, walking through the chamber, gave the following: "Divine vibration of green seas, The peace of fields spotted with animals; Silences traversed by worlds, by angels." "And by millions!" called Maryan from the foot of the white monk Alberich. He took his shoulders from the monk's robe, and added: "Nowhere are there such colossal fortunes, and such powerful means of getting them, as on those fields spotted with animals." And all at once, as it were, the desiccating interior of his heart became animated, he rose and began to walk quickly through the chamber, passed the slowly walking baron, and said: "It is an idea! One must dwell on it. I must go there, or somewhere else--do something with myself. I am driven from this place by one of the greatest disappointments which I have ever known. I reached the bottom of disenchantments yesterday. That is why I did not come to look at the Overbeck. I was buried. My last painted pot burst. I was disappointed in a man for whom I had felt something like honor." He spoke English. The baron asked him in English also: "What has happened?" And Kranitski, with a little worse accent in the same language, repeated the question a number of times. Maryan, continuing to walk through the chamber, narrated the conversation with his father and the ultimatum given him. The baron laughed noiselessly, and inquired; Kranitski gave out cries of indignation. Maryan, with a fiery face and feverish movement, added: "I had thought that man worthy of my admiration. Logical, consequent, unconquerable, formed of one piece. A magnificent monolith. No sentiments, no prejudices. Permitting no one to disturb the development of his individuality. I understood that his method of rearing me, and then pushing me to the highest spheres of life, pointed to this, that I was to live for his honor. I was to be one of the columns of that temple which he had raised to his own glory. But just that absoluteness with which he used everything for his own purposes roused in me homage. The power of producing was in him equal to his power of egotism. So must it be with every individuality fashioned by nature not on a model, but originally. I did not know him much, and desired a nearer acquaintance. I was certain that we should understand each other perfectly; that I should behold from nearby a magnificent monolith. Meanwhile it was stuck over with labels of various kinds of trash, and covered with half a hundred stains of the past--" "He remembered the school of training and labor in time," laughed Kranitski. "Peste!" hissed the baron. "What a rheumatism of thought!" "Moral principles!" added Kranitski, "he himself practises them beautifully. Let him give even half of his millions to that poverty which is ashamed to beg. Oh, he will not! He will not do that! By the help of moral principles it is easy to put sacred burdens on other men's shoulders." "That is it," added Maryan, "on other men's shoulders you have hit the point, my old man. Yes! So many years he cared for nothing; he considered nothing; now on a sudden he has thrown down the edifice which he himself built. I know not as to others; but, as for me, I shall stick to my rights. I cannot permit myself to fall a victim to this sad accident, that my father is a mental rheumatic." He stopped, meditated a moment, then added: "That is even more than rheumatism of thought; it is the exudation of a decaying past, filling the brain with the corruption--of a corpse." "Corruption of a corpse! very apt this expression!" exclaimed the baron. Kranitski made a wry face in the cathedra, and muttered: "No, no. What horror! I will never agree to that phrase." But no one heard this quiet protest. Now the baron in his turn, walking more and more quickly through the room, spoke on. Maryan remained sitting on the Louis XI box while the baron walked and complained of the narrowness of relations and the low level of civilization in the city: "This is the real fatherland of darned socks. Everything here has the mustiness of locked up store-houses. There is a lack of room and ventilation. In England William Morris, a great poet, establishes a factory for objects pertaining to art, and makes millions. I beg you to show anything similar in this place. Darvid has made a colossal fortune only because he was not blind, and did not hold on to his father's fence. Nationality and fa-ther-land, each is a darned sock--one of those labels which men with parti-colored clothes paste on a gate before which diggers are standing. One must escape from this position. One must know how to will." The baron said, that as soon as he could bring certain plans of his to completion and regulate certain property interests, and even before regulating them, he would occupy himself with completing his new plan. He turned to Maryan: "Will you be my partner? It would be difficult for me to get on without you. You have an excellent feeling for art--you are subtle--" "Why not," answered Maryan. "But one should go first of all and examine the field; one should go to America before the exhibition." "Naturally, before the exhibition, so as to begin action before it is over. In the question of capital--" "I will sell my personal property, which has some value, and incur another debt," said Maryan, carelessly. The baron halted; he thought awhile; his faded face took on that expression of roguery which the French call polissonnerie; joyousness seized him. "We will shoot off!" cried he; and he made a movement with his foot like that which a street-sweeper makes to catch a bark shoe thrown up in the air. Maryan rose, shook himself out of his lethargy, and said, almost with delight: "It is an idea. To America!" Then from the abyss of the immensely deep and broad cathedra Kranitski's voice was heard, orphan-like, timid: "But will you take me with you, my dears? When you shoot off you will take me with you, will you not?" There was no answer. The baron was sitting already before the organ and had begun to play some grand church composition; in the dignified sound of that music Tristan made a knightly bow to Isolde, and the "Triumph of Death," with its dark outline, was reflected on the background of Alberich's white habit, while the saints painted with golden haloes on the windows clasped their pale hands above their bright robes. CHAPTER VII Baron Emil said at times to Irene: "You have the aristocracy of intellect. Your mind is original. There is in you much delicate irony. You are not deceived with painted pots." These words caused her pleasure of the same sort as that which the praise of a mountaineer causes an inexperienced traveller when he tells him that he knows how to climb neck-breaking summits. Much irony had flowed into her mind from certain mysterious sides of her life. But she had become conscious of this now for the first time, under the guidance and influence of the baron. He awed her by the originality of his language and ideas, by the absolute sincerity of his disbelief, and his egotism. During childhood she had seen a mask which astounded her, and struck her in the very heart. Thenceforth everything seemed better to her and more agreeable than masks. Moreover, the baron was to her thinking a finished aesthete, an excellent judge in the whole realm of art, and in this regard she did not deceive herself greatly. The opinions on art and philosophy, which he proclaimed, interested her through their novelty, and the expressions which he used purposely, though sometimes brutal and verging on the gutter, roused her curiosity by their singularity and insolence. She imitated him in speech; in his presence she guarded her lips lest they might let something escape through which she would earn the title of "shepherdess." "You are very far from the Arcadian condition, in which I meet people here at every step. You are intricate; you are like an orchid, one stem of which has a flower in the form of a butterfly, while the next seems like a death's head." She interrupted him with a brief laugh: "A butterfly is flat." Her laugh had a sharp sound, for the cold gleam of the baron's eyes fell on her boldly and persistently. "No," contradicted he, "no; the combination of a death's head with a butterfly makes a dissonance. That bites and sticks a new pin in the soul." "But the Greek harmony?" she inquired. With a flattering smile, which conquered her, the baron answered: "Never mention harmony. That is the milk with which babes were nourished. We subsist on something else. You like game, do you not? but only when it begins to decay. There is no good game, except that which is rank. Very well, we subsist on a world in decay. This is true, but you speak of that darned sock; namely, harmony--ha! ha! ha! You think sometimes one way and sometimes another. Your soul is full of bites! You are idyllic and also satirical. You jeer at idyls, and still, at odd times, you yearn for one somewhat. Have I touched the point accurately? Are my words true?" "True," answered Irene, dropping her eyelids. She dropped her lids because she was ashamed of the discovery which the baron had made in her, and for this cause as well, that she felt his breath on her face, and caught the odor of certain strange perfumes which came from him. His eyes sought hers and strove to pour into them their cold gleam, which was also a burning one. He strove to take her hand, but she withdrew it, and he, with lowered, drawling, and somewhat nasal tones, said: "You wish, and again you do not wish; you feel the cry of life in you and try to turn it into a lyric song." The cry of life! Over this phrase Irene halted later on, but briefly, touched as she had been by premature knowledge, its meaning became clear to her straightway. The baron, small, fragile, with a faded face and irregular, was a master in calling forth the "cry of life" in women. His manner with them was exquisite, but also insolent. In his gray eyes, with the reddened edges of their lids, he had a look which was hypnotising in its persistence and cold fire. It resembled the glitter of steel--pale and penetrating. In the manner in which he held the hand of a woman and placed a kiss on it, in the glances with which he seemed to tear her away from her shelter, in the intonation given to certain words, was attained the primitiveness of desire and conquest under cover of polished refinement. Amid the tedium and dissatisfaction of ordinary and exercised lovemakers this method seemed cynical, but bold and honest. It might have been compared to the shaggy head of a beast sticking out of a basket of heliotropes, which have ever the character of sameness as has their odor. The head is ugly, but smells of a cave and of troglodytes, which among common flowers of dull odor lend it the charm of power and originality. Irene thought at once of "great grandfatherliness;" when in presence of the baron her nerves quivered like chords when touched in a manner unknown up to that time. She asked herself: "Am I in love?" But when he had gone this question called from her a brief, ironical smile. She analyzed and criticised the physical and moral personality of the baron with perfect coolness, and at moments with a shade of contempt even. A vibrio! This expression contained the conception of physical and moral withering, almost the palpable picture of an existence which merely quivers in space, and is barely capable of living. In comparison with this picture she had a presentiment of some wholesome, noble, splendid strength. Disgust for the baron began to flow around her heart and rise to her lips with a taste that was repulsive, and to her brain with a thought that was bitter: Why is this world as it is? Why is it not different? But perhaps it was different somewhere else, but not for her? She had ceased to believe in an idyl. She had looked too long, and from too near a point, at the tragedy and irony of things to preserve faith in idyls. Maybe there were idyls somewhere, but not in the sphere where she lived--they were not for her! To yearn for that which perhaps did not exist at all, which most assuredly did not exist for her! What a "rheumatism of thought" that would be! Her head, with a Japanese knot of fiery hair on the top of it, bent down low, for the stream of lead from her heart was rising. With a movement usual to her she clasped her long hands, and, squeezing them violently, thought: "Well, what of it? I must in every case create some future, and why should any other be better than this one? Here at least is sincerity on both sides, and a just view of things." As time passed she said to herself that what she felt for the baron was love of a certain kind, and that at the foundation of things there is no other love, and if there is any other kind it does not signify much, for each kind passes quickly. She began in general to attach less and less weight to that side of life, and also life itself had for her a charm which was continually decreasing. In the gloom of weariness, and the apathy into which she was falling, that which connected her with the baron was like a red electric lantern shining on a throng in the street and in the darkness. It was not the bright sun, nor the silvery moon; it was just that red lantern which, shining on a throng in the street, enabled one to see many curious or brilliant objects. She knew of Lili Kerth, and the role which she played as to the world in general and the baron in particular. The baron in that case, as in others, wore no mask; sometimes he accompanied Lili Kerth to public promenades, and sometimes even showed himself with her in a box at the theatre. That was in contradiction with morals, especially in view of his relation with Irene; but subjection to morals, would not that be standing guard over graves, or the "darned sock?" In this case Maryan, without knowing why, did not applaud his friend. "C'est crane, mais trop cochon," judged he, and he pouted a little at the baron, but looked with curiosity at his sister, also present in the theatre. Irene sat in her box as usual, calm and full of distinction, a little formal, never charmed with anything, or laughing at anything. As usual she conversed with the baron between acts, till Maryan, looking at her, sneered, and asked: "How did your vis-a-vis please you?" "Qui cette fille?" asked Irene, carelessly. "The color of her hair is superb. Pure Venetian gold." No feeling of offence, or modesty. "Bravo!" said Maryan. And with comical solemnity in his voice he added: "Dear sister, you have a new mentality altogether. You have surpassed my expectations, and now I shall call you my true sister." Why? Was she to be naive in a theatre? She knew well that such things were done everywhere, and they must exist in the life of the baron. And, if they must exist, then let them be open, for mysteries--Oh! she preferred anything to masks and mysteries. Besides the question was mainly in this, that that history of the baron and the famous singer of chansonettes did not concern her in any way. One evening outside the windows of the house began the twilight, which was rather pale from snow. In the drawing-room sat Irene amid the cold whiteness of sculpture, which adorned the walls, and the reflection on polished furniture of blue watered-silk. The young lady was seated at one of the windows on a high stool. On the background of the window-pane, filled with the whitish twilight, her figure seemed tall, with narrow shoulders, and her profile somewhat too prolonged. Over this profile rose a knot of fiery hair, and the whole figure reminded one of a statue of a priestess, erect and smiling enigmatically. Her eyelids were drooping, her long hands were clasped on her robe; but the smiles wandering over her lips and ever changing, were not those of satisfaction. She remembered that in recent days she had met the baron offener than before. He strove more and more to see her--to meet her. He simply pursued her--found her frequently in shops which she visited with her mother, or alone. When he came he did not shield himself with the excuse of chance, but said with his usual sincerity: "I willed to-day to see you, and I see you. I know how to will!" This day she had barely entered the shop of a celebrated tailor when he entered also, and immediately, with unusual animation, began to tell her of his great project of going to America and settling there for a long time, perhaps permanently. He was roused by that idea; he was almost enthusiastic; the hope of new scenes and impressions, perhaps great profits, had fired his imagination. Of these last he spoke also to Irene. "One must move, rouse courage, bring the nerves into action, otherwise they may wither. One must conquer and win. He who does not gain victories deserves the grave. Money is an object worthy of conquest, for it opens the gates of life. William Morris is a famous poet and artist, but he became a manufacturer. He understood that contempt for industry is like many other things, a painted pot. Men made this pot and poets painted it in beautiful colors, then the poets died of hunger. America holds in reserve new horizons." He spoke long, and was astonished himself at his own enthusiasm. "I thought," said he, "that I should never know enthusiasm, and I supposed even that it was a rheumatism of thought. Meanwhile I feel enthusiasm, yes, enthusiasm! And it pervades me with a delightful shiver. Do you not share it? Are you not attracted, as well as I, by distant perspectives, new horizons, 'the divine vibrations of blue seas, the silences traversed by worlds, by angels '--And plagiarizing he repeated the addition made by Maryan: 'And by millions'?" Yes, she was attracted. Not by the millions; she was too familiar with them, but the distant perspectives, the new horizons, the shoreless expanses of oceans, and the endless quiet of spaces which in the twinkle of an eye were unfolded before her imagination. The dull pain, and the gloomy disgust which tortured her not long before, cried out: "Yes! yes! go, fly far, as far as possible under new skies, among people of another nationality! Go, fly, seek." With a slight flush on her cheeks, which were delicate to the highest degree, she told all this to the baron, whose crumpled, faded face was gleaming with delight. "You make me happy, really happy!" whispered he, and added: "Command me to bow down before you; I will obey and bow down." Meanwhile a door-bell was heard every moment in the great shop, and a wave of people passing by reminded Irene of the reason why she was there. She turned to an elegant apartment, in which a flood of materials disposed on the furniture was waiting for her. The baron had a knowledge of the wearing apparel of ladies; he liked to speak of it; and more than once, with the accuracy of a tailor, and the pleasure of an artist, he told of the original and peculiar toilets seen in capitals. On this occasion, in the tailor's apartment between great mirrors, in the flood of unfolded materials, he said: "I beg you not to dress according to pattern; I beg you not to spoil my delight by forcing me to see on you any of the ridiculous styles of this city. I meet no ladies here of subtle taste. There is wealth, frequently there is even taste, but common, according to pattern. For you it is necessary to think out something new--something symbolic, or rather something which symbolizes. A woman's dress should be a symbol of her individuality. For you it is necessary to think out a dress which would symbolize aristocracy of soul and body." And he fell to thinking out; and they both fell to thinking out. They selected among colors and kinds of materials; they examined specimens, drawings, the baron corrected them, completed them with details taken from his own fancy. After a certain time they agreed to one thing: her dress should be flame color. With Irene's delicate complexion and her fiery hair this would, as the baron thought, form a whole which would be irritating. "In this robe you will be novel and irritating." The proprietor of the shop, elegant and important, came in and went out, inquired, advised, and again left them to their own thoughts and decisions. They, on their part, amused themselves better and better, surrounded by a light cloud of perfumes which rose from their clothing, and by the rustle of silks which fell to their feet, like cascades of many colors. The flame-colored material was selected, still they went on selecting. The baron, with a flush appearing on his cheeks, exclaimed: "We are passing the time most delightfully, are we not? And who could have expected it? At a tailor's! But you and I know how to experience sensations which no one else can experience. For that it is necessary to have a sixth sense. You and I have the sixth sense." Irene began to lose her usual formality and air of distinction; she spoke quickly and much; she laughed aloud, and, a number of times, the movement of her bosom and arms became irregular, too lively at moments, but they were full of a half dreamy gracefulness. The baron grew silent and looked at her for a while, then, with rapturous eyes, he began: "How you are changed at this moment. How charmingly you are changed! Such surprises interest one--they irritate. You have the rare gift of causing surprises." With gleaming eyes he begged her insistently to tell him whether the change which had taken place, the humor into which she had fallen, was spontaneous or artificial, the result of feeling, or of coquetry. "You are without doubt the product of high training, so it is difficult to know in you that which is nature and that which is art. And such a person in that changed form is problematical--I beg you, I beg you to tell me whether in you this is nature, or art?" Listening to these words, in which a very insolent idea was contained, she laughed and turned her eyes away. But bending toward her with a smile which might remind one of a satyr, and with a request in his voice, he asked: "Is this nature? is it art?" With a sudden resolve she answered: "It is nature!" And she wished to equal the boldness of her answer with the boldness of her look, but a flaming blush shot over her face, and the lids covered her eyes, into which shame had gushed forth. Though maiden modesty was a painted pot, this new change, to which Irene had yielded, exercised on the baron a new irritating influence. In the midst of the rustling materials he seized both her hands, his eyes flashed magnetic rays into her flushed face; he drew her delicate form toward him. She tried to twist her hands away, and with a violent effort strove to throw her bust backward, but the fragile baron was very strong at that instant; he pressed her hands in his as in a vice, and whispered into her very face: "Do not fight against that cry of life which is heard within you--I am a despot--I know how to will--" With the last word he pressed his lips to hers. But that moment she, too, gained unexpected strength, and in a flash she was some steps away from him, very pale now and trembling throughout her whole body. "This is too much of nature!" cried she. Her head was erect, and from her eyes came flashing sparks, which soon melted, however, into cold irony. Shrugging her shoulders, with a smile she exclaimed: "Dieu! que c'etait vulgaire!" Then holding her skirt with both hands, as if she wished not to take one atom of dust from that room with her, she went out into the shop; the baron saw her talk to the tailor for a moment with her usual coolness, and then turn to go with the ordinary words of brief leave-taking. But now Irene sitting there on that tall stool at the window, surrounded by the fading gleam of the blue watered-silk, and against the background of the pane which was covered with a whitish gloom, seemed a statue with a delicate bust, and a somewhat prolonged profile settled in stony fixedness. The "cry of life" possessed as words the charm of novelty and daring, but when changed into an act it roused in her every feeling of offence and maiden modesty. The shaggy beast had ventured out too far from behind the heliotropes, and had given forth too rank a smell of the den and the troglodytes. "It is vulgar!" cried she to the baron, but she understood immediately that what had taken place was neither new, nor a rare thing, but as old as the human race and as vulgar as the street is. The tailor's shop full of people, the ceaseless ringing at the door-bell, the noise of selling and buying, the passage beyond the window--is the street. A kiss received on the street. Street adventure! A quiver shot downward through her shoulders. Before her imagination passed the wretched forms of women trailing in the dusk of evening along the sidewalks. On her inclined face a blush came out; that painted pot called maiden, modesty, under the form of inherited instinct and woman's pride, was laboring in her untiringly and painfully. After a while its place was taken by disgust beyond expression. The baron, whose single charm was in his subtlety, appeared now as a vulgar figure. That kind of mutual love, which she had thought they felt for each other, when closely analyzed, reminded her of pictures in which Fauns with goats' beards were chasing through the forest after Nymphs. On Irene's lips a jeering, almost angry smile, now fixed itself. What did he say: "a sixth sense." Why a sixth sense in this case? Empty words! The baron jeers at painted pots, but he makes them himself, and paints them in the ancient colors. An idyl is an old thing, and a den is old also, but the idyl would be better than the den if only it existed. But where is it? Her eyes had never seen an idyl, but they had seen, ah, they had seen what happens and takes place with loves of men and women, 'and with bonds which bear the name of sacred! Well, what is to be done with the baron--and America? Such contempt for everything, such disbelief in all things, such a contemptuous despising of everything, and of her own self as well, embraced her and possessed her, that at the end of the meditation she said to herself: "It is all one!" She crossed her hands and pressed them firmly across her breast, bent her head somewhat, and thought: "It is all, all, all one!" A few tears, one after another, fell on her tightly clasped fingers. "All one! If only the sooner!" What sooner? Why sooner? With a slow movement she turned her face toward her mother's apartments; her lips which quivered, and the glistening tear which had fallen on them had the same kind of expression that a child has when crying in silence. With brows raised somewhat, she whispered: "Mamma!" After a while, under those brows which were like delicate little flames, her eyes began to grow mild, to lose their tears and their irony, until they took on an expression of such delight, as if they were looking at an idyl. Meanwhile the air, modified by the gray twilight, was cut by a bright moving line. This was Cara going from her father's study with Puff tugging at her skirt. She hummed a song as she went forward. When she saw her sister she ceased humming, and called out from the end of the drawing-room: "Do you know, Ira, father will dine with us to-day?" In her voice a note of triumph was heard. After many weeks her father would sit for the first time with them at the family table, and then everything would go on as it should go. What it was that went ill, and why it went so, she knew not. But she had been observing, was astonished, and had fears. With that real sixth sense, which persons of keen sensitiveness possess, she felt something. She felt in the air a certain oppression, a certain trouble, and, not knowing what these signified, nor whence they were coming, she suffered. In the very same way, organisms with supersensitive nerves feel the approach of atmospheric storms. Now she advanced with a short step, erect and slender, with Puff at her skirt, while she hummed joyously. When Irene entered her mother's study soon after, she saw, by the lamplight, a group composed of three persons. Sitting on the sofa, with glitters of black jet in her light hair, was Malvina Darvid; nearby, in a low armchair, inclining toward her, was Maryan, elegant as usual, and before him, with elbows resting on her mother's knees, knelt Cara, a bright, blue strip lying across the black silk robe of her mother. "A picture deserving the eyes of Sarah and Rebecca!" suggested Irene, going straight to the mirror before which she began, with raised arms, to arrange and modify the knot of hair on her head. Maryan, in good humor, was imploring his mother to let him have her portrait painted by one of the most noted artists in the city. "His brush is famous! I cannot understand how, amid the effeteness of this city, a talent can rise which is so fresh and individual. In his landscapes there is a magnificent pleinair, and as a portrait painter he knows how to seize the soul. My mother, let me have your soul enchanted into a portrait--have you noticed that the eyes of some portraits look on us from beyond this world? There is an enchanted soul in them. Let me have your portrait painted by an artist from whose canvas comes a breath from beyond this world." He inclined his cherub head and kissed his mother's hand, which was resting on Cara's shoulder. "And kiss me, too!" cried Cara. "Sentiment!" said Maryan, straightening himself, "beware of sentiment, little one. I, thy great-grandfather, say this to thee." "Splendidly expressed!" exclaimed Irene from the mirror. "Cara's soul is so primitive, yours--" "So decadent," put in Maryan. "That you have a right to be called her great-grandfather." "I greet you great-grandmother!" laughed he at Irene. "I say this, mother, for, as you see, I understand my elder sister perfectly, but not the little one yet; however, that will come some time--surely soon. Mais revenons a nos moutons: How about the portrait?" Malvina laughed. Her face, greatly troubled an hour before, had grown young again. A certain sunray had pierced the thick cloud at that moment. She warded off the idea of the portrait. "Why? There are too many portraits of me already. Oh, too many!" "Caricatures!" exclaimed Maryan, "and none of them is mine. I beg a portrait for myself specially; my own exclusive property." "What for?" repeated Malvina. "Look at the original as often as you like. Better not have a portrait; then, perhaps, you will feel the need of seeing me oftener." "No reproaches, dear mother! Leave reproaches, threats; let the whole patriarchal arsenal remain on that side, over there--" With a gesture he indicated the door leading to the interior of the house. Cara raised her head from her mother's knees, and her eyes glittered. "But on this side let there be only sweetness, only charm, only that precious, beautiful weakness, before which I am on my knees always. As to this, that I can see the original of the portrait when I wish, that is a question! We are grains of sand scattered over the world by the wind of interesting voyages." "Have you some plan of a journey again?" inquired Malvina, alarmed. "Yes. It is in indistinct lines yet, but is becoming more definite every day. This will be the step of a giant--fleeing before that rod with which the all-mighty father is pleased to beat his children." Again, with a gesture he pointed to the door leading to the more distant apartments, and in the short laugh which accompanied his last words there was sarcasm--almost hatred. At the same moment he met Cara's eyes, and asked: "Why look at me, little one, in that way? There are eyes! curious, anxious, and as frightened as those of a hunted deer. Why so curious? What do you fear?" Cara hid her face in her mother's dress, quickly. "But how would it please you, mamma, to make a trip with me to America?" called Irene from before the mirror. She put up the last of her hair, fastened it with a fantastic pin, and said, turning toward her mother: "I have such Tom Thumb boots that when I put them on I shall be beyond the sea with three great steps. How does that plan please you?" "You give a shower of plans to-day," jested Malvina. "A portrait, flight from the rod, America." "A ball!" exclaimed Cara, raising her head. "Do you know of it, Maryan? In a few weeks we shall have a real ball--a grand one." "Your tale is curious, little one, tell on," answered Maryan. "When talk is the question, there is never need to beg Cara twice." She sprang up from her knees and told of the hour which she had spent in her father's study a few days before. She had told her mother and sister of the plan of the ball, but how it rose she had not told. Something had prevented. Now she would tell them all. Three gentlemen had visited her father: Prince Zeno, Count Charski, and a third person whose name she did not remember, but he was a large man, tall and broad; his breast glittered with stars and crosses. She, Cara, wished to hide from the guests behind the bookshelves--there were shelves behind which she sat often, invisible herself, she saw and heard everything. It was a wonderfully comfortable hiding-place, in which her only trouble was Puff; for, when anyone came to the study he wanted to bark, but she squeezed his nose with her hand tightly, and he was silent. That day she did not go behind the book-shelves, for her father commanded her to sit in the armchair. So she sat there with dignity. Now she sat on the stool, and showed them in what a posture she had sat in presence of her father's guests, her hands on her knees, bolt upright, with dignity on her rosy face. Puffie alone interrupted this dignity, she said; he crawled up behind her, put his paws on her shoulder, and touched her with his moist nose. One of the gentlemen turned then to her, and said: "You have a beautiful dog, young lady." "He is very nice," answered she. "And what is his name?" asked the man. "Puffie," explained she. She did not laugh, for there was no cause. Puffie was really very nice, and he had a good name, but those gentlemen, while looking at her, smiled very agreeably, and one of them said to her father: "How time passes! Not long ago I saw your younger daughter a little child, and now--" The other interrupted: "She is almost grown. And as tall it seems as her elder sister." "We have only very rarely the pleasure of seeing your family in society this winter," said the other. "Your wife and daughter pass a very secluded life this year," said the second visitor. "My wife complains of frequent neuralgia," answered father, and then the unknown, large man talked. Hitherto Cara, while giving the conversation of the two gentlemen, changed her voice, imitating the tones, and posture of each; now she repeated the words of the large man in the rudest voice that she could command: "I have not yet had the honor of being presented to your wife and elder daughter, but I have heard so much, etc." Then they talked longer with her father about something else, and when going away gave her some nice compliments. She courtesied. She might say with confidence that she had played the role of a mature young lady brilliantly. Her father said, after the departure of the guests, that he was glad to receive the large man's visit. The large man might aid him greatly. Then he thought a while, and said: "Do you know what, little one, you must show yourself in society." Here Maryan muttered in an undertone: "He needs a new column in his temple." Irene smiled. Malvina feigned not to hear; Cara, given up to her twittering, twittered on: "Then father said that mamma and Ira were leading almost the life of a cloister, that they received few persons, and went out little. That had the appearance of domestic misfortune, or of bankruptcy. Such an appearance was ugly in general, and harmful to business. To avoid this there was need to arrange a reception, but grand, and as splendid as possible. The carnival would be over soon, and at the end of the carnival we would give a ball in which the 'little one 'would appear in society for the first time. Today, an hour ago, father said he would come to us at dinner, and would talk at length about this ball with mamma." Here Cara finished the narrative which was somewhat of a dramatic representation. Maryan rose suddenly from his seat. "I must go," said he, standing rigidly, and with a serious face. "Stay, Maryan," said Malvina, in a low voice. On her face was a look of pain; a deep wrinkle appeared on her forehead; her voice was imploring. Maryan looked at her, hesitated a while, then dropping into an armchair with the movement of an automaton, muttered: "Let thy will be done! Let a pot be painted with the color of a son's love--for you, mother." From the thought that he must meet his father soon, the interior of his heart began to desiccate. A servant announced the dinner. Cara sprang up from the stool: "I will go to conduct father!" She went to the door, but turned back from it, and, dropping on her knees before her mother, put a number of long, passionate kisses on her knees and her hand. Then hanging on her neck, she whispered in a low voice: "Golden, only, dearest mamma." And springing from her knees she flew out of the room like a bird. What did that violent outburst of tenderness for her mother mean? No one knew, neither did she herself, perhaps. Was it a prayer for someone, or the assurance that she loved greatly not only that one, but her mother too? or was it delight that at last she would see them both together? She flew like a bird through the drawing-rooms, lighted by lamps burning here and there, till she pushed quietly into her father's study, and put her hand under his arm at the writing-desk. All rosy, imitating the deep and solemn voice of the servant, she said: "Dinner is served!" Darvid felt a stream of warmth and sweetness flowing to his breast. "Oh, you rogue!" said he, "you sunray! You little one!" When he was entering the dining-room soon after with Cara, Maryan led in his mother through the opposite door; she was all in black silk and jet. Darvid inclined and touched his wife's hand with his lips; on Malvina's face there was a pleasant smile. "I am so immensely occupied," said he, "that I have not time every day to inquire after your health." "I thank you, my health is excellent." At a rich side-table two servants were occupied; at the table gleaming with crystal and silver stood Miss Mary, graceful and still young, with puritanic simplicity in her closely fitting garment, and with smooth hair over her calm forehead. The master of the house greeted her and expressed his regret that, because of business, he could see her only rarely. When all were seated at table, Malvina, with the experience of a trained lady of the house, began conversation: "We have been talking just now of the United States, with which Ira and Maryan have begun to be greatly interested." "No doubt because of the exhibition at Chicago," said Darvid; "it must be something colossal indeed." Miss Mary mentioned the congress of women which was to meet there. Malvina and Irene supplemented that statement with details; the conversation flowed on smoothly, easily, coolly; it was filled with various kinds of information. Maryan took no part in it. He sat stiff, deaf, dumb, with fixed features. When he ate, his movements had the appearance of an automaton, even his eyelids winked very rarely. He was a picture of apathy, contempt, and biliousness. Even his fair complexion had grown sallow, and his lips had paled. He caused exactly the impression of a wax doll in an elegant dress, with glittering eyes. Darvid, with some humor and playfully, spoke of the edifice which was to be erected in Chicago according to a plan by a female architect. "I tremble for those who are to visit the building. In architecture, equilibrium has immense meaning, and for women equilibrium is most difficult. Women lose equilibrium so easily, so generally, so inevitably, almost." This was said in a manner quite airy and trifling; still--it was unknown why--in the voice of the speaker certain biting tones quivered, and a pale flush came out on Malvina's forehead. Irene fell at once to talking most vivaciously with Miss Mary about the latest movement among English women toward emancipation, and Darvid himself, with some haste, expressed quietly, though with some irony, opinions touching these movements. A great bronze lamp cast abundant light on the table, which was covered with the brightness of silver and crystal. White-gloved servants, as silent as apparitions, changed the plates adorned with painted and gilded monograms; with bottles in their hands they inquired about the kind of wine which they were to pour out; they served dishes from which came the excellent odor of truffles, pickles, rare meat, and vegetables. A number of wall-lamps, placed high, lighted the sides of the dining-hall, which was decked with pictures in brightly shining frames, and with festoons of heavy curtains at the doors and windows. When it left America, the conversation, carried on in French and English, turned to European capitals and to the various phenomena of life in them. English was spoken out of regard for Miss Mary, but French sometimes, for Darvid and his wife preferred that language to English. Irene and Cara might have been considered as genuine English. The ready and accurate English; the pure Parisian French; the varied information, in an atmosphere of light falling from above on a table glittering with costly plate; the order and the dignified ornaments of the great hall; the grand scale of living seemed undoubted high life. There was a moment in which Darvid cast his glance around and threw back his head somewhat; his forehead freed itself from wrinkles--smooth, clever, shining somewhat at the temples--it seemed to be carved out of ivory. His nostrils, delicate and nervous, expanded and contracted, as if inhaling, with the odor of wines and delicacies, the more subtle and intoxicating odor of his own greatness. But this lasted only a short time; soon certain pebbles of seriousness and breaths of distraction began to interrupt his conversation and to dull his clear thought. Balancing in two fingers a dessert knife, he said to Miss Mary: "I respect your countrymen greatly for their practical sense and sound reason. That's a people--that's a people--" He stammered somewhat now--a thing which, in his low and fluent speech, never happened. He was thinking of something else. "That is the nation which said to itself: 'Time is money,' which also--" Again he faltered. His eyes, attracted by an invincible power, turned continually toward that point of the table where black jets glittered richly and gloomily, and then his lips finished the judgment which he had begun: "Which also possesses to-day the greatest money-power." Here Maryan spoke for the first time: "Not only money; England now leads the newest tendencies in art." This was spoken at the edges of his lips, without cooperation of other parts of his face, which continued fixed; and on Darvid's lips appeared his smile, of which people said that it bristled with pins. "The newest tendencies of art!" repeated he, and the words hissed in his mouth somewhat. "Art is something splendid, but the pity is that it is turned into a plaything by wrongly reared children!" Maryan raised at his father a look from which a whole flood of irony rushed forth, and answered, with the edge of his lips: "He alone is not a child who knows that we are all children, turning everything into playthings for ourselves. The point is that there are various playthings." "Maryan!" whispered Malvina, with an alarm which she could not suppress. Darvid turned his face to her suddenly, and their glances which till then had avoided each other carefully, met for a few seconds; but during that time Darvid's eyes filled with the glitter of keen steel, and Malvina bent her face so low over the plate that, in the sharp light, one could see only her forehead, with its one deep wrinkle. But that same moment Irene began to converse with her father about London, where he had spent a considerable time on two occasions. He answered her at once; spoke long, fluently, and interestingly, engaging also in the conversation Miss Mary, to whom he turned frequently and with pleasure. Again the conversation went on smoothly, easily, deliberately. Above the table, in place of the odors of meats and sauces, hovered the light odors of fruit and vanilla. When the dessert was served, Darvid spoke of fruits peculiar to various climates which he had visited in his almost ceaseless journeys; all at once he stopped the conversation in mid-career, and turned to Cara, who struggled a few times with a dry and stubborn cough. "I thought that you had recovered entirely. But you are coughing yet. That is sad!" On the girl's face, which was flushing in a fiery manner, there was an expression of sorrow or anger. Quickly and broken came the words from her lips which were pouting like those of an angry child: "There are so many sad things in the world, father, that my cough is a bit of dust compared with them." This was an answer thoroughly unexpected, but the impression which it might have made was hindered at once by Irene through a laugh and an exclamation too loud, perhaps: "See where pessimism is going to fix itself! Is Puffie sick?" "Cara's remark is precocious but pointed," said Maryan, with the edges of his lips. Malvina, too, began to speak. Giving a small cup to her son, she inquired: "You like black coffee so well that I ought to reserve another cup, ought I not?" Maryan made no answer; with a wrinkle on her forehead, and a smile on her lips, she continued quickly and hurriedly: "I share your taste for coffee, Maryan. Some time ago I drank much coffee, but I saw that it injured my nerves and deprived me of sleep. It is very disagreeable not to sleep, and better to give up a favorite luxury than suffer from insomnia." Smiling and moving her head she talked, and talked on with great charm, and with a sweetness which always filled the tones of her voice. She mentioned mere nothings, connecting opinion with opinion, just to talk, to kill time, or avoid other topics. Darvid raised his head somewhat and looked at her through the glasses with which he had shaded his eyes until she bent her head before the gleam in those glasses, and her face sank very low over the cup, and was covered with an expression not to be hidden by a woman who wants to vanish through the earth, dissolve in air, become a shade, become dust, become a corpse; if she can only escape from where she is and from being what she is. Then Irene, with a light tap, dropping her cup on the saucer, began: "You must know well, father, how they make coffee in the Orient?" He knew, for he had been in the Orient; and, in a way which was picturesque enough, he told about the Turks; how, sitting around in a circle, they put the favorite drink into their mouths slowly. "They delight themselves with it, as dignified as Magi, and silent as fish. The time in which they give themselves to this absolute rest, composed of black coffee and silence, bears with them the name 'keif.'" This word called laughter to the lips of all. Darvid laughed, too. On all faces weariness grew evident. Cara's thin voice called out: "The Turks do well to be silent, for what good is there in people's talk? What good is there?" "Here is a little sage, she is never satisfied with questions," said Darvid, jestingly. "Capacity for criticism is a family trait of ours," laughed Irene. "Cara had been distinguished by curiosity from childhood," added Malvina, with a smile. Even Maryan, looking at his younger sister, said: "The time always comes when children begin to speak instead of prattling." Miss Mary, with an anxious forehead under her puritan hair, said nothing. On the faces of all who spoke, anxiety was evident, and above the smiling lips weariness was present in every eye. Malvina rose from her chair; Darvid left his place, bowed to all with exquisite politeness, and, advancing some steps, gave his arm to his wife. They passed through a small, brightly lighted drawing-room and halted in the following chamber, where the walls were adorned with white garlands and the curtains and upholstering were of blue watered-silk. Beyond, in a small drawing-room. Miss Mary sat down to play chess with Maryan; Cara took her place near them in the character of observer, and Irene unrolled in the lamp-light a piece of church stuff, very old and time-worn, which the baron had brought her as a rarity, and which she intended to repair by embroidering it with silk and gold thread. Darvid and Malvina stopped among the pieces of blue furniture in the tempered light of a shade-covered lamp. Malvina was very pale, and her heart must have beaten with violence, for her breath was hurried. At last that had come which she had waited for long and vainly: a positive and decisive conversation. With all her strength she desired an explanation, a change of some kind, and in any shape, if it would only bring a change in her position. She was waiting, ready to yield to everything, to endure everything, if he would only speak. He spoke, and said: "To-morrow I shall go to a hunt on the estate of Prince Zeno, and as I go from there to a place where I have business, I shall return in ten days, more or less. Immediately after my return, and during the last week of the Carnival, there will be in our house a reception, a ball simply, the most brilliant possible. My business requires it, and public opinion concerning this family requires it also. I wish, too, that Cara should make her first appearance in society at that ball. I have drawn up, and will send you a list of persons to whom it is necessary to send invitations, persons of whom you might not have thought; the rest of society you know better than I do. I know that you can arrange such matters excellently, and I trust that this time you will do all that is best. The check-book will be brought you by my secretary, whose abilities and time you may use without limit, as well as the check-book. There is no need to hesitate at outlay; everything should be in a style rarely seen in any house, or rather in a style never seen except in this house. This ball is needed for my business and for--public opinion concerning our family, which opinion is a little, even more than a little, lowered." He spoke slowly and politely, with an accent of command at the basis of the politeness. At the last words he cast into her face a gleam of his eyes which was firm and penetrating, then he bowed, and made a move to go. "Aloysius!" cried Malvina, with tightly clasped hands, and she began to tremble. How was this? A ball, and nothing more! The question with her was of things as important as human dignity, conscience, unendurable restraint, and fear in the presence of her children. He stopped and inquired: "What is your command?" She bowed her head and began: "I require; I wish to speak with you at length and positively." He smiled. "For what purpose? We have nothing pleasant to say to each other, and unpleasant conversation injures the nerves more than--black coffee." She raised her head, and with an effort, to which she brought herself with difficulty, said: "Things cannot remain as they are. My position--" With an expression of profoundest astonishment on his face, he interrupted: "Your position! But your position is brilliant!" He made a gesture which seemed to indicate everything which was in that drawing-room, and in the whole house; but she blushed deeply, and like one in whom the sensitive place is touched, exclaimed: "But this is just what--what I do not wish any longer. I have the right to desire to be free, to withdraw, to cast from myself this glitter, and go somewhere." With all her strength she struggled against the tears which were overpowering her. He repeated with the profoundest astonishment: "You do not wish? You have the right?" Everything in him--cheeks, wrinkles on his forehead, pale lips--trembled with excitement now beyond restraint. But he was master of his voice yet. He spoke in low tones, but with a hiss: "What right? You have no right! You have lost every right! You do not wish? You have no right to wish, or not to wish. You must live as it happens you, and as is needed. As to conversations and serious theatrical scenes, I want none of them--I, who have not lost the right to wish. I am silent, and I will enforce silence. That is, and will always be, our modus vivendi, which, moreover, should be for you the easiest thing in the world to preserve. You have everything: a high position, luxury, brilliancy, even the love of your children as it seems. You have everything except--except--" He hesitated. His habit of preserving in all cases correctness of form, struggled with the excitement which had overcome him, and these words hissed through his lips in a low though envenomed voice: "Except--the lover whom you have dismissed, on which deed I congratulate you, and--my respect, which you have lost, but without which you must live on to the end. On this subject we are talking now for the first and last time. We are talking too long. I am in a hurry to my work. I wish you good-night." The bow which he made before his wife might seem from a distance full of friendly kindness; he withdrew with perfect calmness and freedom of manner, still Irene went to her mother with a firm though hurried step, and with the piece of ancient stuff in her hand, she said: "I am sure that without your assistance I shall not be equal to my task. To restore this Middle Age wonder requires taste, an eye, shading of colors; all this is beyond my poor ability." She stood before her mother, and among the large flowers on the cloth, which was changing from silver to sapphire, she indicated certain defects produced by time. Her eyelids blinked with marvellous quickness, and therefore, perhaps, she did not notice her mother's chalky pallor, trembling hands, and despairing expression of eyes. Apparently noticing nothing she spoke in a loud voice and joyously: "You have an ocean of various silks left after so many things which we made in company. Let us search among them. Shall we go? They are in your chamber. Come, mamma! I am so impatient to begin the restoration of this beautiful ruin! You will help me to match the silks, will you not? Oh, how many beautiful things you and I have made together with these four hands of ours, which were always in company." And they were in company then. She thrust her hand under her mother's arm, and holding the strip of silver and azure stuff she escorted the very pale woman in black jets through the brilliantly lighted drawing-room, past the chess-table at which were sitting three persons, through the dining-hall, where servants were hurrying, through her mother's study, in which both had passed most hours of their life, till she came to Malvina's bedroom, where, amid the yellow damask furniture a shaded lamp was burning. In the twinkle of an eye Irene drew the brass door-bolt, and with face turned toward her mother, with cheeks which flushed immediately, she took Malvina's two hands in her own. "Enough of these secrets, of things partly said, and of barriers raised between our hearts and lips." This hurried whisper burst from her like a current from a covered vessel filled with heat and opened suddenly. "Let us tell each other everything--or no, say no word, I know everything and neither will I speak--but let us counsel--let us meditate together--Oh, mamma!" Her form, usually erect and distinguished, bent, and trembled like a reed, and her lips, famous for irony and coldness, scattered a shower of kisses on the hands and face of her mother, whose chalky paleness was covered by a flame of blushes. "Ira!" she exclaimed, "forgive. May God forgive me." Unable to utter more than these words she dropped on her knees and touched the yellow cushion of the low sofa with her head. She seemed shattered, annihilated. Then Irene grew cold again. Sober thought and strong will shone in, her eyes. She bent over her mother, placed her delicate hand on her shoulder, and began almost with the movement of a guardian: "Mamma, I beg you not to despair, and above all not to torture yourself with that which you consider a reproach and a sin. Never say to your children 'forgive,' for we cannot be your judges--I, least of all. You have ever been kind to us and as loving as an angel; we have lived with you; we love you--I most of all. Remember at all times that a loyal heart is near you and--a kindred one--for it is the heart of a daughter. You must stand erect, have will, think out something, frame something, have decision, save yourself." Looking into her mother's face with a strange smile, she added: "And save me, perhaps, for I, too, am a poor, unwise creature; I know not myself what to do." Malvina raised her head, straightened herself, and rose from her knees slowly. "True," whispered she. "You--you, so long and so earnestly have I wished to speak--of you--and had not the courage." "Well, let us speak now," said Irene. And again putting her hand under her mother's arm, she led her to the ottoman, which stood in the tempered lamplight. "The door is bolted, no one can disturb us; we will have a talk, a long one. Only we must be reasonable, calm. Look at things and ourselves clearly; know definitely what we want; try to bring our plans into action; know how to wish." At these last words she imitated the nasal voice of Baron Emil, laughed at it, and dropped down on the carpet before Malvina had seated herself on the low ottoman. Irene, taking her mother's hands in her own, fixed her eyes on her eyes, and began: "Mamma, if you wish I shall become very soon the wife of the famous Mediaevalist, Baron Emil, and we shall all three of us go to America--beyond the seas--" "Oh, no! no! no!" exclaimed Malvina, who bent toward her daughter, and put her arms around the young woman with such terror as if she were shielding her from a falling house. "Not that! Not that! Something different--entirely different." At that moment some impulsive, or impatient, hand shook the door-latch. "Not permitted!" cried Irene, and she asked: "Who is there?" There was no answer, but the latch moved again, though in a timid, and, as it were, imploring manner. "You cannot come in," repeated Irene. There was a rustle against the sofa outside, a light and quick step moved away. "Cara!" whispered Malvina. "For her as well as for ourselves there is need to end this position at the earliest," said Irene, with a sudden frown. It was Cara; she had left the door of her mother's room with drooping head, with a great frown on her forehead, and no thought for the little dog, tugging at her skirt as usual. Half an hour before, when Maryan and Miss Mary had risen from chess, she rose, too, pushed her hand under her brother's arm and said: "I have something to say to you." Her seriousness was so evident that Maryan answered, with a smile: "If your speech is to be as solemn as your face is we shall have little joy. What have you to tell me?" Without answering she led him through the blue drawing-room to the next one more faintly lighted. Here she halted, looked around, and, seeing only inanimate objects, asked: "Why have you quarrelled with father?" This question in her mouth astonished him, and he asked in turn: "Why do you wish this information? You might dream of the role of peacemaker." Without a shade of laughter, with forehead somewhat wrinkled beneath bright curls of hair, she repeated the question: "Why have you quarrelled with father? Do you not love him? Why can you not love him? For me, father is an ideal! He is so wise, noble, great. When he was so long away I dreamed about him, wanted his return, imagined how happy we should all be when he came. But that is not the case in any way. All in the house seem to be at variance, angry, disappointed--I see this well, but I cannot understand why. Why? why is it?" Maryan fixed his eyes on her attentively and laughed, but his laugh was not sincere, it was forced. "Curiosity," said he, "is the first step toward hell, and the surest road to premature age. You will grow old before your time, little one." "This is not curiosity!" interrupted Cara. "There is some kind of trouble here, I know not what it is; but something so unpleasant and--dreadful. Sometimes it seems to me that someone will die, or that something will vanish, and that, in general, something awfully bad will happen to somebody--I--know not what it is, but it is very bad. I know not what it is, but it is something--it is something--" Maryan frowned and interrupted her: "Since you know not what it is, nor to whom it will happen, nor how, what do you ask me for? Am I a master of the cabala, to interpret childish dreams for you?" "This is not a dream; it is something of the sort that wanders in the air, touches, breathes, goes away and comes again, like a haze--or the wind. You are grown up, and all say that you are clever. I beg you to explain this--I think, too, that, if you wished, you might so arrange matters that all would go better. It is your duty to do this. Do you not love mamma, father, Ira? I love them immensely--I would give up everything for them. I do not understand even how any person could live without loving somebody with full heart, and all strength--I could not. But what use--I am not grown up, not wise, I cannot even understand anything. With you it is different, but you have quarrelled with father. You do not even love him, I see that well. For what reason? Why? My brother, you might, at least, tell me something to explain." She stopped, and he stared at her, a look of indecision increased on his face. Something of concern, and a trifle of tenderness gleamed in his eyes. It might have seemed for some seconds that he would put his arm around her, or stroke her with his palm and smooth away the wrinkles from her childish forehead. But--"Arcadian" feelings were in the past, so he began to speak coldly and deliberately: "My dear, you are torturing your little head for nothing with affairs of this world; you are not equal to them yet. I cannot tell anything to you, or explain anything, for you and I are at the two opposite poles of thought. You speak of devotion, duty, and love, like a governess, for you have a governess yet. As to my disagreement with father, you know nothing of what caused it; but, to be a kindly brother, I will answer a few words. Two developed and energetic individualities have met in this case and come into collision, like two planets. Two egotisms also--do not show such frightened eyes. Stupid nurses frighten children with a beggar, a gypsy, or an egotist, but mature people know that egotism is a universal right; and, moreover, good business. Be an egotist. Take no trouble about what does not concern your own self and strive to develop your own individuality. Keep this in view, play joyously with Puffie, and go to sleep early, for long watching spoils the complexion of young ladies. Begin to think to-morrow of the dress which you will wear at that brilliant ball--planned by our father to torment mamma--and you will have success. Do not mind those mists, dreams, and other visions which come and go. They are conditions of mind which are very much subject to fancy, and other painted pots. This is all that I, your great-grandfather, can tell you, or mention as advice. Look at Ira and imitate her wisdom, which knows how to make sport of the world around her. Good-night to you, little one!" He pressed her hand in such a friendly manner that he hurt it, and then went away, disappearing at the other end of the chamber. Cara stood for a time with her eyes fixed on the floor, then she raised her head and looked around at the void in which silence had fixed itself. The globe-lamps burning, here and there, at the walls, filled the drawing-room with a hazy, half-light, in which, here and there, glittered golden reflections, and the features of faces, and landscapes flimmered on pictures. Farther on, from the shady corner of the other drawing-room, slender and swelling vases appeared, partially; portions of white garlands on the walls; the delicate dimness of dulled colors on Gobelin tapestry. Farther still, in the small warm and bright drawing-room, lights were burning in the candelabra, and a crown of glittering crystals were hanging like icicles, or immense frozen tears. Farthest off, in the dining-room, with its dark walls, gleamed a great lamp, in its hanging bronze, like a point of light, above the table. This point seemed very far from where Cara was standing, and in all the space between her and it there was not a voice, not a rustle, nothing living. Only once a waiter, dressed in black, passed on tip-toe through the dining-room, emerged into the full light of the lamp, and disappeared behind a door. After that there was no voice, no step, no noise--nothing living. All at once a clock began to strike nine. Its metallic sound inclined to bass, and was heard clearly in the silence which had settled in the vacant chambers. One, two, three--at the fourth stroke another clock was heard in a distant study. Its sound was thinner and more like singing--these two seemed to be a voice and its echo; the sounds from these resembled a mysterious conversation carried on by things that were inanimate. Cara hurried then, and hastened through the drawing-rooms on tip-toe toward her mother's boudoir. Through her widely opened eyes looked fear, and under bright curls her forehead was thickly wrinkled. CHAPTER VIII Because of his absence of ten days Darvid, on his return from the hunting scenes, which had passed noisily and splendidly at Prince Zeno's, rushed into the whirl of business--of labors and visits which even for him, who was so greatly trained, proved to be wearisome and difficult. He drove out; he received for long hours, both alone and with the assistance of others; he wrote, reckoned, counselled, discussed, concluded contracts, with a multitude of men. Sometimes, in the very short intervals between occupations, in his carriage, after a noisy and laborious night, or at the almost sleepless end of it, while putting himself to bed, he thought, that in every case the amusement from which he had returned a few days before had cost him more than the worth of it. His life was a belt of toil and duties, so closely woven that every interruption brought to a new point an accumulation of these toils and duties that might surpass even his powers. And what had his object been? Why had he gone? Had he found pleasure in that place? What pleasure? Those full-grown, or even old men, who found their delight, or disappointment in this, that they had hit or had missed a shot; those great lords, spending their time at a recreation which, by the uproar, the style of conversation, the spectacle of bloodshed, reminded him of the mental and physical condition of wild men--seemed to him children which were sometimes annoying and sometimes ridiculous. Such frivolous amusement, idle, somewhat savage, somewhat knightly, found no access to his brain, which had been occupied so long with the seriousness of dates and figures. He had met there, it is true, though only once, a man in a lyric mood. A youthful person, who was riding one day at his side, and who afterward, when they halted, strove to incline him to enthusiasm because of the snow-covered field; the fresh breezes blowing over that field; the deep perspective of the forest, etc. That man was lyric. He confessed openly that the hunting was to him indifferent; that he took part in it not for game, but for nature. He loved nature. Yes, yes, Darvid knew that many people loved nature. Art and nature must be powers, since a multitude of men bow down to them. Perhaps he, too, would have done so if the career of his life had led him into their presence, but the path of his life led him in another direction, far from nature and art, hence he did not know them; he had not had the time. He looked at a field, at snow, at a forest--and he saw a field, snow, a forest--nothing higher, nothing more. He was of those who call a cat a cat, a rogue a rogue, and hold every hyperbole, ode, and enthusiasm in silent contempt. He listened to his lyric companion, at first with curiosity, investigating in the man a certain kind of people little known to him. When he had finished he listened only through politeness, and with concealed annoyance. He concealed his annoyance, and tried openly to pretend that he shared the enthusiasm, the rapture, and the gladness. He was, of course, in an assembly of very wealthy persons, standing very high. He sailed in a sea of blood purely blue, so he hid away irony, contempt, and yawning, and had on the outside only smoothness itself, affability, and general pleasantness of manner, speech, and smiles. That was also a labor, rewarded at once with a certain degree of lively enjoyment. In lordly drawing-rooms, himself the equal of the highest, while passing the time in a friendly manner and conversing with princes he was unconscious at first that he raised his smooth, lofty forehead and gave himself out as greater than he was in reality, and inhaled with distended nostrils the odor of that grandeur which surrounded him as well as that which was his own. But soon this condition yielded to something embarrassing, not quite clearly defined, but causing this, that he did not feel altogether certain of himself and the fitness of his whole self to the surrounding. For though the politeness of those about him was unquestioned and most exquisite, though words of praise in recognition of his services and labor struck his hearing, though his strong feet had under them a foundation carved from gold; he felt strange in that position, involved in phenomena which were new to him, and bristling with difficulties. Sometimes the guests mentioned things of which he was ignorant, they used expressions which were strange to him, and referred to degrees of relationship, and events with which he was unacquainted. He began to stand guard over his own words and movements, with a mysterious fear lest something of his might come out too emphatic, or high colored for the background before which he found himself. In spite of everything which connected the man with that background, he began to feel a broad vacuum between him and it himself. This timidity, a thing entirely new, entirely unknown to Darvid from his earliest years, was an oppression which, during the last days of the hunt, fell on him together with weariness, and some third thing--a feeling of the difference between himself and those who surrounded him. Nothing could help him: neither the iron labor which they praised audibly, nor the millions piled up by that labor--millions for which they felt unconcealed reverence. Among those men into whose society he had always desired to enter as an integral part thereof, on that social height to which he had been climbing in imagination and with effort, he felt as if he were in some uneasy chair, put out in a cold wind, and deprived of every outlook. He found nothing there on which to rest his eye, or his thought. Emptiness, emptiness, weariness. A little humiliation which, like a tiny, but venomous worm, was boring into the bottom of his heart. It was not wonderful, therefore, that when he thought of how he had used his time, and of all that he had seen, heard, and passed through, there was on his lips one of those smiles most bristling with pins points, while in his mind he repeated the expression: "Wretchedness!" He was too wise not to give this name at times to many things of the world which he desired and toward which he was struggling. After some days of labor, so intense that it astonished those who saw it, and which weakened those who assisted in it, he received at an hour before evening, as customary, in his study, all men who came either on business, or with visits. He knew no exceptions for anyone, nor indulgence for himself. He received all, conversed with all, for it was impossible to foresee what a given man might contribute, or what he might be good for, if not at the moment, some time, if not much, then a little. But his cheeks seemed thinner than usual, and at moments his speech was less fluent. That hunting trip, and all which he had experienced at it, and afterward, days of activity and unparalleled exertion, were reflected on his face in an expression of suffering. And sometimes even a slight hesitation in speech arose from this, that his mind ran to a subject which tortured him, and raised in his breast a lump of slimy serpents. Some hours before he had inquired of his secretary, who, in spite of youth, zeal, and wit, was bending beneath the burden of labor imposed on him, whether everything was ready for the ball to be given soon, and whether he had received directions from the lady of the house during his, Darvid's, recent absence. The secretary showed great astonishment. How was that? Then the project had not been abandoned? On the morning after the departure of his principal the secretary sought to come to an understanding with Pani Darvid on this subject, but was able to see only Panna Irene, who declared that he would receive no instructions, and that his assistance would not be needed. After that there was silence in the house, undisturbed by preparations of any kind. "Then," said Darvid, "my wife must be out of health. She has neuralgia frequently. What is to be done? A woman's nerves are a force majeure." But now, while receiving visits and speaking of business, he avoided thinking of the unexpected resistance. How was this! She--the woman for whom the highest favor, the pinnacle of happiness had been the possibility of remaining at the head of his house, in the brilliancy of wealth and general respect, dared--had the shamelessness to oppose his will! He felt such contempt that, in thought, he threw that woman on the ground to trample her; in spite of this, that, almost unconsciously, he ascribed the blame not to her, but to Irene. Almost unconsciously he saw the tall young lady; she stood before his eyes, cold and distinguished; she, who at the foot of the stairway, in the down of her black fur cloak, with an almost hard glitter in her eyes, under the fantastic hat, had said: "That ball will not be given." That was Irene. The other woman could not have risen to this act. Did he not know her? She had always been so mild and weak--powerless, pitiable! She could not command such energy! It was Irene! With these thoughts he pressed the hand of the last guest, and said to him at the threshold, that there was absolute need for the commercial company of which they had been talking to gain a broader foundation of activity by obtaining more and surer sources of credit. "Credit, my dear sir, credit is the first letter in the alphabet of contemporary finance. Send some man to the capital--some man--" He hesitated here, thinking "It was Irene!" Then he finished: "Some man with proper authority and weight--best of all that person of whom we have been speaking. Such is my advice." After the last bow of the guest they closed the door of the anteroom. Darvid turned and saw Irene standing at the round table. That day, while passing on the stairs, when she was returning from a trip to the city, and he was hastening to the carriage waiting for him, they had greeted each other hurriedly and in passing. He had not a moment's time then to talk with her; she, too, was in a hurry, for she ran up the stairs quickly. "Bon jour, pere!" said she, inclining her head with swift movement. "Bon jour, Irene," answered he, touching his hat. Behind him moved the secretary, carrying a heavy portfolio of papers; after her went some merchant's servant with packages. No greeting was necessary now. Irene, standing at the table, began to speak at once: "I have come, father, to beg you in mamma's name and my own for a half-an-hour's conversation, but to-day, now, absolutely." Her bodice, which was dark and close fitting, had a very high-standing ruff, which enclosed her slightly elongated and very pale face, just as the half-open shield of a leaf encloses a white flower-bud. Her whole person, in that chamber, with its very high ceiling and massive furniture, seemed smaller and less tall than elsewhere. However, the words "now and absolutely" were spoken with such solid emphasis, that Darvid halted in the middle of the room and fixed a sharp glance on her. "You have come in your mother's name and your own," said he. "Why this solemnity and decision? You wish, of course, to explain the reasons why your mother and you have seen fit to oppose my will." "No, father," answered she, "but I intend to announce to you mamma's will and mine." "As to that ball?" asked he, quickly. "No, the question is immensely more important than the ball." Both were silent for a moment. If the words exchanged had been less emphatic, and had followed one another less quickly, Darvid and his daughter might, perhaps, have heard, in a corner of the room, behind a wall of books arranged on highly ornamented shelves, a slight rustle which lasted a short time. Something had moved there, and then stopped moving. "It touches an affair of immensely greater importance than the ball," repeated Irene; "namely, my mother's peace, honor, and conscience." "What pomposity of expression!" exclaimed Darvid, with a slight smile. "I observe more and more that exaggeration is a disease in my family. I should prefer simple speech from you." "The question before us is not a simple one, so I use a style fitted to the subject," answered Irene, and she sat down in one of the armchairs, erect, her hands on her knees, motionless, between the wide and heavy arms of the chair. "The subject of which I have to speak with you, father, is much involved and delicate. Do you not share my opinion, that one may commit what is commonly called an offence and still possess a noble heart, and suffer greatly? In common opinion this suffering is a just punishment, or penance for the offence committed, but I consider this opinion as a painted pot, for everything in this world is so involved, so vain, and relative." She spoke with perfect calmness, but at the last words she shrugged her shoulders slightly. Darvid looked at her with dazed eyes. "How is this?" began he, in a low voice. "You--you--have you come to talk to me--about this? Do you know? Do you understand? And have you come to talk about--this?" "My father," answered Irene, "to bring our conversation to any result we must first of all push away painted pots from between us." "What does that mean?" asked Darvid. "What does it mean? What are painted pots? They are little dabs of wretched clay, but painted in beautiful colors; they are just what naivete, bashfulness, modesty, and darned socks like them would be to-day in my case." She laughed. "I have known all that has happened this long time. I was a little girl, in a corner of a room, dressing a doll, when a certain conversation between you and mamma struck my ears, and helped me considerably to understand what took place afterward. Because of business and difficulties which swallowed your time you were ever absent, father. Oh, I have no thought of criticising you, no thought whatever. Here a question of logic presents itself, simple logic. You were chasing after that which was your happiness, the delight of your life, while mamma--poor mamma stooped to pick up also for herself a little happiness and delight. But your happiness and delight were open, brilliant, triumphant, while mamma's were always full of darkness, poison, and shame." For the first time in that conversation her voice quivered; and, inclining her face, she brushed away from her dress, with the rosy tips of her fingers, some bit of dust that had dropped on it; then again she gazed with a look clear and calm at her father, who had sat down in front of her. "To convince you, father," continued she, "that our conversation has a perfectly important and definite meaning I permit myself to open before you the secret, but for me, the visible springs which caused the so-called offence, and present disposition of mamma." "It would be better to avoid this and proceed to the point directly," said Darvid, throwing his eyeglasses on his nose with a nervous movement. "No, father, permit me to take a few minutes of time, I beg you. This is necessary. Every man has in himself a soul, so-called, personal to him, unlike others." She halted for a moment, shrugged her shoulders: "For that matter, am I sure of this? The soul may be a painted pot also. But it is the usual name given to our various feelings and inclinations. So pour le commodite de la conversation, I shall use this word." She smiled and continued: "There are various souls, some as hard as steel, others soft as wax, some inaccessible to sentiment, others sentimental. Mamma's soul is soft and sentimental. Tenderness, care, confidence are as needful to her as air is to breathing. Do I know, for that matter, the various ingredients which make up the so-called love, attachment, etc. You, father, have a soul of steel and immensely great business power--we were children--Cara had barely begun to speak then. Well, a moment came--do I know when? I do not know--but--finally that happened which must have happened more than once to you in your very numerous, remote, and prolonged journeys. Do I not speak the truth?" In the high plates of her dark ruff her face was in a blush, but she smiled a little, and with strangely flashing eyes looked directly into the face of her father. "For," added she, "one would need to have mental rheumatism to believe that you loved only mamma all the time, and even that you loved her in general--mamma, of course, did not think that you did." "Irene!" cried Darvid. But she did not permit interruption. "Allow me, I beg you, to say that I am not criticising. I am not in any sense. There is not a shade of criticism in what I say. I only state and expose facts and causes. That is all. This is requisite. Without this it would be impossible to understand mamma's request and mine which I will tell you quickly. And now I return to the question of the individual soul. That is a thing of capital importance. Offences, so-called, rise from so-called mean souls, or from noble ones. Of the first I know little, but if an offence comes from a noble soul it is to that soul a great and terrible torment--I have looked at such a torment, and while looking at it I have been brought to name the so-called love, and the so-called happiness, painted pots. Idyls! There may be idyls somewhere, but that which I saw--I assure you, father, did not encourage--did not encourage me to look at things from the idyllic angle." Darvid rose with an impulsive movement. "To the question, Irene, to the question! Say what the request is for which you have come. And from what does your mother suffer so greatly? It would be better were you to tell your wish at once, and without these introductions. Do reproaches of conscience trouble your mother? I have no time for psychological analysis, and should like to finish this conversation more quickly. Well, was it that besides conscience and other things like it--she did not find in her lover the man whom her sentiment imagined? I am ashamed to speak with you of this. Tell quickly what your wish is." With a trembling hand he approached the end of his cigarette to the candle burning on the desk; his face now grown smaller, was contracted from the wrinkles which covered his forehead, and the countless quivers which passed across his face. Irene, very pale now, followed her father with her eyes; her lips were almost blue. "Yes, father," answered she, "in mamma's soul that which we call conscience is greatly developed. Moreover, a feeling of shame in presence of us, and humiliation that everything which she has comes from you." At this moment something rustled again, somewhere in a corner, but no one turned attention to it. Darvid, who passed through the room a number of times, hastily, stopped again: "Speak more quickly," said he, "I cannot understand what it is that your mother wishes. I left her in the position of a respected wife, of a mother, and mistress of a house. She is surrounded with luxury, she shines in society, and enjoys life." Irene opened her arms with a movement indicating pity: "This which you consider as the highest favor for mamma is just what she does not wish. She does not wish to enjoy the respect of society, which she does not deserve, as she thinks; nor to make use of the luxury which comes from you, and which is bound up with speechless contempt. Mamma desires to leave this house; in general, to abandon society-life, with all its luxury and brilliancy. I have known for a considerable time of this, and therefore had the plan of marrying soon and withdrawing from here with mamma." Darvid put an end to his emotion; his daughter's words approached facts, and facts demanded cool blood. "If you wish to speak of your intention to marry the baron, I must tell you--" "You have no need to speak of that, father. I have abandoned that intention. I had it, but I have dropped it. Another plan entirely different has taken its place. You own a village in a remote province which came to you from your parents. I wish to ask you to give me that village, to endow me with it, but immediately. I suppose, I know, even, that it was your intention to give me a dowry ten times as valuable. Now, I am ready to renounce nine-tenths, orally, in writing, in every form and every manner indicated by you, but I beg you, as a favor, I beg you earnestly, for this one-tenth, and beg that I may receive it without delay." She bent her whole form low, and her eyes, which she raised to her father, were filled with tears; these, however, she restrained immediately. Darvid answered after a moment of silence: "Though I do not understand this whim of yours, I do not see in it anything impossible, or harmful. On the contrary, I shall be glad to do something which pleases you, and to-morrow, if you like, you shall be the owner of that wretched hole. But of what use can it be to you?" Irene rose, went around the table, and, bending, pressed her father's hand to her lips; and then she returned to her former place: "I thank you, father," said she; "you satisfy my most ardent desire. That 'wretched hole,' as you call it, is just the place that mamma desires. We shall go from here, and settle down there as quickly as possible." "What?" cried Darvid, bending forward with astonishment, but soon he began to speak calmly: "I come to the conclusion that when talking with my children I should not be astonished at anything. I must be ready for any surprise." "That is natural, father, for we hardly know each other," interrupted Irene. "In reproaches of conscience," continued she, "and various other feelings of that sort, mamma goes to exaggeration, she goes so far as to desire penance, punishment, voluntarily accepted. If time and circumstances were favorable she would enter a cloister assuredly, and put on a hair shirt. That is an exaggeration, but what is to be done? Characters are various; hers is of that kind. But the desire which mamma has of withdrawing from the noise and show of the world, I understand perfectly; for, first of all--" She made a gesture of contempt with her hand. "All the honors, the glitter, the luxury, etc., are gates 'before which men with spades are standing;' this means that behind them we find dust, emptiness, nothing." "Great God!" exclaimed Darvid. "What do you say, father?" inquired she. "Your age, the brilliant position in which you have lived since childhood--and this disenchantment." "Just this brilliant position, father--just because of this brilliant position, perhaps. We are not talking of me, however--but because of this, which in me you call disenchantment, I am able to understand mamma's wish to leave society, all the more because, if I were in her position, all homage, show, luxury, amusements would for me be as impossible as they are for her. This depends on character. Moreover, mamma remembers that everything which she uses is yours, and the use of it attended by your contempt, and the evident impossibility of ever coming to any understanding is such a poison--so I beg you to give me Krynichna. I am your daughter, and, as it seems to me, you have no thought of disinheriting me, so if I own Krynichna, mamma will live with me and receive everything from me alone." Her voice grew weaker, and her posture less constrained, in her whole form there was an expression of suffering. Everything which she said cost her, in spite of appearances to the contrary, much effort and suffering. Darvid was silent a while, then he said: "It seems to me that I am Ali Baba, listening to the tales of Sheherazade. If I should agree to your plan what would you do there?" "I do not know clearly as yet. This is mamma's idea; her wish; she will discover more and tell me. We will examine; we shall see. Into mamma's plans, besides quiet obscurity, and modesty of life, labor enters also." She spoke in a low, wearied voice: "An idyl!" laughed Darvid. "An idyl, father; I used to laugh at all idyls without knowing that I had one in myself. It has saved me from many, and, perhaps, dreadful things. Yes, I have an idyl: I love mamma." Then her thin lips, famous in society for their precocious, bitter irony, quivered as do those of children when preparing to cry. Darvid turned to her quickly, and said with a prolonged hiss: "Why?" She raised sad eyes to him, and with a voice in which Malvina's sweet tones were heard, she answered: "I am not sure that anyone could tell why he or she loves. Mamma has always been kind--but I do not know--she is very pleasant, and she and I have been together always--I do not know--it may be, besides, that often I have seen her so unhappy. You see, father, that I am sincere; I answer all your questions as far as I am able. Have regard to mamma's scruples, I beg, and my request; do not oppose our plans." Darvid stood in the middle of the room, he raised his head, his eyes had the flash of steel. "No," said he. "My daughter shall not wither away in a remote corner with my consent, because it pleases her mother to hide her--shame there." "Father," answered Irene, "I must explain that your resistance will only give a more permanent, and, for you, a more disagreeable, form to our withdrawal." She rose, and again on her face, surrounded by the high ruff, was an expression of resolve and energy. A moment before she was full of emotion and pain, now with the need of defence she found energy. "Do you suppose, father, that you can understand what happened, forgive, to use the general phrase, and restore your esteem and friendship to mamma?" With a form as rigid as iron, and with an evil smile on his lips, Darvid answered immediately: "No. I am very sorry that I cannot play a comedy of noble-mindedness, for this is perhaps a popular comedy. But that of which you speak is forever and altogether impossible." Irene moved her head affirmatively. "Then mamma and I must withdraw; if not to Krynichna to some remote place abroad--I know four European languages well, I know how to paint, and I know a few other things. Mamma possesses a real genius in several rare accomplishments, and you remember well her beautiful music. We will give lessons, and do something else--I know not what--we shall find means of existence. But I beg you, father, to believe that in no case shall we remain in this house." With pale, almost with blue lips, she laughed and added: "Either as inhabitants of Krynichna, or making our own living in some distant place--which do you prefer, father? In the last instance it depends on you. One of these two things we shall do most certainly; that is, properly speaking, I shall do it; I, who am mamma's only defence. I became of age some months ago. I have finished my twenty-first year, and--no one can hinder me from acting in this way." Whoever had seen her at that moment would have believed, perforce, that no man and no thing would have power to hinder her in carrying out her resolve. Omitting differences of age and sex, she seemed the living portrait of her father. The same cold self-confidence as in him; the same clear penetrating glance as of steel; the same enigmatical smile on impressionable and also cold lips. As if involuntarily, and lowering her voice, she said in addition: "It is our duty to put a radical stop to the family idyl out of regard also to Cara. She is innocent yet--she knows nothing--she loves all, and not only loves but worships. Life has not touched her, even with the tip of one of its angel feathers. Just imagine what would happen if, into that little volcano of lofty feeling, a spark of this knowledge were to fall. And this may happen any moment. If we do not change the condition of affairs it will happen." She was silent, and Darvid was silent also. It might seem that he recognized only Irene's last argument as worthy of attention. The two voices had grown silent, one after the other; then, somewhere in the corner of the room, was heard a rustle, not so low as before, far stronger, a low knocking rather than a rustle, and almost at the same time a servant in the open door of the antechamber called: "The horses are ready." Irene, who had turned her face toward the rustle, or knocking, thought some of the countless papers in the room had dropped from the furniture, or that some book had fallen. Darvid, who also had heard the knocking, or rustle, forgot it while looking at his watch. "I shall be late," said he. "You have told me things over which I must meditate. I cannot deny that they possess considerable importance. Hence, I delay, and shall beg you soon to continue this conversation. Good-night, and perhaps till to-morrow." "Let it be only till to-morrow. I beg you, father. Tomorrow." Miss Mary was sitting in her pupil's bedroom, a beautiful nest which wealth had formed as a symbol of the springtime of life. From the top of the walls to the bottom, cretonne, interchanged with muslin, formed succeeding folds on which the freshest flowers of spring seemed to have been scattered. The walls, the windows, the furniture were covered with a shower of forget-me-nots and rosebuds, strewn on grounds of yellow as pale as if sunlight had penetrated them slightly. Groups of green plants at the windows looked like little groves made ready for the songs of nightingales; artistic playthings, porcelain figures, suggested a child amused with dolls yet; but a multitude of large books in gilt bindings suggested the active and methodical development of a young mind, which surely had dreams of Paradise on that lace and satin bed which covered a bedstead inlaid with mother-of-pearl. On all the furniture: small arm-chairs, tables, screens, which reminded one of butterfly-wings, mother-of-pearl rainbow-tints passed into milk-white. Spring tones, joyous motives, light and graceful forms, filled the room of that little daughter of a millionnaire with an atmosphere of childish innocence and tenderness; it was lighted, from floor to ceiling, and from wall to wall, with a cheering light, poured from the rosy tulip-shaped shade of a grand lamp. In that rosy lamp-light Miss Mary seemed full of care. Under her smooth hair her forehead was smooth and calm, but in her thoughtful eyes, and in the way that her head rested on her hand, anxiety was evident. Conscientiously devoted to the duties undertaken by her, she retained the warmth and purity which permeated the house of an Anglican pastor; chance had committed to her care, in a strange atmosphere, a rare spirit, one of those which come to the world in the form of a flame. Even three years earlier, Cara had seemed to her, at first glance, one of those souls for whom life is love, worship, trust, and--nothing more. No ambitions or imaginings beyond those. All her thoughts and wishes issued from her heart and went back to it. Her innate sensitiveness was inexplicable in its source, just as genius is in other persons. Sensitiveness in her demanded the accomplishment of her wishes as imperiously as, in organisms of another sort, hunger claims satisfaction for the body. She was by nature a flame and a bird. The riddle of her existence was involved in two words: to blaze and to fly. Besides, she had impulse and caprice; she loved to twitter, and to laugh quietly in a corner. From the thoughtfulness into which she dropped oftener and oftener, she woke up as a gladsome and petted child; that room was filled with her quick speech, her thin voice, her gestures, almost theatrical, her laughing, her humming, and at times all the drawing-rooms were filled with them. This day she woke up full of twittering, and before dressing threw her bare arms around Miss Mary, looking into her eyes, declaiming verses, telling childish dreams. "Why are you so delighted?" inquired Miss Mary. "Is it at the coming ball?" Cara pouted her scarlet lips contemptuously, and answered: "The ball! What do I care? I do not want the ball! Mamma and Ira do not want it either, so I will go to-day and beg father to defer it. But I am delighted this morning! The sun is so pleasant! Do you see how the rays quiver; how they slip among the leaves, like little snakes, or spring, like golden butterflies?" With outstretched finger she showed the play of sunrays among the clumps of green at the windows; herself in white muslin which covered her slender neck and childish breast, and with naked arms, she might remind one of a butterfly escaping from the chrysalis of childhood. In the evening (of that day) Cara circled about the room; her mouth filled with historical names, and lines of poetry, with which she had been occupied all day. Finally, she caught Puffie in her arms, and, courtesying so low before Miss Mary that she touched the floor, announced that she was going to her father. From time immemorial she had not talked with him a moment. Sometimes he was going out, or had not the time. But to-day she would watch him, she would wait till all his business was finished, all his guests gone; she would seize her father and bring him to her mother's study. Miss Mary would go there; perhaps Maryan would be there too. Her idyllic heart, like a bird in a grove, was eternally dreaming of quiet retreats, of confidential talks, of the attachment of hearts and the pressure of hands. Her picture of the Anglican rectory taken from Miss Mary's narrative, and situated in a grove of old oaks, smiled at her like a bit of Paradise. "But mamma's study is so quiet, and full of fragrant flowers--" An hour had passed since she had skipped away with Puffie in her arms, and with the reflection of a bit of Paradise in her eyes. Miss Mary felt alarmed. For some time she had felt continual alarm. She observed carefully the change taking place in Cara's disposition, and discovered in it causes for anxiety. But she could do nothing. While she was friendly to the family to which fate had brought her, and while she experienced from it kindness mingled with respect, it was to her a stranger. She observed everything, and said nothing. She strove, more and more, to be inseparable from Cara, and to turn her attention toward things of remote interest. That was a splendid mansion, but terrors were roaming around in its drawing-rooms, among plushes, mirrors, damasks, satins, and gold. From the gates of the mansion, the rumble of a carriage went forth, grew faint in the street, and was lost in the distance. The master of the mansion was in that carriage which sank in the uproar of the city, to return, barely, at daybreak. A quarter of an hour passed, Cara did not return. Maybe she went to her mother? Another quarter of an hour. Miss Mary rose up, took a small candlestick in her hand with a candle, which she lighted to use in her wandering through the series of drawing-rooms. But among the soft folds of cretonne and muslin the lofty door, ornamented with gilded arabesques and borders, opened slowly, and Cara walked into the chamber holding Puffie at her bosom. Her face was so bent that the lower part of it was hidden in the silky coat of the little animal. Miss Mary, sitting down again, inquired: "Where were you, Cara, after your father went away? With mamma?" In answer, a few steps from the door, the sound of a fall was heard. That was Puff, he had dropped from her arms to the floor. She had let him slip down along her dress. Cara had never treated her favorite with such indifference, or so carelessly. Leaning forward, Miss Mary fixed her eyes on the young girl. Oh, my God! What has happened? Who can tell, but something has happened, that is certain. Cara's cheeks, recalling usually the leaves of a full rose, were as white as the soft muslin covering her chamber, and her lips, always scarlet, formed a barely visible line, pale and narrow. Tall, slender, and erect, without the slightest movement of hand or head, with dry eyes looking somewhere into remoteness, she passed through the room, and with automatic movement dropped into a low chair near Miss Mary, who touched her hand and felt the cold of ice in it. "What is the matter, my dear? Are you ill?" Instead of giving an answer Cara rose and went to the cluster of green plants at the window. With her shoulders turned toward Miss Mary, she seemed to be looking at the plants; but, after a few minutes, she turned, and making some steps stopped, with her eyes fixed on the floor. "Cara, come to me!" cried Miss Mary. She went, and sat down at her side. The English girl looked at her sharply, and asked in a low voice: "Have you met anything disagreeable? Or anyone? Or has anyone--" She did not finish, for the delicate, pale face turned from her with quick movement, and said very hurriedly: "No! no! no!" Then the slender form of the girl slipped slowly from the chair to the carpet, and her head rested heavily on the knees of her governess. But barely had the soft hand of the English girl touched her hair, when Cara rose and went to the other side of the room, where the light screen, struck by her skirt, tottered and fell with a clatter. Without noticing the noise Cara turned now toward the lamp, and with a face which was growing ever paler she sat down opposite Miss Mary and opened one of the books lying on the table. Her brows were raised, this brought many wrinkles to her forehead; for a time it seemed as though she were reading, then she closed the book with a sudden gesture, stood up again, and went toward the door leading to the drawing-rooms. "Are you going to your mamma?" She made no answer, but sat on a low stool near the door. Puff went up, and, putting his forepaws on her knees, licked her hand. But that hand, usually so fondling, pushed the little dog far away with a sudden movement. Miss Mary rose, and was going to the stool, but she had hardly reached the middle of the room when Cara rose again and went to meet her. The English girl seized both her hands. "My dear," began the governess, "you frighten me. What has happened? What is your trouble? You should have confidence in me--I am your friend, and a friend of your family--perhaps, I can explain, or help you in some way. Has anything happened? Has there been an accident? What is it that troubles you?" The dry, dark eyes of the girl, looking, as it were, from some distant depth, met the kindly glance of her friend, and this whisper came from her lips: "Nothing! Nothing!" Then going some steps, she stopped at the table with the lamp on it, and again opened one of the books there. Miss Mary followed, put her arm around Cara, and wished to draw her near, but she, with an alarmed and supple movement, slipped from her embrace, put the book down, and turning, started to go somewhere. Miss Mary faced toward the door, and said: "I will go for your mother." But that instant she was frightened; for Cara, recovering her voice at once, screamed: "No!" Her eyes grew wild, and she began to tremble. There was no doubt: In the row of empty drawing-rooms which stretched beyond that door, ornamented with arabesques and gilded borders, the girl had seen some horror. But what the horror was, and whence it had crept forth, Miss Mary did not know. She sat down, and pale with fear, placed her helpless hands upon her knees. What could she do in presence of those blue lips, which were as silent as if shut by some seal, either sacred or infernal? What could she do? Cara's father was not at home, and to call her mother, when the very mention of that mother brought a cry of terror from the girl's breast, would have been a useless cruelty. Her brother? Her elder sister? Miss Mary's hand moved in a manner indicating doubt. It was necessary to wait, to leave her some time to herself. She might grow calm, overcome her fear, speak. Left to herself Cara went to the bed, knelt by it, and buried her face in the coverlet; but a few minutes later she wound her lithe form like the twist of a serpent, and turned her face toward the ceiling. She remained in this posture rather long, only changing, from time to time, the position of her head, which rested on the coverlet. Miss Mary remembered people seized with violent pains, who, in the fruitless hope of allaying them, changed positions and postures continually. She remembered, also, the faintness and weariness which cover the faces of people with pallor and an expression of unbearable disgust. A certain disgust, repulsive and unendurable, must be working in that slender breast, from which a low moan came when she turned her head from side to side. "Are you ill, dearest Cara; are you in pain?" Prom the bed, in a scarcely audible whisper, came: "No." She rose, went to Miss Mary, sat on the carpet, put her head on the English girl's knee, with her face toward the ceiling. She threw her hands back on her dishevelled hair, and then let them drop without control, so that they fell on the carpet as if lifeless. Her dry, inflamed eyes continued to look at the ceiling. Miss Mary, bent, and making her words as low and fondling as human words could be, inquired again: "Has anything happened? Has anything hurt you?" Changing the position of her head, and shaking it, as if she wished to shake something off, she whispered: "Nothing." And rising, she went again to the end of the room. Her hair, not long, but thick, like a bundle of silken flax, lay motionless on her narrow shoulders; her pendent hands seemed like two rose-buds falling from a bush. She stood again for a moment before the clump of green plants, then went around it and hid beyond the thickest palms at the window. Outside the window was the darkness of a winter evening, relieved somewhat by snow which covered the broad garden. The darkness was spotted by red lamps, which illuminated the street beyond the garden. Some months before, Cara had opened a window overlooking that same garden; she did this in the middle of the night to look at the first snow and at the frost in the moonlight. Snow was lying there now, at the close of winter, surely the last snow. Much time passed. Miss Mary rose, and went to the narrow space between the clump of plants and the window. Cara was standing there at the very window, looking into the darkness, or at the red spots made by lanterns, placed here and there in it. The governess saw that a change had taken place in her. She was not pale as before; on the contrary, a lively flush had come out on her face. Her features were less rigid; instead of the nauseous disgust and dull pain, an expression of deep thought had covered them. As happened often when Cara was thinking deeply, the point of her finger was in her mouth. Miss Mary felt relieved. "Cara is no longer pale," thought she; "she has stopped over something; she stands long in one place; she is recovering her balance; soon she will be pacified completely, and will tell what has happened." "Do you not wish me to read to you?" Cara shook her head, and said in a low voice: "I want to sleep." "To sleep! so early? But you are tired, of course. Very well, dear. Lie down and rest. I will call Ludvika to open the bed. Or no--I will do it myself. No one need make a noise here that would prevent us from talking." With great goodness and kindly grace, while arranging the bed with a rustle of silk, and the waves of lace going through her fingers, Miss Mary told vivaciously of many things which were near and confidential, things always affecting Cara, and though no answer came to her from beyond the green plants, her voice, which sounded agreeably, scattered the gloom and silence of the chamber. Half an hour later the door to the drawing-room was opened partly, and the voice of Irene said some words in English. Miss Mary went to the door on tip-toe. "Cara is sleeping already," whispered she; "we ought not to wake her; she is a little unwell." The door was closed slowly and in silence; some minutes later the maid brought a tray in with tea and many dishes. Soon after Malvina entered the room. She approached her daughter's bed quietly, and anxious. "What is the matter?" whispered she. "Why did she go to bed so early?" Miss Mary gave some pacifying answer. That was caution. She felt always in that house, and on that day more than ever, the need of caution in making observations. Both looked at the girl, who, as they thought, was sleeping soundly; she breathed slowly and evenly, with a deep flush on her cheeks. Malvina bent down and impressed a long kiss on the forehead of her sleeping daughter. Then Miss Mary noted something of which she was not sure: when her mother's lips rested on Cara's forehead a quiver ran through the girl's body, from head to foot. But Miss Mary was not sure whether Cara really trembled, or it only seemed so to her. After Malvina's departure she remained at the bedside, with eyes fixed on the delicate face, which was growing more inflamed with an ever-increasing flush. A number of dark spots came out on her purple lips, which were parched and half open, her small pearl-like teeth gleamed behind them. "She is sick, but has fallen asleep!" thought Miss Mary. "Perhaps that horror, which I thought seized the child in the empty drawing-rooms, was an invention of her mind? Surely it was nothing more; she is simply ill; perhaps, not very ill, since she fell asleep so quickly." The small night-lamp shone in Cara's room like a blue spark. In the adjoining room, beyond the open door, far into the night, rustled book-leaves turned by the English governess. Miss Mary watched long, and stood often in the open door, between her room and Cara's, inclining forward, looking from a distance at the bed from which the regular, unbroken sound of breathing came to her. She is asleep. She moved a number of times and groaned, then again she was silent. Puff lay at her feet, like a bundle of ash-colored silk, and snored slightly. The street beyond the garden grew more and more silent till it was silent altogether. At the windows light began to whiten the shades and to draw aside the black curtain of darkness which was on the furniture. The wearied Miss Mary, in a long dressing-gown, ready to spring from her bed any moment, slept for a short time and then woke with a feeling of great fear. She was roused by a sharp cold by a breath of frosty air coming in through the open door. She sprang up and ran, with a cry, to Cara's chamber. There, on the threshold she saw beyond the spreading palm leaves the great window half open, and a slender, white figure sitting there in the gray dawn. When had she done that? How long had she sat there with her shoulders resting on the window-frame, with her naked feet hanging in the air, with her breast and arms stripped even of muslin? No one was ever to know. Miss Mary, while carrying the girl to bed with that strength which only terror can give one, felt in her embrace, limbs as stiff as those of a frozen corpse; but her breast rose and fell with her breathing which was heavy and audible; her cheeks and forehead were burning. In half a minute the window was closed; Miss Mary, with all the strength of long and supple arms, strove to warm the breast and shoulders, which were as cold as ice, and the skin on them stiffened. "Oh, child! you unkind! most dear! poor child! Why have you done this? Is it possible to do such things? Did you know what you were doing? Was that an unfortunate accident, or did you do it purposely? Tell, was it done purposely? Tell me! tell!" Cara for the first time looked straight into Miss Mary's face; she bent her head with a lively movement; her eyes shot forth triumph; a smile encircled her parched lips. In the glitter of her eyes, in the smile, in the curve of her neck, for the twinkle of an eye, shone forth once again the wilful, capricious Cara. Next moment her teeth began to chatter and her whole body trembled in a feverish chill, so that the silk of the bed rustled loudly. With that rustling was joined a dry, unbroken cough, which shook the fragile and ice-cold breast, the skin of which was rough, and had a tanned and withered look. Miss Mary sprang from her knees. On her lips were the words: "Her parents! A doctor!" The rumbling of a carriage was heard far away on the street, it drew nearer and nearer, rolled in through the gate of the house, and was silent. Miss Mary, all in white, her hair hanging over her shoulders, hastened to Darvid's study, through drawing-rooms in which, from behind black veils which the pale dawn was removing, emerged glass, metal, pictures, mirrors, plush, silk, polished surfaces, gildings, mosaics, marbles, porcelain, in the dull gleam of their colors. The dawn was in Darvid's study also; but the servant was lighting the hanging-lamp over the round table. Darvid, very pale, with a nervous movement, tore rather than drew the gloves from his hands. "Then did she return from me? Where did she come from? You say that she was with me, and returned--in that condition? But she was not here yesterday; I did not see her; she was not here--" "She was," answered Miss Mary; "she said that she was going to you; she did not return for more than an hour." "She might have been with her mother?" "No; I asked her sister about that. She was not with her mother; she was here." Darvid was astonished; he thought a while, and called suddenly: "Ah!" There was something tragic in the gesture with which he indicated the thick case full of books, forming with the two walls a little triangular space; then in the manner in which he intertwined his fingers: "She was there! And--she heard! Ah!" He stood for a moment as if rooted to the floor; he bit his lip; there were quivers on his cheeks and wrinkles on his forehead; then he approached Miss Mary, and asked in such a low voice that she barely heard him: "Did she do this purposely--purposely? Purposely?" "With clasped hands she said in a very low voice: "I cannot hide--maybe something will depend on this--she did it purposely." Then that man, usually calm and regular in all his movements, rushed to the door of the antechamber with the spring of a tiger. "Carriage!" cried he. "When the most famous doctor in the city came out of the sick girl's chamber that day for the second time, Darvid met him in the blue drawing-room, alone. He was as usual self-possessed, and with a pleasing smile in the presence of that man with a great name. "Is the disease defined?" asked he. It was defined, and very serious. Inflammation had seized the greater part of the lungs, and was working fiercely on an organism weakened by a previous attack. Besides, some kind of complication had supervened, something coming from the brain, from the nerves, something psychic. Darvid mentioned a consultation. "We may summon from abroad--from Paris, from Vienna; we have telegraphs and railroads at our service--as to expense--" concluded he with indifference "--as to expense, I shall not spare it. My whole fortune is at the disposal of--" He fixed in the eyes of the doctor a look in which was the desire for a silent understanding. "This is no hyperbole, or figure of rhetoric. I am ready to summon half medical Europe, and spend half my fortune." There was a quiver on his temples, around his mouth, and near his eyes, but he smiled. The doctor smiled also. "My dear sir," said he, "the case is not so peculiar as to need presentation before the judgment of Europe. But being in Europe--yes. I will serve you at once with the names of my foreign colleagues. But as to colossal money sacrifices, I must say that they will not help. Death, my dear sir, is such a giantess, that if she is to come, mountains of gold will not stop her. I will not say that she must come surely in this case. But if she is to come, half your fortune--that is, golden mountains--yes, golden mountains will be no hindrance to her. She will spring over them and--come." After the doctor had gone, Darvid remained alone for a while, and, with his eyes fixed on the floor, he thought: "A giantess! Golden mountains will not stop her! True, but science is also a giantess. And, besides, is human, and every human thing travels in golden chariots. But to set one giantess against the other, gold and energy are needed." For some time the great study was seething with activity, in sending letters and telegrams. Darvid was heard commanding and giving directions in a voice always low, but emphatic. He was decisive, cool, and active, as he always was when going to a contest. In the course of a few minutes arriving carriages halted, one after another, before the gate of the mansion. Out of them issued men full of importance, with famous names, very learned, specialists, old and young, strong in theory and practice. Some of these men it was almost impossible to see, for they were reposing in wealth and on laurels, but they had been snatched from their rest by the rumble of the golden chariot which came for them. There were many of these men. The blue room grew black from their garments as from a cloud. Darvid pressed their hands a little more firmly than he was wont to do; perhaps his side-whiskers dropped a little less symmetrically than usual, along cheeks somewhat paler than usual, but there was no other change in the man. And when the cloud of dark garments flowed from the blue room to the chamber of his daughter, a spark of triumph glittered in his eye. Let one giantess fight with the other; we shall see which one wins. The power of science was one of the very few articles of Darvid's faith. That power had to be great, since it was indispensable in the conquest of wealth. He had tried that power more than once in his mighty struggles for wealth; he would try it now, also. This was only the beginning of the battle. Diseases last a series of days, sometimes weeks, but to-morrow, after to-morrow, Europe will begin to ride hither on the golden chariot. Giantess against giantess! We shall see their force. Inflammation extending with great rapidity in the weak breast of the girl, besides a complication of the brain, not considerable, but giving much cause for concern--the normal condition of the mind shaken--that was the case. A long consultation was carried on in an undertone; some medicines were prescribed, and some advice given, in the domain of hygiene. Among the carriages which left the gate of the mansion, two were empty. The two dignitaries of science, who had remained in his house, Darvid conducted to his study for black coffee, excellent liquors, and cigars of uncommon quality. They had to remain some hours, then they would be relieved by others. They opposed this wish at first, for it was in opposition to their customs, to obligations assumed elsewhere; but Darvid, with his eyes looking very kindly into theirs, uttered a magic word. It was a figure unheard of--almost fabulous. They hesitated still; resisted; then they came to an understanding as to the how-and-when--and remained. Darvid's forehead smoothed for the moment, all wrinkles vanished from it. His child (in his mind he added), "my little one," during one hour of the day or night would not be without the good giantess, who would do battle against the wicked one. In the city, people said that Darvid, in anxiety for his daughter would commit some mad folly; but those who had seen him shrugged their shoulders. Not at all! There was not a man on earth who could preserve better, in such straits, cool blood, self-confidence, fluent speech, affability perfect, though cold. Only at times, from the quiver which ran over his face, from the temporary stare of his eyes, and the slight carelessness in dressing his hair, was it possible to divine in him a man playing for great stakes. Really, in the battle which he had begun and was fighting, the question was not of Cara alone--it was of her above all, but not of her alone. At the bottom of his being he felt himself a player, then, as he had been countless times before in cases wholly different; a player aided by energy, money, and universal reason, which was his own and that bought by money. The stakes in this play were not only the life of his child, but the one faith which he had--his faith in the all-mightiness, and all-effectiveness of energy, sound sense, and money. At one time and another, either with the doctors, or without them, Darvid entered Cara's chamber; where, in obedience to medical advice, they had not darkened the great windows through which light was pouring in its golden torrents. This light penetrated the yellowish folds of cretonne at the walls, lent apparent life to forget-me-nots and rose-buds scattered over them, played among the palm leaves, lay on the flowery carpet, struck out golden sparks on the gilding of toys and books, played with rainbow gleams on surfaces inlaid with mother-of-pearl. In this gleaming light, near the mirror, which was surrounded by porcelain flowers, amid flasks gilded and enamelled, a rosy Cupid was drawing a bow with a golden arrow, a marble cat lay at the feet of a statuette, which held a dove rat its bosom; on a small desk of lapis-lazuli as blue as the sky, a bronze statuette personifying the Dew was inclining gracefully an amphora above an open book, skeins of various colored silks were hanging at little looms. Amid all these tones of spring, joyous themes, light and graceful forms, the sunlight went to Cara's bed, and, from the white cambric on which she was lying, increased the paleness of her yellow hair. On the pillow with lace it was difficult at first to distinguish where the sunrays ended and the maiden's hair began. But, amid the yellow of the rays and the hair, her oval, delicate face in its bright flush seemed a scarlet flower. Her lips, blooming with a bloody purple, her eyes, flashing with a dry fire, were silent. But her breast labored with hoarse, hurried breathing, and a cough shook her body, the slender, fragile form of which was indicated beneath the blue silk coverlet, like a fine piece of sculpture. When Darvid entered the chamber a dark-robed woman drew back from the bed of the suffering Cara, without the least rustle, and stood at some distance with a pained, pallid face under smoothly dressed hair of the same hue exactly as that which, in dishevelled abundance, lay mingled with pale sunrays on the pillow of the sick girl. "How is it with you, little one?" asked Darvid. "Perhaps you feel somewhat better? Perhaps you would like something?" For its only answer the face, which was like a scarlet flower, turned toward the wall, covered with forget-me-nots and rose-buds. "Why not answer, Cara? Perhaps you would like something? Only say, only whisper. Say into my ear. I would bring you anything, get it, buy it. Perhaps you would like something? Have something, something to look at. You can have anything--anything, only say what it is--whisper in my ear." But in vain he bent low, brought his ear to her lips almost, no sound came from them, no whisper, only her face turned away still more and her breath became hoarser and heavier. How many times did he go there and put to her the question: "Would you like something? Will you tell what?" He thought that the young girl, though sick, must remember some wish, some desire which, if granted, might give her relief and some comfort. He had power to gratify every wish, even the wildest, but had not the power of drawing from her lips even one word, and that the briefest. Some days passed. In front of the mansion the carriages of doctors were arriving and departing continually, meeting on the way a multitude of equipages from which men came out and entered the study of the master of the mansion, or only came to the entrance to inscribe their names in a book furnished by the Swiss in livery. Once, when coming home, Darvid met on the stairway two men who spoke a foreign language. He was eloquent, triumphant. These were allies from abroad, coming to strengthen the local forces, which joined them in full array for a consultation. Again a cloud of black garments moved from the blue room to the chamber which was full of spring colors, of childhood's playthings, of mother-of-pearl rainbow gleams. One more mountain of gold and of intellect set up as a bulwark of defence near the bed of the sick girl. When the cloud of black garments and serious faces had vanished, the mother drew near: "These gentlemen have wearied you. That is nothing. Because they have come you will be well. Those are very wise men. The two who have just come are Germans; throughout the whole world they are famous. They will cure you to a certainty. But now you may swallow a little of those excellent sweets which those gentlemen let us give you. Or a drop of wine. Perhaps a spoonful, one little spoonful of bouillon?" Cara's only answer was to turn on her yellowish bed to the wall sprinkled with spring flowers, her face in scarlet flushes. Malvina, bending low, kissed the little hand, the heat of which burnt her lips, and which trembled under those lips, like a leaf in a blast of wind. "Why not answer me, Cara? One word! only one short, little word! Shall I give a drop of wine? Those gentlemen ordered it--will you have it now? Whisper!" But in vain did she put her ear almost down to Cara's lips, not a sound, not a whisper, she only turned her face away farther, while her breath grew in hoarseness. Maryan came in with a great bouquet of flowers in his hand. "What, are we sick, little one!" began he. "Well, that is nothing wonderful! King Solomon said that for everyone there must be a time for sickness and a time for dancing. You will be sick a little while, and then you will dance. But now I have brought flowers to cheer you. Flowers without odor, for sick girls might get headache from fragrant ones. These have no fragrance, but they are very beautiful. You will look most poetic when I scatter them on the bed before you. They will gladden your sight after looking at those dreary pedants who are like a flock of wise ravens. Father has brought in the wisest ravens from all the world for you; I have gathered throughout this whole city the most beautiful flowers. Mein Lieichen, was willst du mehr?" While laughing he scattered on the blue coverlet, and on the slender form of the maiden indicated under it, the most beautiful flowers which the best conservatories could yield to him; she only looked at her brother with great burning eyes, and when he went away she began, with a slow and monotonous movement to throw them from the bed. She did not look at these flowers, but the slender, dry, rosy hand of the girl worked and worked on, pushing from the bed the rich twigs and beautiful flowers, which fell, one after another, with a dull rustle on the carpet. She wanted nothing. But in the night, when Malvina and Miss Mary thought that she was sleeping, a whisper was heard in the deep stillness calling: "Puffie! Puffie!" Miss Mary raised the little dog from a neighboring chair and gave him to her. Cara took him in her burning hands, but soon she pushed him away with the same kind of slow gesture with which she had thrown down the flowers, turned her face toward the wall, and then whispered: "No." Next morning the faces of the "wise ravens" were very gloomy. Those who flew in from the neighborhood, and those who came from a distance took on more and more that mysterious solemnity which reminds one of death-bells. But Darvid waited yet; he did not lay down his arms; he did not lose faith in the power of the good giantess. He waited for a new reinforcement. This was the greatest medical name in all Europe, that of a man who had the fame almost of one who worked miracles. Here again was a mountain of gold, and of intellect piled up, the highest mountain among all of them. In the blue drawing-room a suppressed, many-tongued murmur was heard. Servants bore about food and drink. Darvid gave cigars to his worthy guests, the most worthy of all, he who had just arrived; listened with close attention to the explanation of his colleagues touching the case before which he was to find himself. At last, calm, and perfectly correct, with a pleasant smile on his lips, a smile almost of triumph, Darvid indicated with a gesture full of welcome the door of his daughter's chamber. The most famous of the famous entered first, and stopped some steps from the threshold; behind him stopped the others. On the parched lips of the sick girl appeared ruby-like drops of blood; her eyes were opened very widely; to her forehead, which was damp from perspiration, some slender locks of pale, yellow hair adhered. Throughout the room sounded in an audible, hoarse whisper: "Ira! Ira!" Irene approached quickly, and, bending over, removed, delicately, with a thin handkerchief, the liquid rubies from the lips of her sister. "What do you want, little one; what do you wish?" Cara fixed on her sister eyes in which something uncommon had begun to take place, for the dark pupils became larger every moment, and larger, more prominent, they seemed to grow and to swell, as if concentrating into one point all power of vision, until a glassy film began to come down over them, and at the same time her lips, sprinkled with blood, moved a number of times wishing to pronounce something and not being able. At last, fixing on her sister from behind the glassy film the sight of her swollen pupils, Cara, as if in sign that she understood, shook her head, and with a whisper which was heard through the room with a note of alarm and complaint, she said: "Pain-ted pots!" Then in her breast a great orchestra began to play: hoarse, discordant, wheezing, and her head, grown suddenly heavy, fell into the pillow deeply. Prom the assembly of men standing there at the door, the most famous, the small sprightly, iron-gray Frenchman, with a face greatly thoughtful, advanced a few steps, stood at the bedside, and after some minutes, with his hands resting on the laboring bosom, cast into the deep silence which possessed the room these words: "The agony!" As if in answer to that word, at the very door, behind the cloud of black garments, was heard a loud hand-clap. That was Darvid, who, with a movement most unexpected for him, had in this manner wrung his hands, intertwining them with a strength which almost broke his fingers, and then raised them above his head. So the giantess had sprung over all the mountains--and had come! CHAPTER IX From street to street, and from one alley of the public garden to another, passed Arthur Kranitski, with the step and the mien of a person who is strolling through a city without great desire or object. In his shining hat and well-fitting fur coat, on the costly collar of which traces of wear were observable, the man seemed notably older and poorer in some sort than he had been during a past which was still recent. In his erect form and springy step one might discover that disagreeable effort with which people guard themselves when they fear lest observers may penetrate their sad secret in some way. But despite every effort Kranitski's secret was manifest sometimes in his stooping shoulders, drooping head, pendant cheeks, and dimmed glances. All this was the more evident since Pan Arthur was advancing in the full gleam of the sun which flooded with light the sidewalks of the streets and the alleys of the great public garden. The end of the winter had been exceptionally mild and serene, the snow had almost melted away, and only, here and there, mingled its dull white with the azure of the sky and the golden hue of the atmospheres. While passing multitudes of people, Kranitski raised his hand to his hat frequently, and at times, with a smile which was winning, nay, almost seductive, he made movements as if to approach, or even spring forward to those whom he greeted; but they, with a courteous though prompt inclination, moved past the man swiftly. These persons were stylish young gentlemen conversing with one another vivaciously, or young ladies hastening to some point. They returned bow after bow, but none took note of Kranitski's desire to draw near, or, at least, none had the wish to observe it. Each man or woman had some person at his side or hers with whom to converse, and was going, or even hastening, to some place. How recent and intimate had been his acquaintance with those persons!--lie had known them from early childhood. He knew everything touching them: the names and life-histories of their parents, the nicknames given them in jest or in tenderness, names given at an age when they were barely lisping. He knew every chamber, almost every corner of the houses in which they had been reared. He had raised many of them in his strong arms from the floor--he who at that time was the praised, the beloved, the sought for. He who had amused and entertained them, was he, indeed, to imagine a day when they would pass him at a distance and indifferently? How could he? He with rosy glasses on his eyes, those eyes famed at that period for beauty, had been given to tenderness and attachments; he had considered the feelings and relations of men as eternal. But from various causes a multitude of his relations with people had ended already--and now they were ending to the last one. He had the vivid sensation of hanging in a vacuum, and felt a growing need to grasp after something or someone lest he might tumble into a place which he knew not, but which he felt must be abyss-like. At the beginning of his walk he thought that in that bright hour of the day when throngs of gayly-dressed people were covering the sidewalks, and the middle of the street was filled with passing carriages, some person would stop him, would invite him, would attend him somewhere, or take him to some place. What was he to do now? Whither was he to go? Baron Emil, whose mediaeval mansion had been in recent days almost his one refuge from weariness and lonely tedium, had gone to his estate to make trips in various directions and search in village cottages and under their roofs for remnants of art which were genuine or suitable. He was to return soon; but, meanwhile, Kranitski could not sit in the broad chair before Tristan, who was giving obeisance on the wall of the chamber to Isolde, nor sit at the table where, besides gastronomic tidbits, he found conversation to which he was accustomed, nor in presence of the Triumph of Death sweeping through the air on bat wings, or experience the tone of beyond-the-worldness. With the departure of the baron he lost the only ground on which he met Maryan--that dear child. The very thought now of Maryan, from whom after so many years of life in common he was separated, brought tears to Kranitski's eyelids. He took a seat on a bench of the garden, and wishing to light a cigarette drew the golden case from his pocket. He did not light the cigarette, however; for there, beyond the low paling near which he was sitting, passed a splendid carriage drawn by two horses and bearing servants in livery. In that carriage sat a man of thirty years, at sight of whom Kranitski pushed forward as if to rush after him, as if to fly like the wind to him. This young man was the son of Count Alfred, of him whom Kranitski had nursed with endless devotion during illness under the sky of Italy. In those days the young man was a child, and remembered little of the hours in which Kranitski had occupied in his family the place of the best of friends, and somewhat that of the most faithful of servants. Afterward he forgot those hours completely, and put away by degrees "that excellent Kranitski," who was growing old; and though this Kranitski, on a time, had rendered some sort of service to the young man's father, he had been rewarded richly by resorting to the house for years, and, very likely, by loans of money given frequently and with no thought of payment. Very wealthy and a frequent traveller, Count Arthur's son had too many affairs on his head, and too many in it to cherish any desire of stuffing it further with old-fashioned trumpery. Kranitski soon observed this frame of mind in the young son of his former friend and protector, and he had long considered that house as lost and its master as a stranger. This did not sadden him at first over much, for he had a port, which he entered with, full sail at all times. But now the passing sight of that young man struck his heart with something which cut and burned at the same instant. Services are forgotten, ties are broken, the past is rejected; oh, the ingratitude of mankind! And still with what delight would he have ridden through the streets of the city on such a spring day in that carriage with rubber ties, bearing the persons within it on yielding cushions, with the soft movement of a cradle. With a still greater feeling of delight would he have conversed while going with someone who possessed the same habits, tastes, and relations which he had; with what vivid satisfaction would he halt before one of the best restaurants of that city to have an exquisite lunch, between walls decorated with taste, and amid sounds of joyfulness. But all those things which on a time were as cheap as good-morning, are now as remote and unattainable as the blue sky above him. In his closely drawn coat, and bent over so much that his shoulders took the form of a half-circle; in his hat, from beneath which black hair was visible and a row of furrows above his dark brows, he gazed at the street which stretched along outside the paling, and in his fingers, covered with Danish gloves, he twirled the golden toy from habit. The hat shone like satin above his head, and on tire cigarette-ease, which he twirled in his fingers, the sun-gleams were crossing one another. The street beyond that paling lay before a square which was rather extensive; this square seemed dominated by two lofty buildings, before the ornamented fronts of which there was a great movement of people. Through the broad doors of these buildings a throng of men went in and came out, equipages stopped before them; on the steps which led up to them halted, advanced, decreased, and again increased a crowd of figures clad in black, noisy, gesticulating, occupied passionately in some work. No wonder! These were the bank and the exchange, which stood with opposing fronts, and, with their multitude of windows, seemed to gaze eye to eye at each other. Kranitski looked neither at these piles nor the throng of men circulating about them. He had never had anything in common with activity in those buildings. But all at once he bent forward a second time and fixed his eyes on a carriage which passed the paling, or rather he fixed them on the man sitting in it. It was Aloysius Darvid who, on that sunny day, was in an open carriage drawn by a pair of large, costly horses, which, in light harness without mounting, stepped slowly, with grace and importance. On the box sat a coachman and footman, in high hats and immense fur collars; in the carriage, finished in sapphire damask, a man of not large stature, slender, with pale face, ruddy side-whiskers, and with the glitter of a golden spark in the glasses which covered his eyes. Slowly, with dignity, the carriage with muffled sound of rubber-bound wheels halted before the bank entrance. The footman sprang from the box, stood at the door, and taking a card from his master's hand hurried into the building. Five minutes had not passed when out came two serious persons who approached the carriage hastily, and began to converse with the man sitting in it. Surely officials, even dignitaries of the bank, whom he had summoned by two words outlined on the card. To go to them, to ascend the high steps, he had not time perhaps, so they ran down those steps to him. They did not walk down, they ran, and now, with the most courteous smiles in the world and with raising of hats above their important heads, these men seemed to counsel with him about something, to indicate some point, to promise. While he, ever unchanged, perfectly polite though cold, with a shade of sarcasm on his lean face, rather listened than spoke, and with a golden spark in his glasses, against a background of bright sapphire damask, had the seeming of a demi-god. In five minutes' time the conversation was over. Darvid inclined with befitting profoundness; the officers bowed much lower their hats above their heads. With the muffled sound of rubber tires, with the slow and important gait of the splendid horses, that carriage moved on, described a large circle and stopped at the long and broad steps leading up to the edifice opposite. Here the footman opened the carriage door; Darvid alighted and began to ascend the steps where a dense throng of men, dressed in black, opened before him as a wave opens to an oncoming vessel. That must be no common craft; for, along the wave of men, quivers passed as they pass through one living organism at the touch of an electric current. The opening throng formed eddies, whispered, was silent; a number of hands were raised toward heads, and hats or caps hung in the air; a multitude of faces were turned toward that one face, and fixed their eyes on it. These movements had in them an expression of timid curiosity, an expression which seemed almost humble. The most confident stepped forth from the throng with bared heads, and with steps which were either too slow or too hurried, but never such steps as they made habitually. These men approached the newly arrived and spoke to him of something; they were doubtless inquiring, taking counsel, perhaps petitioning; for all those acts were expressed in their movements, and on their faces. Thus was formed something like that retinue of the elite who surround a demi-god, and between the two walls of people, along the splendid steps of the stairway they went up with him higher and higher to the entrance of the temple, and vanished there with him. The heads of the common crowd were covered with hats and caps now, but many eyes, unable to gaze on Phaeton himself, turned to his chariot, and were fixed for a long time yet on its sapphire-colored damask, which was warmed by the sunrays, and on those two splendid animals which, standing there in trained fixedness, seemed like bronze steeds of the sun before the gates of that money mart. Kranitski, sitting on the garden bench, had grown rigid in the posture described above--his mouth awry, his eyes gleaming. So this is what has happened! In a few weeks after the death of the hapless Cara he is active and triumphant; he hurls his lariat on the golden calf and captures new millions. A demi-god! A Titan! The king of markets! He sweeps forward in seven-league boots over roads, at the crossing-points of which are Americans with milliards, they are millionnaires no longer, but masters of milliards. He is the man who, as Baron Emil said, knows how to will. Still, how small he seemed and devoid of desire at the hour when he stood near the corpse of his daughter, joined with the silent smoke of the censer, which rose like light mist in the air. How petty he appeared at that juncture, crushed, as it were, by some giant hand--not a demi-god in any sense, or a Titan, but rather an insect, pushing into some narrow cranny to hide from a bird of prey. Kranitski had seen Darvid then, for, on hearing of the misfortune, no power on earth or in hell could have stopped him from running, from flying to the house where it had happened. That misfortune had pierced his heart. And straightaway he felt, also, those inward and other pains which for some time had attacked him without pity and more frequently; but, in spite of his pains, he ran on without a thought that he had been forbidden that house, or a thought of what might meet him within it. He entered, and by well-known ways went directly to the chambers of the lady. Happen what might, he must see, in such a terrible moment, that woman, that saint, that mild and noble being. She was surrounded by many; there was a throng of people about her, but he did not see who they were, nor did he think what they might say of him. Before his eyes was a mist which veiled all things in front of him, save the face of that woman so dreadfully changed and grown old recently; that woman who no longer had the bright aureole of pale, golden hair above her forehead, but on that forehead and across the whole width of it was the dark furrow of a deep wrinkle. Without seeing, or greeting a person, he walked up to her directly, and, dropping on his knees, pressed to his lips the hem of her mourning garment. He did this without the trace of a plan, without forethought; he did it through an impulse which threw him at the feet of the woman. That action came from his heart, and from his heart only. For never was anyone like her, he thought. Many a time he had had fortune with women. In life he had been loved, and had loved in various fashions, but as he had loved her, never had he loved woman. He did not remember; he was unconscious of what happened after that; but it seemed that Irene seized in her arms the loudly weeping lady; that Maryan was there also, and many other persons, who, going in and passing out with silent tread and low words, produced a sound something like the rustle of leaves when they are falling. In some corner of the chamber he sat down, or stood up, he cannot tell which, he only remembers that he was surrounded by the odor of alder-blossoms which filled the chamber, till, finally, he felt that it was late, that he had to go out just as had others. He could not be with that beloved being in her suffering; of all pains that was the most unendurable. But life contains sometimes such cruelties. Life at times is atrocious! He went once again to look at the "little one," he saw her, and with her the demi-god, in such a position that he thought: Here, too, is a man who is ended! At this point of meditation Kranitski rested his elbow on the arm of the bench, shaded his eyes with his palm, and placed before his imagination that wonderful sight which seemed a fable, a dream to him. What luxury, what originality of thought and taste! What a mountain of gold was poured out there! The plan and the taste were seemingly Maryan's. The grand drawing-room had been turned into a grotto, which, from floor to ceiling, was covered with soft folds of white crape and muslin, meeting above in a gigantic rosette resembling the mystic four-leafed roses painted on Gothic church-windows, save that this one at which the wavy drapery met and hid walls and ceiling was as white and soft as if formed by the fantastic play of cloud substance. But everything in that chamber, the walls, the arch, the rosette, seemed made up of clouds and of snow, on which had fallen an immense rain of white flowers, white only. In garlands, woven together, or cast about without order by the movement of hands, they clung to the walls and the vault, covered the floor, were scattered over everything, were visible everywhere, and seemed to have fallen out of every place. Aside from them and among them, there was nothing but abundance of light; stars, bunches, columns were formed of lights, burning in branch-holders and candlesticks. It is unknown where they were invented, so uncommon were these holders and candlesticks, so fantastic. They were so peculiar in style that it would seem as if they had been brought from the dream-world of an excited fancy to the world of existence. There was no color, no tinsel, no emblem of death, nothing in that sea of snowy whiteness save an avalanche of snow-covered flowers and the dazzling gleam of burning tapers, with the odor of lilies-of-the-valley, roses, alder-blossoms, hyacinths, to which was added incense of some kind, as peculiar as was everything in that chamber. This incense, burning it was unknown in what place, sent hither and thither through the air, from time to time, small grayish cloudlets of smoke amid the gleam of the lights and tinged by the gold of them. In that chamber were virginity, with an atmosphere of mysticism, inventiveness unwilling to recognize the impossible--a chapter of magic, a strophe of a poem, and in it, as a central point for all else, was the slender form of Cara on a lofty place, fallen asleep calmly, arrayed as in a bridal robe, with her delicate face, which, in the pale, golden hair, with a shade of whiteness barely discernible, emerged from the flood of snowy crape and flowers. In that flood of snowy white, in that gleaming brilliance of the tapers, in that richness of intoxicating odors, in that atmosphere of haze moving from the burning censer, Cara was sleeping calmly, with the smooth arches of her dark brows below the Grecian outline of her forehead; on her closed lips was a smile which was almost gladsome. It must have been late at night when Kranitski rose from his knees and found himself alone in that chamber. Outside the words and prayers of watchers were heard murmuring beyond the doors and the walls, but there the sleep of death seemed to reign alone. After a while, however, something rustled near one of the walls. Kranitski looked around and saw a man who seemed at first to be an undefined patch on the snowy background. After a few seconds he recognized Darvid's features in ruddy side-whiskers, but he strained his eyes rather long inquiring whether he was not mistaken. Neither sorrow nor despair, commonly roused by death in the living, but something still greater and beyond that was depicted in the look and the posture of Darvid. His eyes, usually so clear, so positive, so like glittering steel, had in them now an abyss of thought at the bottom of which terror was secreted, while the form of the man seemed shrunk and crushed down. Neither irony, nor energy, nor bold certainty of self was in it now. He looked smaller than usual, and in the manner of bending his head forward there was something of the vanquished. The soft folds at which he stood surrounded him in such a way that he seemed flattened and recalled definitely, like an insect in flight which was trying to push through a narrow crack to escape before something immense which was swooping down suddenly. He turned his eyes toward Kranitski, recognized the man, and casting an indifferent glance at him, gazed again in another direction at the enormous something. He had no feeling of hatred, or contempt, or offence. Kranitski on his part had none of those feelings either. He thought that various tales and dramas represent mortal enemies who, in moments like that, reach their hands to one another and are reconciled. Pathos is not truthful! It has no sufficient reason. What are men's quarrels or agreements in presence of--this? He looked a little longer at the maiden sleeping under the shower of white blossoms, and whispered: "Death! yes, yes! death! eternal sleep!" then, with drooping head, he went forth from that grotto, which was snow-white and gleaming with lights. He was so broken that he dragged himself out of it rather than walked. Now, on the bench of the garden, Kranitski raised his face from his palms and looked at the exchange. The porch with its broad steps was empty, but Darvid's carriage was there yet, showing a spot of gleaming sapphire in the sunny air, the horses stood in trained fixedness, like statues cast from bronze. Kranitski's lips were awry with distaste. With a bitterness to which his mild nature came rarely, he whispered: "Labor! iron labor!" With lips full of gall, not thinking now of straightening his shoulders or giving his steps an appearance of elasticity, he dragged along from street to street, halting sometimes for a moment before the gates of the grandest houses. Each one of these reminded him of something, of some brilliant or happy moment, of some fragment of the past. This one he had entered while going to one of the smaller or greater "stars of his existence;" out of that one he had gone when taking the ailing Count Alfred to Italy; through this one he had hurried daily to do some kindness for Prince Zeno; that one brought to him the memory of a certain ball, so brilliant that it bordered upon fairy-land. Now all these gates and those mansions are for him like that hall which guests have deserted, in which the lights are extinguished, and through which a man finds his way with a night-lamp--remembering, as he passes, a spot where had gleamed the naked shoulders of a beauty; or another, where the faces of joyous comrades had smiled at him; a third, where had risen the odor of flowers, or the odor of roast pheasants. At last, late in the afternoon, Mother Clemens heard a ring in the antechamber, and ran along the floor in her clattering old overshoes, hastening to answer the door-bell. On her broad shoulders was a barred kerchief, in her hand was a needle with a thick thread, and above her eyes, now growing dim, a second pair of eyes, which were glass, in spectacles raised to the woman's wrinkled forehead. "Hm!" commenced she immediately, "I thought that thou hadst fastened for the day in some pleasant company; but, Arabian adventure! thou hast returned before evening. This is well, for guests have been here, and they will come again shortly." "Guests?" inquired Kranitski, and his face cleared somewhat, but briefly, because Clemens snorted. "Yes, one of them was very important. Be pleased with the honor! Berek Shyldman! He said that next week, as God is God, he would sell thy furniture." Seeing, however, that Kranitski, after he had removed his coat, dragged his feet through the little drawing-room, and that red wrinkles came out above his brows, she grew mild and spoke in better humor: "But thou mayst take delight in two other guests who came. Great dandies, and of thy company, though young enough to be thy sons." "Who were they? who? who? Speak, mother!" "How can I remember those Arabian names? But they left cards--wait, I'll bring them this minute--I put them in the kitchen." She turned toward the kitchen, but right behind her, stepping almost on her heels went Kranitski, delighted and impatient, he almost snatched from her hand two visiting cards, on which he read the names: Maryan Darvid and Baron Emil Blauendorf. "Ah!" cried he, "those dear children! The baron has returned then! And his first thought after returning was of me! What a heart! I go; I run!" And, indeed, he ran to the door of the antechamber, radiant, rejuvenated, but Mother Clemens stood in his way, squaring out her shoulders in the checkered kerchief. "Whither art thou going? What for? Is it to meet them on the steps, or at the gate? They said that they would come again in an hour. To each other they said that they would go to see the Nazarene--" "What Nazarene?" asked Kranitski, with astonishment. "What Nazarene?" "But how should I know what Nazarene? It may be an image of the Lord Jesus of Nazareth. They only said that they would go to look at it, and come back here." "Come back," repeated Kranitski, "that is well. We shall have a talk--it is so long since I have had a talk with anyone--and I shall see Maryan, the dear, dear boy!" Kranitski rubbed his hands; he walked with springy step, and erect shoulders, through the little drawing-room, but not even delight could round his cheeks, which had dropped during recent days somewhat; neither could it freshen the yellow tint on them. Mother Clemens halted in the middle of the room and followed him with her two pair of eyes. "See, my lords! He is as if born again, as if called back to life!" He stopped confused before her. "Knowest what? Let mother run for a pate de foie gras, and a bottle of liqueur." Mother Clemens dropped back to the wall. "Jesus of Nazareth! Hast thou gone mad, Tulek? Berek Shyldman--thy furniture--" "What do I care for Berek Shyldman! What do I care for furniture!" cried Kranitski, "when those noble hearts remember me--" "Hearts have no stomachs; there is no need of stuffing something into them the first minute." "What does mother know? Mother is an honest woman, but her level is earth to earth--she only thinks of this cursed money!" "But is pate de foie gras holy? Arabian adventure!" Both voices were raised somewhat. Kranitski threw himself on the sofa, pressed his right side with his palm, groaned. Then Clemens turned her face toward him; she had grown mild and seemed frightened. "Well, has pain caught thee?" It was clear that he was suffering. An old affliction of the liver, and something of the heart in addition. Mother Clemens approached the sofa in her clattering overshoes. "Well, do not excite thyself. What is to be done? How much money will that Arabian pate cost?" "And the liqueur!" put in Kranitski. When he had grown calm he explained that the baron was fond of liqueur, and that Maryan was wild for pate and black coffee. "Let mother prepare black coffee--thou knowest how to do it perfectly." "What more!" snorted she. "Perhaps it would be well to take the panes from the windows, and throw the stove down?" Kranitski spread out his arms. "Why speak of the window-panes and the stove? What meaning can the stove and the glass have? There is no comparison between black coffee and window-panes, or the stove. Mother irritates me." Again his face changed and he groaned; the old woman surrendered, but the question of money remained. Kranitski took a bill out of his pocketbook, held it between two fingers, and thought. This is too small. That kind of liqueur which the baron drinks is very expensive. Vexation was evident on his face. Clemens spoke up: "Well, stop thinking, for if thou hast not a rouble thou wilt not think out one in a hundred years. Be calm. Only write all on a card for me; I will go and buy what is needed." Kranitski struggled on the sofa. "With what money wilt thou buy it, mother?" But she was already in the doorway of the neighboring room, and gave no answer. "Is it with thy own?" cried Kranitski, "surely with thy own! I know that mother is spending her capital this good while--" She came back with the checkered kerchief over her head, without spectacles, and ready for the errand. "Well, what if I do spend it? Hast thou not Lipovka? Thou hast, and what I lend thou wilt return. Oi, oi! I stand with one foot in the grave, and should I fight about a rouble when thou art in need of it?" Kranitski raised his hands and his eyes: "What a heart!" whispered he; "what attachment! No one can equal the old servants of our ancient families!" After a few minutes steps were heard in the antechamber of people coming in, and the fresh voice of a man cried: "May one see the master of this place?" Kranitski ran to the antechamber. "Of course, my dears! You make me happy, altogether happy!" And indeed he had the face of a man made happy, and also tilled with emotion; for, taking his place in one of the armchairs opposite Maryan, who sat in another, he listened to the baron's narrative, which gave details of his recent expedition. Baron Emil was uncommonly vivacious, but at the same time he feigned to be more nervous and excited than usual. He did not sit down for one instant. "Merci, merci" said he to the master of the house who indicated a chair to him; "I am in such a condition, that really, I cannot sit in one place. Something within me is toiling, and crying, and biting. I am full of trembling of hopes, and of anger--" A brick-colored rosy blush appeared on his yellow cheeks; as usual, he spoke through his nose and through his teeth, but more quickly than common. While walking through the drawing-room he said, that in smaller and greater country residences which he had visited he had found a few remnants of former wealth, specimens of art, and of ornamental industry, which were of considerable, and sometimes even of high, value. A multitude of these rich things had been acquired by the English, who had circled about through the country more than once in pursuit of them; but much remained yet, and the only need was to inquire, seek, examine, and it was possible to find real treasures, even, often most unexpectedly. He halted before Maryan. "I say this because who, for example, could hope or expect to find in possession of a schoolmaster, a teacher of geography, an absolute Arcadian, a picture by Steinle hung behind a door, smoked befouled by flies--an undoubted, a genuine Steinle--Edward Steinle--" "But is it undoubted?" interrupted Maryan; "once more I turn thy attention to certain traits which seem to speak in favor of Kupelweiser." "What, Kupelweiser!" cried the baron, walking still more quickly through the drawing-room. "No Kupelweiser, my dear; not a shadow of a Kupelweiser. Kupelweiser, though the teacher of Steinle was considerably inferior to him in drawing--that firmness and elegance of outline, that harmony of composition, that piety, that genuine compunction which is dominant in the faces of the saints--that is Steinle, the purest Steinle, undoubted Steinle, whose collection of cartoons in Frankfort--" "Was Steinle, for I do not recollect, pre-Raphaelite?" put in Kranitski timidly, somewhat ashamed of his ignorance. "Yes, if you like," answered the baron, "we may reckon among the pre-Raphaelites the German school of Nazarenes. But this school is distinct." "Then surely you examined this Steinle to-day, my dears, before you came to me?" "Yes, we heard of it by chance; we went to examine it, and imagine, we found this pearl in the possession of an Arcadian who has neither a conception, nor the shadow of a conception of the Nazarenes, or who Steinle--" "But perhaps we should pardon him," laughed Maryan, "for the Germans themselves know almost nothing of Steinle, who fell into disfavor among his successors." "On the contrary!" exclaimed the baron, "I beg pardon, my dear, real judges always value him highly, and he is greatly sought for by museums. His cartoons when placed at the side of Overbeck's Triumph of Religion in Art lose nothing; on the contrary, that compunction distinguishes his figures." "But thou canst not compare him with Overbeck!" said Maryan, with indignation. "I can, I can! I make him equal to Overbeck; and I consider him superior to Fuhrich and Veit--" "I will give thee Veit, but as to Overbeck, that marvellous melancholy which fills the eyes of his women--" "It is earthly, earthly, rather than that perfect expression from beyond which is dominant in Steinle's figures. In this regard Steinle is the only man whom we may compare with Fra Angelico--" "I would rather compare him with Lippo-Mani." "Perhaps," said the baron, half agreeing, "as Fuhrich, whenever I look at him, reminds me of Buffalmaco." "And me, of Piero di Cosimo." "No, no," objected the baron, "Piero di Cosimo in coloring is different from Fuhrich and Buffalmaco." "I can compare Buffalmaco, to-day, with Rossetti alone." In this manner they conversed some time longer of the Italian painters of the epoch preceding Raphael, and of their modern followers. At times disputing slightly; at times growing enthusiastic in company, till they agreed in one opinion; namely, that the greatest master of painting, whom it was impossible to compare with anyone among contemporaries, was Dante Gabriel Rossetti, an Englishman, but that the school of German Nazarenes, to which Overbeck, Steinle, Fuhrich, and others belonged, was, in spite of certain inequalities and weaknesses, altogether pure Quatrocento. "Yes, Quatrocento," finished the baron; "who knows even if they are not purer, more perfect Quatrocento than Rossetti and Morris." Kranitski listened, spoke rarely, while something within him began to weep. He, too, loved art, but how far was he now from its loftiest caprices. How much would he give if those dear boys there, those noble hearts, would speak of something else to him, of something nearer. After a time he remarked with a smile to which he brought himself with effort: "Then you have the first parts of that golden fleece which you are to bear beyond the sea?" "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the baron, "the golden fleece! splendidly said! In truth, we shear the sheep, or, if you like, the shepherds, for you cannot imagine what a rheumatism of thought in this matter prevails throughout the country. No man knows the value of what he has; no man knows what he possesses. There is no conception of art; no aesthetic knowledge. In my journey I felt as if wandering through ancient Scythia. All are related to me, or are old neighbors of my parents; they greeted me with open arms. Kisses with saliva, and chops cooked in buckwheat-grits! Their rooms are filled with progeny, who look as though they might grow up without trousers. The parents we may almost call, now, the shirtless. From this cause comes a genuine fury of turning all things to money. My proposition brought to their eyes tears of gratitude. They saw in me a saviour. Had I wished, I might have won the glory of a patriot bringing salvation to his countrymen. But glory is a painted pot. I am not a man to be covered with labels. I buy cheap to sell dear, that is my game. And, though I told them this, they kissed me. I filled their mouths, which were suffering from that hunger which goes before harvest. They opened old cupboards before me, also storehouses; one man even opened a chapel in which I found church-cloths of incomparable antiquity. I suspect that one of these is of Flemish make, and reaches back to Robert the Pious, just such a one did I see in the museum at Cluny. Finally, a number of images; some girdles and brocades; some old weapons, which would befit John of Dresden very well; this is my booty. Here we have discovered one Overbeck and one Steinle; but Maryan, during my absence, found, somewhere, Saxon porcelain, of incredible age, in perfect preservation. But this is only the beginning. There will be a whole harvest of these things, a whole harvest!" "A golden fleece!" whispered Kranitski. He grew more and more gloomy, and felt in his right side a pain which was well-nigh unendurable. The tone in which the baron gave account of his journey in regions about his birthplace, roused almost instinctive disgust in Kranitski. He looked at Maryan. Was he the same also? After a while he asked: "Has the American project crystallized thoroughly? Is it settled? Are you going to America surely?" "It has crystallized this far," answered Maryan, "that I start no later than to-morrow. Emil will remain here some weeks yet. I, to become acquainted with the people and the country, leave here to-morrow." Kranitski straightened himself and sat there dumb for a time, with fixed look, then he repeated: "To-morrow?" "Absolutely," confirmed Maryan; and, when the baron sat down after long walking, he rose, and began in turn to walk through the drawing-room, declaring that he had come to-day purposely to take farewell of Kranitski. "I could not go without taking farewell of my good, old man," said he. It may be that he would not have gone so soon had not certain details made his life impossible. One of these details was, that the week before his father had withdrawn the allowance paid up to that time. A certain period had ended just a week earlier, and, through commands from above, the treasury had withheld payment. In speaking of this Maryan grew red in the face; the vein in his forehead swelled like a blue cord; his eyes glittered brightly. He was wounded to his innermost heart by the last conversation which he had had with his father. It was brief, but decisive; he had told it to Kranitski. From the narrative it was possible to divine that Darvid had shown at first an inclination to milden the demands on his son, but afterward despotic habits and practical views had won the victory. He demanded that in one of the factories belonging to him, Maryan should begin a course of self-restraint, obedience, and labor. "Our two individualities," said Maryan, "came into collision, and sprang back in a state of complete inviolability--not the least dint was made on Mm or on me. Our wills remained unbroken. He, of course, is a man with a mighty will. It seemed at first that the death of that poor little Cara crushed him, but he straightened quickly, and now again he is going through genuine orgies of his iron labor. I admire that integrity of will in him, and I confess that it is a power of the highest quality; but I have no thought of abdicating my own personality because my father, with all his undoubted endowments, has a head badly ventilated. It may be that one of my great-grandfathers said, that if one child gave itself as food to worms, another should give itself to be crushed by its father's chariot. But I am not my own great-grandfather, and I know that every yielding of one's self to be tormented by Pavel to amuse Gavel is a painted pot." "It is a darned sock!" added the baron. Another reason why Maryan had to leave the city without delay was the impression produced on him by the death of that poor little girl. But he did not admit that so many atavistic instincts were at work in him. He was a man of the new style, but he experienced now the spiritual condition of his great-grandfather, which affected him so that, like Maeterlinck's Hjalmar, he wished to throw handfuls of earth at night-owls. The death of that little one, and all that was happening and going on in the house, had made his soul pale from weakness. He understood now Maeterlinck's expression, to sink to the very eyelids in sorrow. When that Intruder, who is ever mowing grass beneath life's windows, came for that little girl, Maryan had the question in mind continually: "Why do the lamps go out?" Now, like Hjalmar in "Princess Malenia," he feels every moment like exclaiming: Someone is weeping here near us! He had moments in which such nervous impotence attacked him that he did not feel capable of stirring a finger, or moving an eyelid. Accompanying this condition was a perfect understanding that all sentimental family-tenderness is a painted pot. It is known, of course, that in the world a multitude of maidens are always dying; that each life is a gate before which grave-diggers are waiting; and that this does not furnish the slightest reason why those, under whose window the Intruder has not begun to mow grass yet, should have pale and sickly souls. He must flee from expiring lamps, and night-owls; from nervous impotence and spleen of spirit; he must rush out for new contacts and horizons; for new spaces, where there are fresh worlds which are free from the fifty defilements of past centuries. He concluded and took a seat. Kranitski had tears in his eyes, and after a rather long silence, he added: "Thou art going away I see!" And then, with hesitating voice, he inquired: "Thou hast said: 'that which is happening and going on in the house.' What is going on there?" To this the baron answered, with growing blushes: "How? Do you not know that Pani Darvid and Panna Irene set out in a few days--for a retreat?" "To Krynichna," said Maryan, completing the information. "Father has made Irene the owner of Krynichna, and they are going there." Kranitski grew very pale, and only after great red spots had appeared above his eyes did he look at the baron, and begin: "Then--" "Then," added the baron, quickly, "everything is ended between Panna Irene and me. I am glad, for how could my bite and her idyl agree? That would have been like the odor of ether on a sunny day in Maeterlinck's hot-houses. Naturally, I represent the ether, and Panna Irene the sunny day." The smile with which he said this grew ever more jeering and malicious. "But I know not how they will succeed in the retreat. In spite of her idyl Panna Irene has much in her, very much of the cry of life, of that beautiful impulse toward--what Ruysbrook called love in action, toward ecstatic impressions, and with such a disposition, as far as my skill extends in this matter, it is difficult to halt at the mere spectacle of sparrows making love outside one's window--" "A truce to malicious phrases, Emil," interrupted Maryan. "Thou art not threatened with the fate of Werther because my sister has broken with thee--" "Of course not!" laughed the baron. And Maryan added quickly: "And thou shouldst even offer up to her that painted pot, called gratitude, because she has not closed to thee the road to some daughter of a multi-millionnaire Yankee. America possesses men of 'iron toil,' whose daughters are far richer than the daughters--alas! than the only daughter of my father." "Perhaps! perhaps!" agreed the baron; "the daughters of the richest American fathers pay very high prices for European titles. In this way, or another, or both together, I may make a colossal fortune. Yes, wealth is a door before which the heralds of life have their station--I am not a man pasted over with labels. I confess that this perspective entices me; what I possess now is merely a little crumb for my hunger of life. I shall leave here greedy for new sensations and new profits--eager for love in action and for gain." After a moment's silence Kranitski whispered: "They are going!" "They are going: Then glancing along the faces of the two young men, he added: "You are going!" "Yes," said the baron, "and therefore we make a certain proposition. Perhaps you would take upon yourself to be one of our agents." He presented in detail a plan of the enterprise--to carry out this there would be agents disposed through the whole country to discover and purchase. "We need aesthetic persons, a company of developed men, and it is difficult, very difficult to find them. In this country sterility reigns throughout the whole region of gray matter in the brain--it is sterility in the great gray substance--if you wish--" Kranitski was silent. It was not long since he had desired this position, perhaps, and something which might attach him to people and to life. But now--during this discourse with his two friends--an increasing disgust had seized hold of him. The sarcasm of the baron about shirtless parents who kissed him with lips suffering from hunger before harvest pierced his heart cruelly. In his mind hovered the words "departure, death!" and before his imagination rose the vision of a flock of birds flying in every direction. To buy cheap to sell dear! That was vile! At the same time he felt that the pains in his side and his heart had grown keener, and a feeling of faintness possessed him. After a moment's thought, he said: "No, my dear friends; it seems that I shall not be able to serve you. I am sick--I am growing old--besides, my dears, I must tell you openly--" He hesitated, and took from the table his gold case, which he had opened before the guests. He meditated a moment, and then said: "Your undertaking has sides which wound my sense of propriety somewhat. This business will always be buying in a temple, even in temples, I might say, for art is sacred, and so is the fatherland. You are both too clever to require explanation on this point. The loneliness in which I shall be when you are gone frightens and pains me--pains me immensely, but I am forced to say that I shall not be with you in this matter; no, decidedly, I shall not be of your company." By nature Kranitski was averse to disputes, and for various reasons unused to them, hence he had begun to speak with hesitation and dislike; but afterward he rested his shoulder against the arm of the sofa, and with head somewhat raised, twirling the cigarette-case in his hand, he had the look of a great lord, especially if compared with the baron, who always seemed somewhat like a mosquito preparing to bite. And this time he began with a sneering smile: "You are always painted in the color of romantic poetry of sacred memory. While you were speaking I seemed to be listening to 'a postillion, playing under the windows of incurable patients,' and--" But Mary an rose from his armchair, and broke in: "As for me, I respect individuality; and since that of our beloved Pan Arthur is developed in his way, we have no right to insist on attacking him with ridicule. To be ridiculous proves nothing. 'Thou art ridiculous,' is no argument. I may be ridiculous in the eyes of another man, though right in my own. But a truce to discussion; I remind thee, Emil, of our porcelain--" "Yes, yes!" replied the baron, and he rose also. "We must take farewell of our beloved friend here--" At that moment, through the open door of the sleeping-room, entered Mother Clemens with a great tray. Since she had gratified her favorite she wished to do it in the best manner possible. On her head was a cap as white as snow; the clattering overshoes were no longer on her feet; and a checkered kerchief was arranged neatly, even with elegance, across her bosom. On the tray were small glasses, a bottle of liqueur, a pate de foie gras, and three cups from which rose the excellent odor of coffee. All this she placed on a table before the sofa, and left the little drawing-room with gloomy eye, but firm foot. Kranitski sprang up from the sofa. "My dearest friends, I beg you--take a glass of liqueur, that which thou lovest, baron--Maryan, a little of the pate de foie gras--" But they touched their watches simultaneously. "No, no!" began the baron, refusing, "we have only three minutes left." "We lunched at Borel's, who, as my father says, gives us Lucullus feasts." Kranitski did not cease to urge them. Certain habits or instincts of a noble brightened his eyes, and shaped his arms in gestures of entreaty. But they resisted. In five minutes they must be in that apparently wretched antiquarian shop, where Maryan had discovered the amazing porcelain. The baron, giving his hand to Kranitski in parting, said: "We shall see each other again. You will visit me. I do not leave for a number of weeks--I doubt if this porcelain comes from Meissen as Maryan insists. In what year was the factory in Meissen?" "In 1709," answered Maryan, and to Kranitski he said: "Adieu, my good friend, adieu; be well, and write to me sometimes. Thou wilt find the address with Emil." He turned to the door; Kranitski held him by the hand, however, and looked into his face with eyes which were mist-covered. "Then it has come to this; for long years! It may be forever!" "Well, well! See, thou art growing tender," began Maryan, but he stopped, and over his rosy face passed something like a shade of feeling. "Well, my old man, embrace me!" And when Kranitski had held him long in his arms, he said: "La! La! leave regrets! Some ancient poet has told us that man is a shadow that is dreaming of shadows. We have been dreaming, my good friend-.The only cure is to jest at every thing, come what may!" With these words, Maryan went to the anteroom and put on his overcoat; meanwhile, the baron said: "That cannot have come from Meissen, nor be of the year 1709. That is much more recent. It comes from the Ilmenau factory--" "How so? Say rather that it comes from Prankenthal?" The baron, looking around from behind his cane, remarked: "It is too smooth and shining for such an old date." Maryan answered, with his hand on the lock: "It is polished with agate." And he went out. But the baron, after crossing the threshold, began: "And as to the ruddy-brownish biscuit--" The door closed; the voices ceased. Kranitski stood some time in the antechamber, then he turned toward the little drawing-room, and whispered: "'Polished with agate'--'Biscuit,' and those are their last words!" Some minutes later, in a Turkish dressing-gown with patched lining and mended sleeves, Kranitski lay on his long chair, opposite his collection of pipes, and, in deep thought, twirled his golden cigarette-case. In vain did Mother Clemens urge him to eat a little of that Arabian pate and drink a glass of liqueur; he tried, but could swallow nothing. Sorrow had closed his throat; he was sunk in reminiscences. He felt with perfect tangibleness that breath of cold air which was blowing around him. In this manner did Time blow on the man--Time, that merciless jester, who had always circled about playing various pranks on him; but Kranitski had never looked into the face of that jester, with attention. Occasionally, sorrow and grief had come to him in company with the trickster, but they were transient, not of the kind which go into the depth of the heart, but such as slip along over the surface. He grew gloomy; was sorry for having lost someone, or having missed something, and passed on with springy, lightly swaying gait, with his long continued youth, humming some fashionable ditty; or, with tender smile on his lips, living easily and joyously in endless pursuit of agreeable trifles. But, now, he has the first look at Time, face to face and near by. The current has borne away; the abyss has swallowed; people, houses, relations, feelings, and nothing comes back from them but one word in a ceaseless murmur: "Gone! gone! gone!" That which is ended to-day calls to the man's mind all things that have been. That past is to him something in the form of a mighty grave, or rather a catacomb, composed of a host of graves, through the openings of which are visible the absent; not only those snatched away by death, but also those gone through separation, removal, oblivion. Dead were faces once dear; faded were moments once precious; portions of life had dropped into dust; and Time, standing before the catacomb, his cheeks swollen in jeering, puffs his cold breath of the grave on that man who is calling up the past. Kranitski wrapped himself closely in his dressing-gown; hung his head so low that the bald spot, whitening on his crown, became visible; his lower lip dropped; red furrows came out above his black brow. Mother Clemens stood in the kitchen doorway. "Wilt thou eat dinner now?" inquired she. He made no answer. She withdrew, but returned in half an hour bringing a cup of black coffee. "Drink," said she, "perhaps thou wilt grow cheerful, and I will tell the news from Lipovka." She pushed a small table to the long chair, sat down with hands on her knees, and with immense attention in the expression of her quick and shining eyes, fell to repeating the substance of a letter just received from her godson, the tenant of Lipovka. He wrote that he had repaired the dwelling; that he was living himself in a building outside; that he had put the place in order most neatly, as if for the arrival of the owner. The furniture was the same as in the time of the former master; though old, it was sound yet, and beautiful, because repaired and cleaned. The garden was larger than of old, for many fruit-trees had been added. The bees, brought in recently, were thriving. It was quiet there; calm, green in summer; white in winter; not as in that cursed city of throngs and shouting-- She laughed. "And there is no Berek Shyldman there." Then she added: "Be at rest about debts. Thou wilt sell thy pipes and cupids, and if they do not bring enough, I will give all my own things. All that I have I will give, and I will drag thee out of this hell. Oh, Arabian adventure! If this lasts longer, thou wilt lose the last of thy health; thou wilt go deeper in debt, and die in a hospital. Tulek, dost thou hear what I say? Why not answer?" And since he made no answer even then, she continued: "But rememberest thou that Lipovka grove beyond the yard? It is there yet. Stefan has not cut it down; God forbid! And dost thou remember how beautifully the sun sets behind that grove?" When the sun had gone down in the world it began to grow dark in Kranitski's room. And Mother Clemens continued in the thickening twilight: "And rememberest thou how quiet the evenings are there? In summer, the nightingales sing; in autumn, the bagpipes play; in winter, God's winds rush outside the wall and roar; but, inside, it is honest, and quiet, and safe." CHAPTER X What Maryan had told Kranitski about Darvid was true. The man was engaged in real orgies of labor. His assistants and associates were bending beneath it, and losing breath; he seemed more untiring than ever: Counsels, meetings, accounts, balances, correspondence, discussions with functionaries of the government, of finance, and of industries, banks, bureaus, exchanges, auctions, etc. And in all this appeared order, sequence, punctuality, logic, lending to the course of these gigantic interests the seeming of a machine with multitudes of wheels moved by a force elemental, invincible. For even those who had known him longest and most intimately, Darvid had become this time a surprise; he had surpassed himself. The number of men was continually increasing who began to look on him as on a rare phenomenon of nature. Whence did the man get such uncommon mental and physical vigor? From mid-day till hours which were far beyond midnight he was unceasingly active. When has he time to sleep and take rest? What is he seeking to reach? What will he reach? This last question brought out before the imagination of men certain summits of financial might, to be reared to such dizzy heights for the first time in the history of the country. A giant of mentality and energy. Some said: He is superhuman. But in the immense number of men connected with Darvid by a net of most varied relations there were some to whom he seemed a curious enigma, representing a certain inveterate struggle, the motives of which rested on the mysterious bases of his being. That hurling of himself with greater force than at any time hitherto into the whirl of occupations and business; that exertion to the remotest limits of the possible, directed toward one object of thought and energy, seemed to penetrating eyes, not merely a thirst for acquisition and profit, but a desperate conflict with something undiscovered and invisible. At that moment of his life it seemed to some that Darvid was like a man running straight forward and with all his might, because he felt that were he to halt, something awful would seize him. Others said, that he called to mind a man into whose ear some buzzing insect had crept, and who was hiding in a factory filled with uproar which was to drown the unendurable buzzing of the insect. The truth was, that Darvid was building at that time, and with iron labor, a wall between himself and the giantess whom, for the first time in life, he had seen face to face, and very closely. It was clear enough that he had always known, not merely of her existence, but of this, that there was no power in the world more familiar than that giantess; still, this knowledge of his had been in a comatose condition, something separated altogether from the every-day substance of life, and touching which there had never been any need of thinking. Someone dies--a certain acquaintance; a comrade in amusement; a famous, or unknown power in the world--what do people say? A pity that he is gone! or, no help for it! Well, what influence can the disappearance of that man exercise on a given sphere of human action; on the course of men's relations and interests? Life, like a rushing river, tears all living men forward, and behind them, ever more distant, remains that misty region, which is filled with the vanished and forgotten. Who are they who, at any time, think of that misty region, and look at the face of the giantess who reigns in it? Priests, perhaps, devotees it may be; a few poets at times; or people who sail on a slow and sad stream in life. Darvid had never had time for such thoughts. The stream which bore him on was rushing and roaring, glittering and turbulent. But the giantess, because of her power, sprang over all golden mountains--and came! He was thinking of this at the moment when Kranitski saw him standing at the wall and squeezing into its snowy drapery, just as a frightened insect might squeeze itself into a cranny. That was a cranny in one more of his golden mountains. In the great city, people had spoken with amazement of the cost, well-nigh fabulous, of that last chamber of the millionnaire's little daughter. He had means to do that and much more. What are those means to him? He had vanquished enormously great things in life, and he had immense power at that moment. But of what use is that power to him, since something has come which he cannot overthrow; something against which he can do nothing, and which has struck him doubly--struck his heart with pain, and his head with anxiety? What virtue is there in power which cannot shield a man from suffering? And even suffering is not important, since man can battle with it; but to shield against annihilation! That, at which he was looking then so nearly, was a sudden and merciless annihilation of life, blooming in all its charm and with great fullness. Something out of the air, something out of space, and from beyond boundaries attainable by human thought, had rushed in and trampled down that life fresh and beautiful. A power invincible--not to be bribed by wealth, persuaded by reason, or vanquished by energy. A mysterious power--the beginning and object of which were unknown, which had flown in on silent wings and swept from the earth everything that it wished to take; and, against this, there were no means of resistance, or rescue. It seemed to him that the gloomy rustle of giant wings was filling that snowy chamber of the dead from edge to edge; and, for the first time in life, he felt things beyond mankind and the senses. His breast, which had breathed with pride; his head, which held one faith, the might of reason, and that which reason can accomplish, were struck now by an incomprehensible secret, which roused in him for the first time a feeling of his own inconceivable insignificance. He felt as small as an earth-worm must feel when on the grass along which it is crawling--the shadow of a vulture falls as it sweeps through the azure sky--and as the worm hides in the crack of a stone, so he sank into the snowy folds of crape and muslin which veiled the walls of that chamber. He felt as weak as if he were not a man of strong will and splendid labor, but a little child which is unable to push aside with its tiny fingers the terror which is standing out in front of it. With his shoulders and one half of his head sunk in the snowy folds, with his glance fixed on the sleeping face of Cara, which was visible among the white flowers, he said to her, mentally: "I can do nothing, nothing for thee, little one! I can do much, almost anything; but for thee I can do nothing!" Slender, grayish bits of smoke passed above her sleeping face, and, impelled by invisible movements of air, stretched in waving threads from her to him. Just at that moment he saw Kranitski come from an inner apartment of the house and kneel at the steps strewn with flowers. He looked; he recognized the man, and felt none of those emotions which his name alone had roused in him previously. What were human anger, hatred, disagreement in presence of that immense something into whose face he was gazing at that moment? What could Kranitski, hitherto hateful to Darvid, be to him now, when he said to himself: "I know not; I understand not; it is impossible to comprehend this; and still it is real; since I--I can do nothing for thee, my little daughter." But this was not the only discovery which he was to make on that occasion. He knew not how many hours he had passed in that chamber, but he saw the dawn, which drew a blue lining beyond the snowy folds which covered the windows, and then he saw the sun which flooded it with molten gold; he heard clocks striking a number of times in a chamber; one of these clocks was bass, and announced the hours slowly somewhere behind him, while another before him answered in a thinner and more hurried voice, till, all at once, beyond the closed doors, in one of the drawing-rooms, music was heard. Darvid knew what the meaning of that was: another golden mountain which he had reared for the "little one." Much gold had been poured out in bringing those voices, the chorus of which raised a hymn of prayer and sorrow above his dead daughter. But previously the door was opened, and the white chamber was half filled with the highest of the most brilliant society in that city, showing signs of profound respect and sympathy. Prince Zeno escorted Malvina Darvid, who was all in tears and black crape. Maryan brought in the princess. Irene entered, leaning on the arm of a young prince, celebrated for beauty; next came stars of these three powers: birth, money, and reputation. They were not many, since summits are always few in number; slight sounds were heard of bringing, giving, and moving chairs; there were whispers and the rustle of silk garments. Black silks, laces, and crape; the black dress of men mixed with glittering white; hands folded sadly on knees, or crossed on breasts, with seriousness; faces sunk in thought--solemn stillness. Meanwhile, out of silence in the adjoining chamber, to the accompaniment of instrumental music, rose a grand funeral hymn, given by a chorus of the most famous artists in the city. The solemnity of the mourning, with its character of high life and unusualness, roused admiration for the man who had given such magnificent homage to his departed daughter. From out the mountain of gold gushed a fountain of enchanting music, on which that child sailed away beyond the boundaries of earthly existence. Darvid did not greet those who entered; and, for the first time in life, perhaps, failed to meet the demands of society; they also, respecting a frame of mind which they divined in him, troubled the man in no way. He remained resting against the wall, and, from a distance, resembled a silhouette outlined on it darkly, as on a background. He looked on the brilliant assembly, from which he was separated by half the chamber, and felt that he was divided from those people by a space as great as if they were at one end of the world and he at the other end. Those shadows there whose names he knew, but who were nothing to him, and he nothing to them. They might exist, or not; that was all one to Darvid. Why had they come? Why were they there? Never mind, he knew only this, that they did not exist for him, as he did not for them. He was struck by the feeling of an immense vacuum, which divided him from men. This vacuum was something like a space which the eye could not take in, a space with two edges, on one of which he was found, and they on the other. They were by themselves, he was by himself. The singing of the chorus rose in power, in thunders, then became like nightingale voices heard in space, with notes clear and resonant. Invisible movements of air passed along the crapes, and the immense number of tapers, causing the flames on them to quiver. Darvid had not paid attention to music; he had never had time to learn and to love it; but he felt that those tones were passing into his vitals, moving the secret strata of his being, and bringing them into movements unknown to him till that moment. He looked at Cara's face, rising up among the white blossoms, and he thought, or rather felt that, while those others seemed removed by boundless space, she alone was very near to him. "Mine!" he whispered. She alone. He did not know precisely how that could happen, but mentally he placed that little head with golden hair upon his shoulders, and said to it: "Let us flee, little one! Thou didst ask me once what those people were to me. Now I will tell thee that they are nothing. I do not need them; they are strangers to me; with me they have no relations whatever; thou alone art needful to me; thou alone, such a sunray as I once saw on a journey and forgot, bright and warm. Thou alone art mine! Let us go; let us flee together from all and from everyone, for everything and all people are nothing to you and me; they are strange, and distant." Here he remembered that never and nowhere would he be able to go with her, or to flee with her. He was joint possessor of a number of railroads; he had the power to employ for himself alone a number of trains passing over those roads; in the East, on a gigantic river, his own vessels were sailing, in clouds of steam; in one capital and another, and in this great city, swarms of people inhabited his houses--still he could not take that sleeping girl by land or by water, to any city, or to any house. To his eyes, which were raised toward her, a biting moisture began to come, and gathered into drops, a number of which flowed down his cheeks, and were shaken in every direction by quiverings of the skin. But at that moment appeared on his lips the smile, which, as people said, was bristling with pin-points. "What is this? Is it exaltation?" He discovered exaltation in himself. A few days before, nay, down to that very night, he would have laughed at the supposition that in him it could darken judgment and clear vision. He thought, however, that a man is at times to himself the most marvellous of all surprises. Under various influences forces spring up in him, the presence of which he is farthest from suspecting. Darvid discovered, now in himself, the thing most unexpected: exaltation. The habit of a life-time; that which he had always considered as an unshaken conviction, rose now with loud laughter at itself. Will he begin now as a poet to write a threnody over his dead daughter, or like a monk yield himself to thoughts about death? Misery! Earlier, that word had occurred more than once to him, but only now does it career through his head freely. Still, he will not let exaltation master him. He must stand erect and look at things soberly. He straightened himself; removed his shoulders from the wall; calmed his face and glance; by strength of will brought a greeting smile to his lips; and moved toward his guests. The moment the hymn stopped he gave his hand to those present, in very polite welcome, and thanked them with a few, but pleasant phrases. This was the beginning of one of those herculean struggles, the like of which he had fought many times in the past. This, in its farther course, had an orgie of labor, which he continued for a number of weeks, and which roused admiration, or curiosity, in every on-looker. One day, between his return from the city and the hour of reception, he was standing in the blue drawing-room at the window, thinking: What that peculiar movement was which on returning from the city he noted while walking up the stairway. Porters were bearing out articles of some sort, which he did not examine, but which seemed to him pictures, and other things also. Was Maryan leaving the house? Perhaps. It was impossible to foresee what that self-sufficient and stubborn youth was capable of doing. But whatever happened he would not yield, and he would permit no longer that vain method of life, with its mad excesses, excesses which are costly. But in those recent hours everything, not excepting Maryan, had concerned him considerably less than before. Why was this? He did not answer that question, for he heard a noise of steps, and a whisper: "Aloysius!" He looked around. It was Malvina greatly changed. Beneath her hair, dressed with stern simplicity, her forehead was furrowed with a dark, deep wrinkle; the corners of her pale mouth were drooping; on the back of her head a heavy roll of hair, coiled carelessly, dropped to her dress of black material, which was almost like the robe of a religious. She stood in the descending darkness, some steps from him. She had pronounced his name, but was unable to go further. Her white hand, resting on a small table, trembled; her head was inclined, and she raised to him eyes which were dim but had a painfully timid and anxious expression. They looked at each other for a moment, and then he inquired: "In what can I serve?" The question was polite and formal. After a moment of hesitation, or of collecting her strength, she began: "Irene and I are to leave here in a few days. It is impossible for me to do this without speaking to thee, Aloysius. I have waited for a convenient moment, and seeing thee here, I have come." She was silent again. She breathed quickly, and was excited. Standing toward her in profile, the definite and sharp outline of his face was fixed on the background of the window, beyond which was darkness; he inquired: "What is the question?" She answered in a whisper: "Be patient--this is hard for me--" And as if fearing to exhaust that patience for which she was begging, the woman began hurriedly, and therefore without order, to say: "A common misfortune has struck us--thou hast been, Aloysius, so kind, so immensely loving to our poor Cara--when I go from here with, thou wilt be so much alone--Maryan has some project of travel--so perhaps--if it were possible--if thou couldst forget the past--I do not know even--forgive--if thou shouldst wish, I and Irene would remain--" While speaking she gained some courage; some internal motive was to be felt in her, which forced her to speak. "I will not try to justify myself before thee, Aloysius, nor to deny that I am guilty--I will say only this, that I, too, was unhappy, and that my fault has caused me dreadful suffering. I wished to say to thee, Aloysius, that, perhaps, even on thy part also, for thou didst not know me--that is, thou didst know my face, my eyes, my hair, the sound of my voice, and they pleased thee, hence thou didst make me thy wife, but thou didst not know my soul, and didst not wish to be its confidant, or its defender. This soul was not devoid of good desires; not without some small beginning of heartfelt happiness--though it was the unfortunate soul of a woman attacked by wealth and idleness. But thou, Aloysius, didst make a rich woman of a girl who, though poor and a toiler, held her head high--thou didst make her a rich and unoccupied woman, who--was left to herself at all times. Still, it was thy wish and demand that I should represent thy name in society with the utmost effect; thy name; thy firm, as thou didst call it." She was silent, for her eyes met his smile which was bristling with pin-points. "It seems to me," said he, "that in this tragic piece which it pleases thee to play, the role of villain will fall to me." "Oh, no!" cried she, clasping her hands. "Oh, no! I did not wish to complain of thee in any way, or to make reproaches--I have not the right--but--I think that since all of us in this world are guilty in some way, and life is so sad, and all is so--poor, it would perhaps be better to forgive each other--to yield, to renounce. This is what I think, and though my pride is wounded this long time because all that I must use is thine, I yield, and I will use it, though my only wish is to go from here, to withdraw from the world, to vanish forever in some lonely corner--" Her voice quivered, shaken by sobbing, but she restrained herself and finished: "I will renounce this desire, and remain, if--only thou wish--if only thou wilt not despise me--" With his profile outlined more and more sharply on the window-pane, which grew darker from the gloom, he answered, after a moment of silence: "I have not the strength for it. I am very sorry; but in me is not stuff to make the hero of a Christian romance. Thou hast perfect freedom of movement; Krynichna belongs to thy daughter. Thou mayst vanish with her in that 'lonely corner,' in which I cannot wish pleasant lives to you, or remain and live here as hitherto, which I could understand better; but in no case--" He stopped suddenly, and was silent. While speaking with that woman he had felt beneath his throat a coil of snakes stifling him, but in his brain certain memories were sounding, as it were voices, the echo of something distant. This echo issued from that woman's features, changed and faded, though the same in which on a time he had fixed his eyes with rapture, from the sound of her voice, which, at all times, had possessed for him a charm beyond description. His head, as if pressed by something above him and invisible, dropped with an almost indiscernible movement. Shall he forgive? And what would the result be? An idyl? Harmony? A return to family happiness? Folly! That can never be. Only one thing in this world is undoubted and indestructible: a fact. A fact has taken place, and there is no power in existence to cause that fact not to be. All views except this are exaltation! After a moment of silence he finished coldly and with deliberation: "In no case can my feelings, or our relations be subject to change." She rested her hand against the table more firmly, and bent her head lower--through that head were still wandering certain thoughts of a return to pure womanly honor through expiation, through yielding obediently to the will of the offended. Then she began in a very low voice: "Can I aid thee in any way?" After a moment of silence he answered: "No." "Can I be of use to thee in anything?" He was silent a little longer, and said: "No," a second time. The profile which had been turned to her was looking now through the window-pane to a ruddy cloud, which was moving on in darkness above the roof opposite, that cloud reminded him of something. She looked at him, and, after a moment, added: "Our daughter will write to thee, Aloysius." He interrupted her, hurriedly: "Thy daughter!" She began in astonishment: "Irene--" He knew now that that ruddy cloud moving over the darkening sky reminded him of Cara. He turned his face toward the face of the woman standing there. "Irene is thy daughter," said he--"for what meaning have blood-bonds when there are no others? I had a child who was my own--" At that moment desire for revenge boiled up in him; the desire to crush, so he finished: "And I lost her--through thee!" "Through me?" Her questioning cry was full of amazement. "Thou knowest of nothing then? They have hidden it from thee? A proper regard for the delicate nerves of a woman! But my rude nerves of a man feel the need of sharing this knowledge with thy nerves." Slowly and emphatically he uttered his words; words which, from moment to moment, were hissed through his pallid lips, and thus he concluded: "Once thy daughter had an interesting conversation with me; a very interesting conversation about--everything which took place in our family idyl. The little girl, hidden behind some furniture, heard the conversation, and became mentally disordered--oh! temporarily, of course, and this would have passed, but under its influence she exposed herself to the cold night air so as to die. Inflammation of the lungs was complicated by mental disorder. Her death--was suicide." The last words went out of his straitened throat in a suppressed whisper, still they were so definite as to be heard in every part of the great chamber. They were deadened, however, by the overpowering shriek of the woman and the noise made as her body fell to the floor. Pani Darvid's knees bent under her, and dropping, with her face in her hands, her head struck the corner of the table near which she had been standing. At that moment Irene shot into the chamber; like a skylark, flying forward to defend its little ones, she ran to her mother, and surrounding her bent form with both arms, she raised to her father a face covered with a flood of tears. "A needless cruelty, father," cried she. "Ah, how I hid this from her; how I tried to hide it! This is a needless cruelty! I thought that a man as wise as thou would do nothing so uncalled for. But thou hast committed a vileness!" Darvid made an abrupt movement, but restrained himself, and with his face toward the window he heard the retreating footsteps of the two women. There was a second of time during which he turned his head, and his lips moved as if some word, a name was to escape from him. At that moment the two women, holding to each other, moved slowly through the next drawing-room, advanced in the increasing darkness, and vanished. He uttered no word. What was his feeling when she shrieked and struck her head against the edge of the table? Was it pity? Perhaps. Was it a quiver of sorrow for that past which had left him forever, and for that daughter who went out with the word "vileness" hanging on her lips? Perhaps. But he said nothing; he uttered no name. He remained alone. It was silent around him and empty. Emptiness occupied that part of space beyond the window, for the rosy cloud which had passed there a while before had vanished. The figure of Darvid standing at the window became darker in that gloom, which, growing denser, dimmed and then concealed the white, the blue, and the gilding of the great drawing-room. By degrees the lines of his face became invisible; his trembling hands and the quiver of the skin on his cheeks were no longer to be distinguished, and Darvid appeared on the gray background of the window as a narrow and perfectly black line. He did not go away, for he was riveted there, fixed in thought, filled with amazement. In this way, in this manner then, all things on earth are ended. Those invisible giants, Death, Insanity, Anguish, Rage, go about the world trampling, crushing, rending, and no man has power to arrest them! He had never thought about those giants. How could he? Was he a philosopher? He had not had time to think. Now he was thinking, and at the bottom of his stony meditation he beholds a pale, dreadful visage. Something which recalls a Medusa-head, which he had seen some time in a picture. It has struggled out of raging waves, and is resting on them face upward; its hair is torn; its gaze has endless depth; and on its blue lips is a jeering smile. What is it jeering at? Perhaps at the grandeur of the man who appears as a narrow line on the gray background of that window, black, and alone as he is, in the gathering gloom and the silence? Now something soft and timid touches his feet, and he sees a little dark point moving. He stoops and calls: "Puffie!" At the floor was heard thin barking. Puffie had always barked that way to call the attention of his mistress. Darvid bent low with his hand on the silky coat, and repeated: "Puffie!" Then he straightened himself, and, leaving the window, called several times in succession: "Puffie! Puffie!" The black line moved on, in the gray darkness, through two drawing-rooms, and behind it, on the floor, rolled the dark small ball-like object, till a space of bright light gleamed before them. This was the widely open door of his clearly lighted study. In the door the footman pronounced loudly a name, at the sound of which Darvid's step quickened. At last the man had returned--the envoy, the agent, the hound had come hack! Beyond doubt he brings favoring news, otherwise he would have no cause to come. Hence, that colossal business; that immense arena of toil and struggle, through which an enormous vein of gold runs, may belong to Darvid. How timely this is! The business will freshen him; snatch him out of the evil dreams into which he has fallen for some time past. Indeed, all these exaltations, all these elements of feeling, which have risen in him with such power, are an unwholesome and nervous dream, out of which he must shake himself and return to clear, sober, sound reality. CHAPTER XI A rather long series of days had passed when Darvid entered his clear, brightly lighted study, after winning one of the very greatest triumphs of his life. In the antechamber he had thrown into the hands of a footman, not his fur, but a somewhat light overcoat; for that day, which for him had been lucky, was succeeded by a warm, spring evening. Whoever might have seen him when he was leaving the lofty threshold of the highest dignitary in that city must have said to himself: "Happy man!" Though he had grown evidently thin during recent days; gladness and pride were beaming from his smile; from his eyes; from his serene forehead. He possessed now that for which he had striven long in vain: he held in his hand the colossal enterprise; before him was a broad arena for iron toil and a great vein, of gold. It is true, that while making ready for that moment of triumph, he had spent days and nights like a Benedictine over piles of books and documents, calculating, combining, covering many folios of paper with arguments and figures. He had toiled immensely, thinking of nothing save the toil; and now, when he stood at his object as a conqueror, all people said: he is happy! He had received a multitude of congratulations already; in the eyes of men he had read much admiration. He had just returned from a meeting where, by accurate and fluent speech, he had convinced and won over a numerous assembly of men of uncommon keenness and significance. Thus had he passed the day; now, in the middle of the evening, he returned to his house; and when he had given the servant in attendance the brief command: "Receive no one!" he asked: "Where is the little dog?" After that he dropped into a deep armchair near the round table, and had the face, for a while, of a man who is waking from sleep. For a number of days he had been so buried in thought over this weighty enterprise, and that day from early morning he had been so absorbed by the feeling of that victory which he had won, that he had had no time to think of any other thing; now, after a long time, in the first moment of inactivity which had fallen to him, he felt as if waking from sleep, and he was brought to thinking by the question: "Well? What is it for?" Just this question was to him at that moment reality, while every other thing was accomplished by the power of habit. He had toiled, calculated, triumphed, just as a round body rolls over an inclined plane by the force of acquired motion. Under this surface-life, which had been the one which he had led so long exclusively, was now another one which seized a continually increasing area; this new life, a mystery to every other man, had become for him more tangible than the entire visible universe. Out of it was growing an irresistible, importunate riddle, enclosed in the brief words: What for? These two brief words kept returning to his mind during every moment of rest, so that hours of noise and movement seemed to him a dream, and only those two words--unceasingly recurrent--the one true reality over which there was reason to be anxious. Why had he taken on his head and hands this new burden of toil, which was greater than all the others? Why, in general, this climbing a sky-touching ladder with exertion of all his strength of nerve and brain? To what kind of heaven could he climb upon that ladder? New profits, ever-increasing wealth? But he had ceased to desire these! Although that seemed marvellous to the man himself, he had ceased really. Why? Did he own little? He was the possessor of enormously much. He had never been of those who make a golden chariot so as to sit in it with Bacchantes and with Bacchus. But pride? He laughed. Yes, pride, but that was before he had known, intimately, those giants who sit in various corners of the earth. He knows them now; he knows what they can do; and he knows his own power. Why toil? What for? But his worth; that worth which people esteem so immensely that they almost cast themselves at his feet, or do they cast themselves before his golden chariot? For, if that chariot were to shoot away from under him, would he retain the title of modern Cid, Titan, superhuman? It was wonderful with what clearness he saw then Maryan, sitting in that chair, and how distinctly he heard his voice inquiring: "What is the object of your toil, father? The object; the object? That decides everything. What was the object? Of course, not this world's salvation!" He laughed again. What cause was there for long thought here! His object had been to win new profits continually; to gain ever-increasing wealth; and now, since he had ceased to desire these, the question was--what for? But the genius of that Maryan with his questions! He had gone down so deeply into his father's being that those questions remained there and continued their inquisitorial labor. A beautiful and genial fellow! A young prince; almost a sage. But what does that signify if--he lacks something? What is it that he lacks, and so lacks that he is as if he had nothing? What is it that he lacks? With a slow movement, in which weariness was evident, Darvid turned his head toward the desk, which was lighted abundantly with tapers burning on lofty candlesticks. What did those candlesticks bring to his mind? Ah, yes, he remembers! On a time he gave one of them, in the inner drawing-room, to Cara, so that the candle burning in it might light the way to her. He remembers how her slender arm bent beneath its weight when her small hand took it, and how beautifully the flame of the candle was reflected in the dark pupils gazing at him with such--with such what? With such exaltation! But how wonderful, how intense was his happiness when that child lived and loved him as she did! That was his only happiness! Then, holding the light in the heavy candlestick straight on before her rosy face, she went on into the darkness. Again he looked around, not with a wearied movement as before, but abruptly. He looked around at the door beyond which thick darkness was hiding, impenetrably, a series of drawing-rooms. This darkness was like a black wall outside the door. Along Darvid's shoulders ran a movement of the skin, the same as a man feels when something heavy from behind is placed upon his shoulders, or rides onto him. That black wall, in which an enchanted row of empty drawing-rooms stood silent, seemed to put itself down on him. But again he looked toward the desk; there, among a multitude of papers, lay a letter from Maryan, received many days before. Darvid had not destroyed or put away this letter, and not knowing himself the reason why, had left it on the desk there. The letter, in that great study, appeared definitely with its white color on the green of the malachite writing utensils. Moreover, it was not a letter. A number of lines merely. He had written that, wishing to spare his father and himself a new personal interview; he gives notice, in writing, of his trip to America. But as he is slow to write letters he confines himself to a few words. Since an incomprehensible lack of logic in directing his life had forced him to become a laborer, he desired to choose the field and the manner according to his own individuality. He had turned his personal property into money; this had brought him a considerable sum; he had borrowed another sum; he did not ask pardon for acting thus, since this borrowing was the natural outcome of a position of which he was not the cause, but on the contrary the victim. He makes no reproaches, since he is ever of opinion that all such things as offences and services, crimes and virtues, are soup prepared from the bones of great-grandfathers, and served in painted pots to Arcadians. All this was concluded with a compliment which was smooth, rounded, exquisite as to style, plan, and execution. Lack of logic. Those three words had fixed themselves in Darvid's memory, and after the words "what for?" appeared in it most frequently. Could they really relate to him? Had he in fact committed an error in logic? Yes, it seemed so. In that case his clear, sober, logical reason had deceived him. He rose, and with his profile toward the door, felt again, rather than saw, a black wall of darkness beyond. Again a shiver ran along the skin of his shoulders, which quivered and bent somewhat. He went to the desk, from which he took another letter, thrown down a moment before, and unread yet. Something in the room was moving; certain little steps ran along the carpet quietly. Puffie had woke; had run to the man, and begun to squirm at his feet. "Puffie!" said Darvid, and he began to read the letter. It was an invitation from Prince Zeno to a grand farewell ball. The prince and his family were going abroad, and wished to take farewell of their acquaintances in the first rank of them with the "modern Cid." Prince Zeno had often given this title to Darvid. But to-day the "modern Cid" read the letter of invitation while his mouth was awry from disgust. It had not the famous smile bristling with pin-points, but simply that disfigurement of the lips which accompanies the swallowing of something which is nauseating and repugnant. He placed before his mind the society in which some time before he had passed a few days at the hunting trip. This society would fill the prince's drawing-rooms on that day, and not only did he note in himself an utter absence of desire to be in that society, but a repulsion for it. Not that he cherished hatred toward those people, but they were perfectly indifferent to him. He did not reproach that society; but when he thought of it he was conscious again of a boundless space and a vacuum, which divided him from those who formed it. He imagined to himself Prince Zeno's drawing-rooms filled with faces, costumes, conversations, card-tables; and, it seemed to him, that it all existed at an immense distance--on the other side of a space that was infinite and empty--on one edge of this space was he; on the other were they; between him and them lay a vacuum; no bond between them; not even one as slender as a spider-web. In the midst of the lofty chamber, above the round table, burned the lamp with a great and calm light; on the desk, in massive candlesticks, burned candles. In that abundant light Darvid stood near the desk, with bent shoulders; a number of wrinkles between his brows; his face inclined low toward the paper which he held in his hand. At his feet, on the rug, like a tiny statue, sat the motionless Puffie; with upraised head, and through silken hair, the dog looked into the face of the man. But Darvid did not see the little animal, and did not read the flattering phrases on the paper; he only repeated the words which, on a time, he had heard from his daughter: "What do you want of so many people, father? Do you love them? Do they love you? What comes of this? Pleasure or profit? What is it all for?" "I do not love them, little one, and they do not love me. Profit comes to me from this--significance in society." "But what is significance to you, father? What do you want of significance? Does it give you happiness?" This time there appeared on his lips the smile full of pinpoints, which was famous in society. "It has not given it, little one!" His child had let down on her question his thought to the basis of life, as if on threads. Now he looked around, and his smile was bristling with pin-points of irony, increasing in sharpness. He thought a long time before he said, aloud: "What comes of this?" And afterward, in an inquiring tone, he almost cried: "An error?" In the light of this thought that his life with its toils, its conflicts, and its triumphs could be an error, he saw, again, that Medusa-face, pale with terror. Puffie, perhaps frightened by the cry which had been rent from his master, fell to barking. Darvid turned from the desk, and his glance met the black wall beyond the door. "Was it an error?" he repeated. The darkness was silent, and a face without eyes seemed to gaze at him persistently, with attention. He moved forward a few steps quickly, and pressed the bell-knob. To the incoming servant he indicated the door, and said: "Light up the drawing-rooms!" After a few moments the series of drawing-rooms emerged from the darkness, and stood in the light of blazing lamps and candles. Globe-lamps, burning at the walls, cast a hazy half-light, in which glittered, here and there, golden gleams, and appeared the features of painted faces and landscapes. From shady corners emerged, partially, the forms of slender and swelling vases; portions of white garlands on the walls; the delicate mists of dim colors on Gobelin tapestry; the bright scarlet and blue of silk drapery. Farther on, in the small drawing-room, burned, in two chandeliers, a bundle of tapers, beneath which hung a crown of crystals, glittering like icicles, or immense congealed tears. Farther on still, in the dining-room, with its dark walls, gleamed a bright spot in the grand lamp of pendant bronze above the table. This point seemed very distant from Darvid's study; but on the whole expanse which divided him from it there was neither voice nor sound--there was nothing living. Notwithstanding the multitude of objects scattered, or collected, this was a desert on which silence had imposed itself. From the threshold of the study to that door, beyond which the largest of the lamps was suspended as a shining object in its bronze above the table, Darvid moved, stepping with inclined face; at his lips the fire of a lighted cigarette; now, as it were, extinguished; and, now, shining up again. Behind him, right there near his feet, with the end of its snout almost touching the floor, rolled along little Puffie, like a bundle of raw silk. After a while, the step of the advancing man grew more hurried and uneven; increasing disquiet was expressed in him; now the light scattering along the unoccupied and silent space the extent of that space, and he himself wandering along through it. What did all this signify? Here and there, in the gildings and polished surfaces, quivered flashes like playful gnomes; at other points, on bluish backgrounds, pale faces looked from tapestry thrown over furniture; still, farther, a great mirror reflects two clusters of lights, beneath which hang crystal pendants, and, increasing the perspective, made the space still greater, and the light more peculiar; in another place, from behind bluish folds depending from a door, appears a vase of Chinese porcelain; and, at that moment, it assumes, in Darvid's eyes, a strange appearance. Large, covered with blue decorations, it has a form which is swollen in the middle, but slender above, with a long neck, and not altogether visible; it seems to lean forward from behind the curtains, gaze at the passing man, follow his steps, and laugh at him. Yes, the Chinese vase is laughing--its body seems to swell more and more from laughter, and in the blue painting the white background has, here and there, a deceptive similarity to grinning teeth. Darvid strives not to look at the vase, and hastens on; behind him Puffie's shaggy feet tread the floor more hurriedly, but as he returns, the porcelain monster thrusts out its long neck again from behind the curtain, jeers, bares its teeth, and seems ready to burst from laughter. At the opposite side of that drawing-room, on a blue background, is the pale face of an old man, and from above a gray beard the sad and inquisitive eyes of the patriarch are settled on Darvid. What does all this mean? Darvid halted in the centre of one of the drawing-rooms, right there behind him the bundle of raw silk halted also, and stood on its shaggy paws. What was he doing in those empty drawing-rooms; why had he commanded to light them? This act seems like madness. He called to mind recent acts of an insane king, who, in a brilliantly lighted edifice, listened alone to the rendering of an opera. Is he also becoming insane? Why is he not at work? He has so much to do! Darvid advanced quickly, and halted again. The Chinese vase inclined half way from behind the curtain, it seemed bursting from laughter. Work? What for? The object? The object? That decides everything! He turned his glance from the gnashing teeth of the Chinese monster, and it met the pale face of the patriarch, whose eyes, looking out at him from the blue background, and from above a gray beard, said with sadness, and inquiringly: "The wrong road!" He had lost the road! Only the habit of restraining internal impulses, and the expression of them, kept him from crying "Help!" But he had the cry within him, and with a quick and uneven tread he went toward the great lamp burning at the end of the perspective, in the centre of the open space between the walls of the dining-room. Behind him ran along Puffie, with all the speed of his shaggy feet. Meanwhile, in one of the drawing-rooms, the clock began to strike eleven--one, two, three. Its deep sounds penetrated slowly the empty space on which silence had imposed itself, until somewhere, at the other end of the perspective, a second clock began to strike, as if answering this one in a thinner voice and more hurriedly. This seemed a voice, an echo, a conversation carried on by things that were inanimate. Darvid returned to his study, and pressing the knob of the bell again, said to his servant: "Put out the lights!" He sat in one of the armchairs at the round table, and felt an unspeakable weariness from the crown of his head to his feet. Some light body sprang to his knee. He placed his hand on the silky coat of the creature nestling up to him, and said: "Puffie!" He considered that he must renounce absolutely that colossal affair to obtain which he had struggled so long, because strength, and especially desire for such immense toil, seemed to fail him. He was so tired. But if he abandons toil what will he do; what is he to live for? What is the object of life? The darkness was silent, and as a face without eyes seemed to gaze on him with stubbornness and attention. A few hours later, in a sleeping-room, furnished by the most skilled of decorators in the capital, a night-lamp, placed on the mantle, cast its light on a bed adorned with rich carving; a hand, white and thin, stretched forth on the silken coverlet, and a face, also thin, with ruddy side-whiskers, itself as if carved out of ivory, and gleaming with a pair of blue, sleepless eyes, which wandered through that spacious, half-lighted, chamber with a tortured and heavy expression. All at once Darvid raised himself in bed, and, with his elbow on the pillow, gazed upward. Higher on the wall was the face of a maiden, small, oval, rosy, with thick, bright hair scattered above her Grecian forehead, and by a movement of her eyes she seemed to summon the man gazing at her. She smiled, with rosy lips, at him, lovingly, and moved her eyelids, inviting him. Darvid, with raised brows, and with his forehead gathered in a number of great wrinkles; with eyes turned to that picture above him bent forward still more, and, with trembling lips, whispered: "My little one." But immediately after he rubbed his eyes, and smiled. It was a picture by Greuze! There were two of them: one almost invisible in the shade; the other that one emerging from the shade into a half light in such fashion that the head of the maiden seemed to stand out from, the canvas as it were suspended. "It is like Cara; very like her. The same type--the very same lips, hair, and forehead--" He knew that that was a painted face; still, with his head on the pillow, he raised his eyes to it frequently, and as often as he raised them he saw a loving smile on the rosy lips and the distinct movement of the eyes which seemed to call and invite him. He thought that he was ill, unnerved; that he must summon in physicians. Next morning Darvid heard, in the study of a famous doctor, that his nerves were unstrung remarkably; suffering from a blow which had struck him--over-work. He had toiled beyond measure. There was only one cure: complete and long rest. A journey abroad. A change of impressions, after hard and special toil; life in the midst of splendid scenery and works of art. Meditating afterward on this advice of the doctor, he thought that he had not the slightest wish to follow it. Neither nature nor art attracted him in any way. During his whole life he had not had the time for them, and it was too late now for new studies. Why was he to undertake a journey if not for that purpose? He had travelled much in his lifetime, but always on business, and with a clearly defined object; without business and an object, travelling through the world seemed to him exactly like that walking in the night through his empty, lighted mansion; something akin to madness. What then? Days passed again in toil, amidst consultations and reckonings. The arranging of balances and reports--the round body rolled on by the power of impetus. At appointed hours he received visits. He received also Prince Zeno, who came to take farewell of him for many months, till the following winter. "We are scattering, all of us," said the prince. "Like birds in autumn we are flying to places where the sun shines most beautifully. You, too, will go, of course. Whither? To the South or the East? Perhaps to that estate where your wife and daughter are passing the sad time of family mourning? But apropos of the country. You know that poor Kranitski; well, he came to take farewell of me. He has left the city; left it never to come back again. He has gone to the country. He is to remain on his estate--a small one, not over-pleasantly situated. I was there once on a visit to his mother, with whom I was connected by blood-bonds. A tiresome little hole, that place! But what is to be done? This handsome and once charming man has grown dreadfully old; the conditions of his life were difficult--so he has gone. Your son is making a long journey. Is he in the United States already? Baron Blauendorf is going there also; only yesterday he bade good-by to us. We scatter through the world; but, till we meet again? For I should be in despair were I to lose an acquaintance so precious and dear to me as yours is." Ah, how indifferent it was to Darvid whether he should keep or lose acquaintance with Prince Zeno. He saw and recognized in the man many fine and agreeable qualities, but he would rather not see him, just as he would rather not see others. All seemed strange to him and distant. Conversation, even with the most agreeable and worthy, both wearied and annoyed him. "What do you want of so many people, father? Do you love them? Do they love you?" One thought now devoured him. That "poor Kranitski" had left the city to live on his estate permanently, or rather in his poor village, situated in that same district as Krynichna, not very near, but in the same region. Of course, he will be a frequent guest at Krynichna--but, maybe not; even, surely not. Indeed, she had broken with him, and, in truth, she felt immense shame and pain--he laughed. A penitent Magdalen! He finished with the thought: Unhappy woman! But what more had he to do that day? Ah! he had an appointment to meet that young sculptor at the cemetery toward evening, and agree on a monument for Cara. That was to be a monument of great cost and beauty--a mountain of gold above the "little one." The great cemetery was in the bright green of leaves which had recently unfolded on the trees, and in the intoxicating odor of violets over Cara's grave-mound, which was covered with a carpet, not of modest violets, but of exquisite exotic flowers. Darvid spoke long with the young sculptor, and with a number of other men, giving, agreeably and fluently, opinions and directions concerning the erection of the monument. While doing this, his eyes dropped, at moments, to the grave, and were fixed with such force on it as if he wished to pierce through that carpet of flowers; through the stratum of brick; through the coffin, and look at that which was under the lid. At last, with a polite elevation of his hat, he took farewell of them, and passed on by a path, amid columns and statues intwined with a lace of bright leaves, into the centre of that broad city of the dead. That was his first acquaintance with such a city. He had seen a multitude of other such cities, but had never become acquainted with one of them. He had looked into them sometimes, but briefly, and because he was forced to it--his head was ever filled with thoughts altogether foreign to such places. Now he passed the interior of the cemetery with this thought. So all ends here! He did not go out for a long time. His carriage, with cushions of sapphire-colored damask, and his pair of splendid horses stood long before the cemetery gate, obedient and motionless. In the chapel tower the silver music of the vesper-bell sounded, and ceased to sound. Darkness had begun to fall on the fresh green of the trees, and the urns, columns, and statues standing thickly between them, as Darvid drove away from the cemetery. "When church-bells sound, as this has, people pray," thought he. "Do they think that God hears them? Does God exist? Perhaps he does. It is even likely that he does, but that he occupies himself with men and their entreaties!--I am not sure. I have never given time to this, and it seems to me that no one knows. Men have wrangled over this question for ages and--know nothing. It is a mystery. All places are full of mystery, but men think that reason is a great power. That is an error! Whatever ends thus is misery. Everything ends in stupidity. All things are foolishness! Foolishness!" Reaching the steps of his mansion he thought that he felt greatly wearied. Is this old age? not long before he felt perfectly youthful. But, evidently, this is the way--Age comes and seizes a man. One giantess more--it seems to him that he is a hundred years old. The same with Malvina. How changed she was when he spoke last to her. She had preserved her youth so long, and on a sudden she was aged. She must have suffered greatly. Hapless woman! He entered his study; sat down at his desk. Puffie sprang onto his knee immediately. He put one hand on the coat of the little dog, and with the other opened a drawer, looked into it, pushed the drawer back, and, resting comfortably against the arms of the chair, gazed into space with a fixed, torpid look. He was too wise not to see standing, earlier or later, before him, the stern irony existing in human affairs. It had been standing before him for a long time, but, standing behind veils, such as labor, success--the eternal lack of time. Now the veils had fallen. He beheld the irony clearly. It was embodied in the swollen vase of Chinese porcelain, which, though not standing in that chamber, seemed to bend forward from the corner, with sloping eyes painted in sapphire. The figure leered at him; bared its white teeth, and with swollen body seemed to burst from laughter. What could he place against that monster? how was he to cover it?--he knew not. He understood well that at the bottom of this all lay an error. On the road of life there was something which he had not noted; something which he had not recognized; he had let something slip from his hands which still were so rapacious; he, an architect, observing with mighty diligence the law of equilibrium in buildings reared by him, had not preserved that equilibrium in his own house; so that now it was hard for him to dwell there, and he wished to depart from it. When he goes it will be better for all. Better for him and for them. That unhappy woman will be free, and may become happy. Maryan will return from the end of the earth to receive his inheritance, if for no other reason. Irene will reappear in society. Irene, what a strange character!--so deeply tender, and so insolent. How savagely she hurled at him the word "vileness!" But she was right. He had committed that moment a vile act, just as in general he was forced to commit many follies--but "useless cruelty" will give reward--Irene will learn that he was not so--no, neither she nor anyone will know the nature of his act. He raised his head, in which he felt once more an access of pride. No, he will not give account of his motives to anyone; nor confess on his knees, like a penitent sinner; nor will he take the pose of a hero. Let them think what they like. How can that concern him? Nothing concerns him. By chance he raised his eyes and saw, hanging in the air, the face of a maiden, oval, rosy, and bright-haired which smiled at him lovingly, and made a clear motion, inviting him. Greuze's picture was not there, still the vision was present. With eyes raised toward it Darvid smiled. "Yes, little one, quickly." He took a pen and began a telegram to Irene. He penned the address, and then wrote: "Come as quickly as possible for Puffie." He put the pen down, rang, and told the footman to send the telegram immediately. Then, passing his hand over the coat of the sleeping little dog, he sat long, sunk in thought. The world appeared before him with all that he had ever seen, owned, or used in it. Countries, cities, nations, their dwellings and languages, banks, exchanges, markets, offices, noise, throngs, struggles, horse-races, movements, uproar, life. This vision did not halt there before him, but sailed away, as it were, on a giant river, ever farther from him; farther, till it was on the opposite shore of a great space, entirely cut off and entirely indifferent. When he considered that he might spring over that space and mingle again in all those things, repulsion came on him, and also fear; he shook his head in refusal, and said to himself: "I do not want them!" He was very calm; an expression of happiness began to spread over his features. If anyone had seized him then and tried to hurl him to the side of that broad space on which this life is situated, he would have resisted with all his might, and, if need be, would have begged to remain on that other side. He looked up and smiled. "Now, my little one, I am coming!" He opened the drawer. Next morning news flew through the city like a thunderbolt, that the renowned financial operator and millionnaire, Aloysius Darvid, had, during the night, in his study, taken his own life with a revolver. The first and universal thought was of bankruptcy. But no. Soon it became clear and most certain that his ship, in full canvas, was sailing on the broad stream of success, and was bearing an immense, glittering golden fleece. The Argonaut, however, no man knew for what reason--through causes hidden altogether from everyone--had sprung from the deck into the dark and mysterious abyss. THE END. 
37622	----	Transcriber's Notes: 1. Pages scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id=ilpGAAAAYAAJ&dq 2. Alternate spelling of author's name: Józef Ignacy Kraszewski IERMOLA IERMOLA BY JOSEPH IGNATIUS KRASZEWSKI Author Of "The Jew" Translated By MRS. M. CAREY NEW YORK DODD, MEAD, AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS _Copyright, 1891_, By Dodd, Mead, and Co. * * * _All rights reserved_. CONTENTS. I. The Land and the People. II. The Background of the Picture. III. What there was at the Foot of the Oaks. IV. First Cares and First Happiness. V. Set a Cheat to catch a Cheat. VI. When One Loves. VII. A New Life. VIII. Happy Days. IX. A Visit to the Door. X. What a Strong Will can Accomplish. XI. A Pottery at Popielnia. XII. Paternal Happiness. XIII. The Gray Mare. XIV. Improvement and Deception XV. The Other Father. XVI. Alone! XVII. In Bondage. XVIII. The Last Journey. XIX. The Drama in the Forest. I E R M O L A. I. THE LAND AND THE PEOPLE. _Amor omnia vincit_. The events which are here related took place in Wolhynian Poland, in that little corner of the earth, happily overlooked, where up to the present time neither great highways nor roads frequented by carriages are to be seen,--a land remote, almost lost, where the antique modesty, simplicity, innocence, and poverty of past ages are still preserved. I do not mean by this to say that all human vices with burdens of sins upon their backs are always to be seen following in the footsteps of civilization along the great highways; but unfortunately there is always, between one social condition just ended and another which is beginning, a period of transition during which the old life is extinguished, and the new does not yet exist; and the result is indecision and sad confusion. That hour, which has already chimed for other nations and other provinces, has not yet sounded for this little nook of our land. Here people live, particularly in the _dwors_[1] of the lesser nobles, according to the traditions of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, which have left upon the people the impress of their thought, their faith, and their manners. It is true that in those yellow-painted _dwors_ belonging to the richer nobles certain reforms have been adopted and a few new customs are in use; but the mass of the lesser nobility are astonished and scandalized at these innovations. Can it be otherwise in this honest little corner of the earth, where the newspapers arrive in bundles once a month; where the sending and receiving of letters is managed only by means of the Jews who come to pass the Sabbath in the neighbouring town; where the whole business of the country, with the exception of some traffic in building timber, of which we shall speak farther on, is the breeding of livestock and the manufacture and sale of shoes made of bark? Some persons perhaps will find it difficult to believe that there still exists a spot on earth so remote and so behind the rest of the world; but it is really true that in the district of Zarzecze, in the environs of the marshes of Pinsk, not very long ago, there were still homes of nobles, whose occupants sometimes inquired of travellers for news of the health of King Stanislaus-Augustus, and were still in complete ignorance of all events which had taken place since the days of Kosciusko. Soldiers are never seen there; officials are unknown. Even those of the inhabitants who go to Pinsk to pay taxes never ask the names of those to whom they pay them, and wrapping their receipts carefully in their handkerchiefs, never dare to examine them closely, fearing lest this might cost them dear. The portion of country which will be the scene of our narrative was, however, neither so remote nor so wild. The almanac of Berdyczew regularly found its way there in the latter days of December, bringing a far-off reflection of foreign civilization and a collection of the facts most necessary to the inhabitants,--such as the name of the dominant planet for the current year, the date of the feast of Easter, the hour of the rising and setting of the sun, and the receipt for the destruction of insects which had been brought over from England. The post-office was only ten miles away, and the richer nobles sent a messenger for their newspapers every month or six weeks; some of them even received letters by this means still so little used. The majority of the inhabitants preferred, in fact, to confide their commissions to the hands of a messenger on foot, even when he had to go as far as fifty miles, for the Polesian messenger is superior to all others. None walk so rapidly; none are so discreet, so faithful; none ask so few tormenting questions; and none so surely and so cleverly escape all sorts of dangers. At first sight one would take this peasant porter for a beggar or vagabond, with his torn and threadbare old gray coat, and his wallet containing a few crusts of bread and a change of shoes; but closer examination would reveal that in the folds of his girdle or in the lining of his cap, wrapped in an old ragged handkerchief or a scrap of paper, he carried titles, documents, and papers representing hundreds of millions of francs, or interests of the greatest importance. When God created the Polesian He made him a messenger: he always finds the shortest road by instinct; he never loses his way; and he goes through the most difficult places with marvellous ease. Consequently a tradition concerning messengers is current among the gentry; they hold that the promptest and surest post never can replace them. And therefore each village possesses a certain number of these hireling footmen, who tramp over the space of a hundred miles like apostles, and who, provided the recompense were sufficient, would not hesitate to carry a letter to Calcutta. The portion of country of which we are speaking, whose geographical position it is not necessary more exactly to determine, is not so remote from Pinsk as Zarzecze, nor so near as Western Wolhynia; but it touches both of these regions, and thus occupies an intermediate position. It is a long strip of land still in great part covered with forests of pine and oak. In the midst of it are to be found fields recently and with great difficulty reclaimed, and miserable villages all smoked and blackened by the resinous vapours from the forests. The river Horyn flows through these forests, thus rendering them of great commercial value, for the principal revenue of the country is derived from the sale of timber transported to Dantzick in rafts. Thanks to their simple habits, almost all the inhabitants become rich in their old age. In fact, the Polesian, in spite of his wretched and poverty-stricken appearance, in spite of the inconveniences of the _plica_,[2] with which they are frequently afflicted, would not change his condition for that of his cousin, the Wolhynian, who is apparently much more robust and prosperous. In this country the peasant does not depend for support entirely upon the cultivation of the soil; there are varied means of subsistence which prevent his entertaining too great a dread of the unproductive seasons which are so terribly felt in other parts of the world. The forests and the river, to which the nobles grant him access, are for him an inexhaustible source of certain revenue and small industries. Those forests particularly from which the proprietors draw no profit after the trees suitable for sale have been cut down, furnish the principal wealth of the peasants,--bark from the oak and linden trees, barrel-hoops, bark slippers, osiers and rushes for the manufacture of baskets, blocks of beech and box wood for making domestic utensils, resinous torches, laths, and shavings. The dwellers in the _dwors_ do not take the trouble to pick up all these refuse objects; but the peasants gather them and gain both profit and pleasure. Then, too, dried mushrooms, strawberries, mulberries, pears and wild apples, the berries of the guelder-rose and hawthorn furnish the peasant so many small harvests which yield him a modest and certain profit. The working-men frequent the river shore. The young men of the villages are employed as raftsmen to float the timber down the river; they stretch nets and weirs, and hunt with the sparrow-hawk and boar-spear,--in a word, no one dies of hunger, and although famine sometimes threatens the poor people of the villages (and where does not this stern benefactress show her face?), if only they can hold out till harvest-time, they are sure to be able to live along together quite comfortably during another year. There are, it is true, bad days,--dark days, as the people call them. Sometimes they are obliged to make bread of bark, hay, and buckwheat. But the world would not be the world if one always enjoyed in it the peace and happiness of heaven. The nobles who dwell in the _dwors_ lead a patriarchal life, toward the maintenance of which the commercial relations with foreign countries contribute so little that these might without much inconvenience be altogether done away with. Everything is found, everything is manufactured in the villages; the people buy only sugar and coffee, a few bottles of Franconia wine, which is here called French wine, a few pounds of tea, a little pepper, and that is all. In many instances honey, which costs nothing, is substituted for sugar and chiccory for coffee; camomile or balm and lime tree flowers, infinitely more healthy, for tea, and horse-radish for pepper. Meat necessary for household purposes is frequently butchered at home; at other times the Jews bring it for sale at six and seven cents a pound, and tongues and tripes for even less. The poultry-yard furnishes fowls and eggs; candles are moulded in the old fashion; cloth is woven after an antique method, admirable for its simplicity; linen also is equally well spun and woven in the villages; and there are no trades necessary to daily life which are not practised in the somewhat larger towns. Everywhere one will find farriers, wheelwrights, carpenters, coopers, and masons, usually very industrious, although it must be said not very skilful. And besides, in urgent or difficult cases, when one is in a hurry, for instance, and a workman is not just at hand, there is always some Polesian who remembers having seen the thing made somewhere, and who will undertake the needed job. He does it as well as he can, and usually after several attempts becomes a tolerable workman. I do not mean to say that trades and the arts are in a flourishing condition in Polesia; in a country so simple, but little that is artistic is required. When the shoemaker brings you a pair of boots, at first sight they will certainly not seem to be made for a human foot, they look so awkward, hard, large, rounded, and apparently moulded on a block of iron. But try them, wear them for two years in water and mud, and not a crack will be seen in the leather, not a peg will have come out, they are so solid, strong, and conscientiously made. No one asks, it is true, if his feet are more or less comfortable; has he not something for which to thank God if a good piece of ox-hide covers them and a thick sole protects them? And as for corns and bunions, he considers them the natural consequence of years and hard work, and not the effect of ill-made shoes. It is in this way that everything is done there,--strongly, solidly, roughly. If the epidermis suffers in consequence, so much the worse for a skin which has been made tender by too much care, and for the eye which has become too delicate and exacting from the effects of luxury and studied refinement, I will only observe further that in this fortunate country each mechanic, who is oftener an amateur, and who has very few rivals professionally, thinks himself an artist, a being of superior nature, uncomprehended and unappreciated by his fellow-citizens. The frequent communications which he has with the _dwors_, the efforts he makes to possess himself of the secrets of his trade, the consciousness of being a necessary man,--a sort of axle in the social mechanism which surrounds him,--contributes to arouse in him feelings which, even if absurd, are manifested in other spheres and under other skies than those of our Polesia. In this country vast green forests form the frame and horizon of each landscape. As we pass along we come to an occasional clearing; there a pond glitters, or a slow, deep river runs; there damp marshes stagnate eternally, and meadows grow green, half buried under rushes. Farther on rise the roofs of huts blackened by the everlasting smoke. The Horyn, like a rich silver girdle, surrounds this sleeping country with its sparkling waters, which enrich and fertilize it; almost all the small towns of this region are grouped along the river shore. In other countries the name of town is not given to such miserable, straggling villages; but in Polesia any assemblage of houses among which may be found an inn, a Catholic chapel, a _cerkiew_ (Russian church), a market-place, and above all two or three Jews, is called a town. The number of Israelites dwelling in a small town constitutes its wealth; the more of them, the richer it is considered. In each of these little capitals one encounters a Boruch, a Zelman, an Abram, or a Majorko, who trades in everything; who furnishes to each person whatever he desires, from a coat of lamb-skin to a gold watch; who buys wheat and grists of corn, keeps an inn, sells rum, tobacco, pipes, and sugar, and is acquainted with the whole history and condition of all the gentlemen in the neighbourhood, numbers of whose notes and receipts he has in his portfolio. The great storehouse situated on the market-place supplies the general needs of the poor villagers, who find there pots, girdles, bonnets, iron, salt, tar, etc.; besides, there are two or three little shops containing stuffs and haberdashery and a few groceries, and that is all. The entire little town is nourished, clothed, and subsists by means of the activity of the Jews who are its soul. The cultivation of the soil, it is true, which is carried on by the inhabitants of the towns, according to the ancient Slavic custom, also furnishes other supplies. A few poor gentlemen, one or two functionaries poorer still, the curate, the Russian priest, and the employees of the _dwor_ compose almost all the population. During the week the town seems deserted; only the Jewish children run about the streets playing at quoits and skittles. The chickens, goats, and cows wander peaceably through the market-place. But on Sunday it is almost impossible to pass on the square, there are so many riding horses, so many wagons laden with wood and fodder, and so brisk is the trade going on in all sorts of produce. And when once a year the day of the town holiday comes, then there are all sorts of noises, and a crowd, and a fair. Then the pedlers arrive with their little wagons, and display their bundles of merchandise upon the square. The Jew hatter hangs from long poles planted along the wall the bonnets and hats of his own manufacture; the Gypsy horse-doctor appears; hand-organs abound; and the crowd increases every moment. All the land-holders of the neighbouring parishes also come with their wives; the stewards and managers, the poor gentry who own only one field, the villagers who wish to get rid of any surplus commodity or useless provision, such as leather, wool, cloth, or linen,--all are there. It is a pleasure to see, and a delight to hear, the noise and commotion with which business is carried on. On the square every few moments some of the men conclude a bargain and go off to the inn to confirm the agreement by emptying a pint mug; the old women venders of onions, garlic, tobacco, girdles, and red ribbons pick up as many big coppers as they want. The day after the fair, and even for many succeeding days, unless a good rain storm washes out the numberless traces, one would divine at first glance what had taken place. Possibly the pools of the blood of slaughtered goats and sheep which are drying and blackening on the ground might even suggest that some dark crime had been enacted. But with the exception of this one day of bustle and gayety, the whole country reposes during the entire year in that state of sweet torpor and melancholy silence which is the normal condition of its daily life. Man always absorbs, more or less voluntarily, the external influences to which he is exposed. We are, in the scale of universal order, like the caterpillar who clothes himself with a green robe while living on the leaves of a tree, and with gorgeous attire when his food is the heart of its purple fruit. In a country fast asleep, like Polesia, where the murmur of the venerable trees lulls the thin grass and the rushes on the marshes, where peace and torpor is inhaled with the heavy air,--damp, and filled with resinous vapours,--the inhabitants, with their growth, feel the blood flow more and more slowly in their veins; thoughts arise more and more slowly in their minds, and man, thus quieted and softened, desires only repose, trembles at the idea of a sterner and more active destiny, and clings like a mushroom to the soft, damp earth. The peasants at about forty years of age have long beards like old men; the nobles at that age cease to wear coats, wrap themselves in dressing-gowns, allow their mustaches to grow at will, and to the end of their lives, if they have wives and children, never again go out of their houses. As for the old bachelors of the same age, they begin then to consider that the sole result of marriage is inconvenience and useless subjection. There is but little visiting, although generally there is much cordiality between the land-holders; but in summer it is too warm, in winter it is too cold; in the autumn the mud and wind are disagreeable, and in the spring there are the gnats. If ever one of them determines to overcome his laziness, it is only on the occasion of a feast at the house of an esteemed neighbour or in case of inevitable necessity. As, however, it is not possible to live without some news, and some intellectual intercourse, the Jew who owns the inn of the town undertakes to retail the one and furnish the other. He comes at the slightest call, or naturally in virtue of his ordinary occupations; he stops at the door and begins at once to give an account of what he has heard during the week, either in his excursions through the neighbourhood or from the peasants who come to the mill or to the blacksmith's shop. Generally the amount of his information consists in being able to tell who has sown, who has harvested, who has sold, who has gone on a journey, how much money the one has received and why the other has departed. But this scanty supply of news feeds the curiosity of the noble for a time, amuses him or wearies him, makes him gloomy, irritates him, and sometimes even suffices to drag him out of his house. Let us not therefore seek in this country any modern innovations, any enterprise or invention of the day; they would be greeted here only by incredulity, distrust, and dislike. Everything is done in an old-fashioned way; and if one should seek for the living tradition, perfect and entire, of the life of past times, he will find it nowhere in such perfection as here. The noble has the same respect for old customs as the peasant; and if outwardly he laughs at them, in the bottom of his heart he renders them homage, because with his blood and his milk, with his eyes and his ears, he has absorbed them from his infancy. Thus it happens that in places where once rose a castle, and where now a new _dwor_ stands in its place, the site of the new edifice retains the old name, and the peasants who haul wood for the proprietor still say that they are taking it to the castle. The spot once occupied by an ancient _cerkiew_ is perhaps now a potato field, but the gardens of the proprietor are none the less called the monastery. At the cross-roads in the forest, where the foot-paths meet, a grave dug ages ago has disappeared under the grass so that no trace of it remains; the wooden cross has fallen and rotted in the sod, and may be traced in the thick green grass which alone marks the spot where the soil has been enriched by the decayed body. Still, not a peasant passes that way without throwing, according to Pagan custom, a stone or a broken branch upon the spot. Everything that has lived in this country lives there still. The legend of the founding of a colony whose limits were traced by a pair of black bulls whose privilege it was to preserve the future city from infection and diseases common to cattle; the story of the prince who drowned himself in a pond; the narrative of the Tartar invasion; the sad fate of the two brothers in love with the same young girl, on whose account they killed each other in single combat, and who afterward, in despair, hung herself on their tomb,--all these survive. The same songs have been sung for a thousand years; the same customs continue to prevail; and all are faithful to them as to an engagement sacredly entered into with their ancestors. II. THE BACKGROUND OF THE PICTURE. Let us now imagine ourselves transported to the banks of the Horyn. On the shore, close to the water's edge, there was a pretty little _skarborwka_[3] painted a light yellow. Some planks, piled one upon another and closely pressed together, extended so far out into the water that one could not only walk with dry feet up to the little cabin, but almost out into the middle of the river. Every preparation had apparently been made for a voyage; nothing seemed wanting but the signal for departure; the men alone had not arrived. But at this very moment boatmen were being collected, more provisions supplied, and so day by day the hour for setting sail was deferred. The country along the shores, though sterile and bare, was not devoid of a certain sweetly melancholy attraction. Beyond the broad spreading sheet of water, a little back to the right of the ploughed fields, might be seen a large Polesian village with its gray chimneys and the great clumps of trees which in summer crown it with verdure, its ancient Russian church surrounded by embattled walls and surmounted by a clock-tower, and its cemetery situated in the midst of a pine wood through which gleamed here and there the silver bark of a few birch-trees. On the other side of the river a dark forest stretched like a great wall as far as the eye could reach; upon the plain invaded by the waters, the long rows of damp osiers marked the place where the ponds and marshes usually ended. The village, which stretched in length for a great distance, must have been founded ages ago, and once was of considerable size, as one might see by the height and number of the trees which surrounded it. The eye which seeks among the huts of the village for the roofs and walls of the _dwor_, which ought to be its crowning ornament, would expect to find it on the top of the hill overlooking the river; but on closer examination it would discover, in the midst of an abandoned orchard and brush-wood scattered over with rubbish and old tree-trunks, only the blackened ruins of an old wooden building which gives to the spot a sad and savage aspect. Three fourths of the dwelling-house had tumbled down; one of the chimneys opened to view its dark depths; and not far off, the farmhouse, very old and miserable looking, but still inhabited, sent up a little gray smoke from its roof. It was easy to see that for a long time the proprietor had not lived there; even the wooden cross which once stood at the courtyard gate had fallen and rotted on the ground. The broken-down hedges gave foot-passengers and flocks access to the orchard, while near at hand, the great gate, by an ironical stroke of fate, was still standing as though to defend the entrance. The broad road which formerly extended between the _dwor_ and the village was now deserted and overgrown with grass. One could scarcely even distinguish the narrow foot-paths trodden by the cattle which the villagers took there to pasture. The same neglect was noticeable in those houses in the village depending for repairs entirely upon the proprietor; but in spite of this apparently poverty-stricken condition, the rafting, the work in the forest, and the various small trades of the inhabitants were productive of employment and competence. At the moment when this story begins, not a single person remained on the rafts which were ready to depart; twilight was coming on; the breeze from the water became brisker and more chilling. On the trunk of a fallen tree, near the river shore, was seated an old man, already bent with age, holding between his lips a small wooden pipe; near him came and went a little boy, who from his dress and exterior seemed to belong to a position between that of peasant and servant in a gentleman's family. It would have been difficult to determine precisely the exact age of the old man. Are there not faces which, having reached a certain age, change so entirely and so rapidly that the years which pass afterward seem to leave no trace upon them? He was small in stature, a little bent, his head almost bald and slightly gray, his beard and mustaches short, though allowed to grow at will. His cheeks were wrinkled as an apple withered by the winter's cold, but retaining some fresh and healthy color. His eyes still had much vivacity and some brilliancy; and his features were remarkable for their regularity even under the yellow and furrowed skin which covered them. His face, at once quiet and slightly sad, wore an expression of peace and tranquillity of mind which is rarely met with in the countenances of the poor; one would say on seeing him that he had peaceably settled all his affairs in this world and that henceforth he would await quietly the reward which he might receive in a better one. It would be equally difficult to form any positive idea of his condition or position from his dress. According to all appearance, he was not a simple peasant, although he wore the costume of one. The threadbare coat which covered him was shorter than the _sukmane_ of the Polesian, and it was gathered about his waist by a leather belt with a metal clasp; he wore besides dark cloth pantaloons, an old neck-handkerchief, and on his head an old brimmed cap considerably faded and worn. But even in this dress, so simple and so worn, there was something which showed that the old man had still a certain care for his appearance: the coarse shirt which showed below his cravat was very white; the _sukmane_ spotless and whole; the shoes of linden bark which covered his feet were tied carefully with narrow strips of linen. The youth who was standing beside him and who was neither peasant nor servant, but who looked like a boatman's apprentice newly enlisted, had the features of the Polesian race, small, very bright brown eyes, long brown hair falling over his neck, a face almost square, a rather large mouth, a well-shaped turned-up nose, and a low but intelligent brow. His entire countenance was expressive of cheerful good-humour heightened by the natural gayety of youth and utter carelessness of the future. "There are three brothers of us at home," he was saying to the old man. "My lord has allowed me to hire myself as a boatman on the rafts; and I assure you I like such a life much better than the one I spend at home, doing all sorts of drudgery and melting behind the stove." The old man shook his head gently. "I see very well," he replied, "that you will no longer listen to my advice since you have got the desire to go on a voyage into your head. When youth wishes for anything, nothing but want can dissuade him from it. Go, then, and may God guide you, but this shall not prevent my telling you--" The young man burst into a merry laugh. "Let me first tell you what I think," said he, "and then I will listen to what you have to say. First, it is not a bad thing for a young man like me to see something more of the world than may be viewed from his window; secondly, I shall certainly be much more comfortable here with this Jew, who, though he cannot tell why, is always afraid, than with our lord and master, the steward; and last, but by no means least, I shall pick up during the voyage enough money to pay the taxes." "All that is very true," replied the other, "and there are other things you may gain besides; but an old man looks at it in a different light. During these voyages, or rather, these wanderings, one becomes weaned from one's old home and unaccustomed to regular work, one gets into the habit of roaming about; and there is nothing so sad as to become dissatisfied with one's birthplace. When, after that, one returns to one's old home, everything seems strange and distasteful: the bread tastes bitter; the soup is poor; the neighbours are wearisome, and the daily work is a burden. At first one goes to the inn to talk with the Jew for some sort of distraction; then one grows accustomed to drinking brandy, and ruin surely follows. If I had a son, I never would allow him to go wandering about the world in company with a Jew. Let him whom God has appointed to live peacefully in his cottage take care never to stray away from its threshold." The young boatman became thoughtful. "But," he replied, after a moment's pause, "do you believe that one so easily forgets all that has been about him from infancy, all his former life? No, no; surely not, my father. Can it be any harm to go and see the world so as to have something to talk about to one's children when old age comes? Would you not be constantly sighing for home and the good friends left behind, rather than forgetting them and laughing at them? Would not home food taste better after you had eaten the bread of strangers?" "That is perhaps all true, if one continues honest and discreet,--if one lives in the fear of God; and then the voyages on the rafts might be of some service," answered the old man. "But it is so easy to grow dissipated, to get in the habit of seeing and desiring new things, and then grow weary and lounge about with arms folded. On the raft there are so many occasions for drinking: the unbelieving Jew does not spare the brandy at every mill, at every lock; and the men, from continually tasting it, soon go to the devil. What matters it to the Jew merchant what becomes of the souls of his boatmen, provided his wood arrives safely in Germany, and the thalers flow into his purse? As for me, I am an old man now, as you see, yet never in all my life have I had any desire to see what is going on far away in the rest of the world. I never have gone far from the threshold of the house in which I was born, and I have now only one prayer to offer to my God, and that is that I may be allowed to lie here in peace when I die." "Bless me! And are you satisfied?" "Perfectly, perfectly! And I ought to be, because I am no longer fit for the world, and I ought to be content to have in my old age all that is necessary to life,--a little corner and a bowl of soup. But I have had many sad moments too, and I am persuaded that it is much easier to endure poverty, weariness, and misfortune when one is among one's own people." "Is this, then, your native land?" said the young man. "Yes, here I was born, here I have dragged out my pitiful existence, and here I shall end it in peace," replied the old man, a little sadly. "It is not for the mushrooms to grow big like the oaks." "It must be a strange story." "What?" "Your own, to be sure." "Mine? Have I a history? Poverty was born, and poverty is dead." "Ah, please! We have nothing to do this evening; I dare not go to the inn. I beg you, good father, do tell me something of your life. It is so lonely there all by myself on the raft; in this way we can while away an hour or two, and I shall have learned something from you." The old man smiled sweetly. "But what can I tell you? There has been nothing unusual in my life; there are a great many lives like mine in this world. I have lived all alone, without friends, without brothers. Not even one being calls me cousin; not a living soul bears my name. Moreover, my child, you know that what gives an old man most pleasure is to talk about the days of his youth; therefore, if you are wise you will not call the wolf from the forest, for you never will be able to get rid of him again." "Never mind; only talk to me, talk to me! I shall always be glad to listen." "Well," began the old man, "I remember that when I was a very little boy I used to run about here in this very spot, on the shores of the Horyn, with other little villagers of my age. Ah, it mattered not then whether my head was bare or my shirt torn; no other days that I can recall seem so joyous and so sweetly happy as those." "And your parents?" "I do not remember them. I was six years old when they died of a terrible fever; and as they had come from Wolhynia, I had no relatives here, and was entirely alone. I see as through a mist the village watchman leading me away, as we came out of the cemetery to a neighbouring hut, where an old woman who called herself my foster-mother gave me a large plate of soup which I devoured greedily. I had eaten nothing for two days except a crust of dry bread which I had concealed in the bosom of my shirt. The next day I was sent into the fields to mind the geese; after that I was made to take care of the pigs; and finally, when it was found that I was not awkward, and that I knew how to take care of cattle, I was appointed to take the village cows to the meadow. Oh, how sweet a herdsman's life is! It is true that we had to go off with the cows at daybreak through the long grass all wet with dew; but to make up for it, we had a good nap in the middle of the day under the trees, when the cattle were at a safe distance from the wheat, and when our happy band of shepherds were frolicking in the furrows or in the great clearings. Cattle are not much trouble: they are quiet and intelligent; when once they are accustomed to their pastures, they will not go out of them even though beaten with a stick. If they are driven away once or twice from the oat or wheat fields, they never will go back there again; the boy has only to look at them and call to them from time to time, and then amuse himself as he pleases." "But what pleasure can he have when he has no companions?" "I told you that we went out in companies. And when we lighted a fire on a little rising ground among the rushes, or in the forest against the trunk of an old fallen tree; when we roasted potatoes, fried some mushrooms and morels, or a little bacon which we had brought with us,--what a feast we had, and what a good time! Then we would sing till the woods resounded; and our hearts beat fast for joy, the far-away echo of our song seemed so beautiful to us. So when it happened that the proprietor of the village, our old lord (God rest his soul!), chanced to meet me one day as he was hunting, took a fancy to me and ordered that I should be taken to the _dwor_ where I should serve as a cossack, God only knows how sad this made me, and how I longed to be able to refuse to go." "Ah! So you have been in service at the _dwor_?" "All my life, my child, all my life." "And you have not been able to lay by anything for your old age?" "Wait a moment, my child. Surely I do not complain, though labour has not been so profitable to me as to many others. But if I had more than I have, what good would it do me? I should not eat with a better appetite; I should not sleep more peacefully. Listen now, and you will learn what I gained by such service. They carried me by force to the _dwor_. I was washed, combed, dressed, whether I would or not. I was obliged to stay where I was put, although my heart was ready to break. But after three or four days I began to acquire a fondness for work. "In fact, my work was not too hard; occupation was given me in the office until I should become sufficiently polished up to wait in the dining-room. The lord at that time was not an old man; he was tall and very handsome, had a fine mind and the best heart in the world. After hearing him speak only a few words, one could not help feeling that he was a man to be loved and respected; his appearance, his gestures, and his voice all bespoke the lord and master. If he were dressed in a cassock and a _sukmane_, one would recognize at once, though one should meet him in the dark, that God had created him to command others. But his commands were neither rough nor offensive to any one; he never spoke an angry word to his servants. When he was angry, he always kept silence, and his servants had the terrible punishment of seeing him refuse to speak to them and turn his face away from them. The home was like the master; not only the old cossack whose business it was to instruct me, but the other servants at the _dwor_ were quiet, affable, and kind, and I soon grew accustomed to them. "It is true they put upon me a good deal of their drudgery; but only my legs suffered from the errands they sent me on, and I cannot recall ever being injured or maltreated. The old cossack often said in a low voice, 'He is a poor little boy, an orphan, and it would be too bad to hurt him.' Thus little by little I forgot the open-air life; and a few weeks after, meeting on the dam old Hindra, the shepherd, and my old companions, I contented myself with smiling at them from a distance and showing them my wide pantaloons with red bands, and I did not feel the least desire to rejoin them in the woods. My task was not at all severe. The lord wished to have me take care of his apartment, and it was for this duty that I was first trained. As for his own wants, he gave but little trouble to any one; usually he waited on himself, and showed the kindness of a father to those whose business it was to serve him. His old cossack was like a brother to him, and often scolded him for one thing or another." "Upon my word, he must have been a good lord." "Yes, he was, God bless him!" answered the old man, wiping his eyes, which were full of tears; "there are no more like him in this world. He was brother and father and everything to me. He lived over there, do you see, in the place where that great gray chimney still stands; but in his time things were not as they are now. In his household there was neatness and order in every little corner as well as in the great courtyard; not a useless straw could be found lying about, and now there is nothing but brush-wood, briers, and rubbish." Here the old man heaved a deep sigh and then resumed. "He rarely quitted the estate, and seldom received visitors. However, now and then a guest did arrive; and although the house was ordinarily as quiet as a cloister, it was not dull,--for all of us, and especially the master, took part in cultivating the fields and garden, we went hunting, and we never had a moment of idleness or weariness. The lord loved the horses, the dogs, the trees, and the chase. Sometimes he delighted in fishing; and thus the days passed so pleasantly that we scarcely knew how the years rolled by. The master never married, and he seemed to have no relatives. It was said that he came from a distance, and had bought this estate; but though he was a new-comer, the country people were as much attached to him as if they had served his ancestors for generations, and he was beloved as a father throughout the neighbourhood. "It was indeed an easy matter to become attached to him, he was so good, so frank, so cordial and honest; he had such pity for human sorrow that the most wretched being who came to his house was sure to receive help and go away comforted. I loved him at first sight; and before a year had passed, I took the place of the old cossack, who was beginning to grow infirm. He wished to give up work, for thanks to his master's goodness he owned a thatched cottage with a field, and had an annuity; so after having taught me all about his business, he asked permission to retire and rest. But how strong is the effect of habit! He thought he should be happy doing nothing in his own house, but at the end of three weeks he began to be so tired of it that he came every day to the _dwor_; there, leaning against the garden hedge, he smoked his pipe with us, or sat on the porch from morning till night. If it happened that for a single day he did not see his master, it had the same effect upon him as going without his food, his heart hungered so. "As for me, no one could have forced me to leave my master, even though I should have been beaten, for he was indeed such a lord as is not often found in this world. I will give you an instance of his goodness, though it is only a little thing: whenever anything better than usual was served for him, whether good fruit from the gardens or a dish well prepared, he never failed to leave a bit of it for his servants. Gradually, as I came to know him well, I loved him more and more; and like all the others who surrounded him, I would have given my life for him. I saw more of him than any of the other servants did; together we went to the chase, of which he was passionately fond, we fished, we rowed on the river, we worked in the garden. We often rose in high spirits at daybreak; and old Bekas, my lord's spaniel, as if divining what we were going to do, would jump and bark and wag his tail. Then we would throw our game-bags over our shoulders, and away we would go to the marshes through the mud and the brush-wood, frequently spending the whole day without any other refreshment than a little brandy and bread and cheese. "I was at first astonished that so good a man should live so alone; but after I knew him better I saw plainly that although he did his best to be calm and happy, and smiling toward others, there was something which he concealed which had embittered his life. Sometimes, even in his most joyous moments, he would stop suddenly, sigh, and turn pale; tears like large pearls would flow down his cheeks; but as soon as he became conscious of them, he would put his gun on his shoulder and go off to the woods or go to work in the garden or occupy himself in some way so that no one should see that he had been weeping. "In the service of such a master I was so happy that I forgot to think of myself. I was beginning to be advanced in age; he himself undertook to make a marriage settlement for me, and to establish me in the village, but how could I bear to leave him? Besides, at the _dwor_ we had become so accustomed to doing without women that we almost forgot there were any in the world. We learned by experience that it was very possible to get on without them; and the old cossack was of the opinion that they were good for nothing but to make a fuss, and cause disorder and waste in the household. Nevertheless, he married after a while. "Our master never spoke to any woman; he never even cast a glance upon those who came in his way; and as for us servants, it never even occurred to us to marry. Our master grew old, and so did we. Some of us died; others grew gray-headed, and I sooner than any of them, for I was scarcely thirty years old when my head, God only knows why, began to turn white. Our life at the _dwor_ underwent no change; the master continued erect and vigorous, and went hunting constantly, but he showed less enthusiasm for it, and preferred to work in the garden, for his legs began to refuse to obey him. Probably they had grown stiff, in consequence of his having tramped so much through the water and the snows of winter, for he walked a great deal and very rapidly. "When he felt himself growing feeble and infirm, he became sadder. As it was thenceforth difficult for him to engage in any sort of labour, he buried himself in his books and sighed frequently, muttering mournfully to himself; and at night he prayed aloud, calling upon the name of God in a plaintive, tender voice which brought the tears to my eyes. We tried to amuse him, now in one way, now in another, but this became a more difficult task every day. I raised some birds for him, and this appeared to distract him; but he grew more feeble constantly, and began to be indifferent to everything. "As soon as he took to his bed, some fine people, until then unknown to us, arrived. First came a lady, who, it was said, was our lord's sister-in-law; then came her husband, who, it appeared, was our lord's brother; and after that a horde of cousins, nephews, and other relatives, who formerly had not known him, and who now seemed to spring up from the ground. "But all these people were so different from him that one never would have supposed that they belonged to the same family. They were polished and elegant in their manners, cordial in their greeting, and spoke in gentle voices; but we learned from their servants that all this was put on, for in their own homes they conducted themselves quite differently. I do not know what good reason our master found for sending them away, but they all suddenly departed in great anger; and after that we were left alone, thank God! "We continued to lead a more and more gloomy existence. Thirty odd years had passed, and I had scarcely perceived the lapse of them; the last of these I spent constantly near the bedside of my good lord. There were moments when he still amused himself, sometimes with me, sometimes with old Bekas or some of his tame birds; at other times a book would please him; then he read night and day, and seemed more tranquil. It was easy to perceive that for him the end was near; but we loved him so much that we thought only of him, and never asked ourselves what would become of us afterward. We dared not think of the moment when he should be taken from us. I was almost forty when my good master died. I had passed my whole life near him; I was as devoted to him as if I had been his dog; consequently when we had laid him in his coffin, I felt as if it was a great misfortune to survive him, I was so sad and lonely and out of heart. "I sat down at his feet and wept a long time. The lawyers came and wrote papers and sealed them; one of his cousins took charge of the funeral. I know nothing of what happened after that, for I was like one stunned. The next day I entered his room, swept it, and arranged it as if he still lived, and then sat there, bewildered, waiting for I knew not what. At times all seemed a terrible dream. But soon the sister-in-law, the brother, the cousins, and other relatives arrived, and turned everything upside down, searching everywhere for the will. They went through the house from top to bottom; and as they found no will, the brother and sister-in-law took possession of everything, sending the rest of the family abruptly away. "They then undertook to manage everything after their own liking, to sell, to rent, collect money, and rule the village people. For my part, I begged them only to allow me to remain in service at the _dwor_; but what did they care for the _dwor_, when they did not wish to live there? They ordered me to go and live in a hut in the village; but there was not a vacant one, and our deceased master had made no arrangement for me. There seemed therefore nothing left for me but to take old Hindra's place as shepherd. But when they became convinced that I had given up faithfully to them all that my deceased master had confided to my care, they had sufficient consideration for me to allow me to end my days here. As I have told you, there was no vacant cottage, and I had no relatives. Do you see that old ruined inn down there near the clump of trees behind the cemetery? It was there that they gave me a small lodging and a bit of garden ground, which rented for three roubles a year. I have now lived there over twenty years, giving thanks to God. Each day I go to the old _dwor_; I recall the days of the past, I weep, and then I return to my hole--" "And you live all alone?" "Just as you see me. It is my fate doubtless to die alone also, without ever having had any one to live near me. Since the death of my good master, I never have been able to become attached to any man, and no man has ever seemed to care for me. I do not complain, for no one in the village seeks to do me any injury; they would, on the contrary, rather help me, but I am alone, always alone." "At your age, that is very sad--" "Oh, yes, it is sad," sighed the old man, "that is very true; but what is there to do? When one is gray-headed and walks with a stick, it is too late to marry. Besides, no woman would have me, except perhaps some one I would not have myself. God gave me neither relatives, friends, nor brethren. What can I do? I must die alone, as I have lived." "And do you never murmur?" "What good would that do?" answered the old man, quietly. "Should I lessen my grief or alter my fate by offending the Lord God? And moreover, cannot man become accustomed to anything, even to such a life as mine? That is, if one lives long enough." So saying, he sighed, shook out his pipe, and taking up his stick, prepared to depart. "Good-evening, my child," said he; "are you going to spend the night here?" "The Jew asked me to sleep in the cabin; for there are some bags of flour and barrels of bacon on board, and he is afraid they may be stolen." "Even the thought of theft should be unknown to us," answered the old man; "but God guards what the master takes care of. I must go, my son; good-evening." "Good-evening, old father, good-evening." III. WHAT THERE WAS AT THE FOOT OF THE OAKS. Thus they parted,--these men whom chance had brought together, whom an hour's conversation had made friends, and who were perhaps never to meet again during their lives. It is strange, but where manners and social conditions are primitive, friendship and sympathy between men are easy, and they are unhesitatingly fraternal; and on the other hand, when men become civilized and polished, they carefully and politely avoid personal relations and fear and shun each other. But among the lower classes it is quite the reverse; and I cannot say that things are any the worse for it. An hour is sufficient to bring two strangers together, and make them feel almost like brothers; a hearty speech or a sympathetic look excites ready confidence and prompt exchange of feeling; friendship is quickly formed, and grows as vigorously and ardently as hatred. Here at least, men are men. Good Iermola, as the old man was called, then returned to his own house, his head still full of his old memories, while the young boatman, whistling a tune and thinking of the poor and friendless old man, spread down the bundle of straw upon which he was to stretch himself in front of the cabin door, content to go to rest; for as soon as the sun is set, the peasant, no matter what the hour may be, is always ready to sleep if only he is allowed to do so. Meantime, Iermola walked slowly toward his lodging, which was but a short distance away. Between the village and the river, on a sandy bit of ground strewn with the trunks of old pines and oaks broken down from old age, mutilated also in many places by the hand of lazy villagers who were not willing to take the trouble to go to the forest for their fire-wood, stood an old building curiously constructed, which served as a shelter for our old servant. It was neither a thatched cottage nor a _dwor_, but simply a ruin,--an old deserted inn which once had covered a far larger space, and which had been knocked down and demolished by some unknown accident. Its roof had disappeared; its bare beams and rafters crossed one another here and there; and fragments of the straw thatching were still hanging suspended above the corners of the old walls. One of these corners, although strangely bent and filled with long cracks, still remained standing and entire; here might be seen a window half chinked up with mud, with a few panes of glass still left at the top, a door which had been freshly patched and nailed together, and walls which once had been painted white, but which now wore a coat of doubtful gray. The rest of the building was all one mass of ugly ruins,--beams and rotten planks, blackened woodwork, pieces of rubbish all buried together, covered with mud and overrun with briers and high grass. By what miracle was the fragment of roof still held in place over the room which it sheltered? How had this remnant of the building been preserved? These were questions difficult to answer. Quite near the old building, a paling of half-rotten laths surrounded a small garden, shaded at one end by a clump of pines and large oaks. Above the roof rose the old chimney, black, bare, and cracked, which, however, still served to warm the sole inhabitant of this poor lodging. The mouldiness of the beams, which were rotting on the ground, extended to the walls, which remained standing; the work of destruction might here be seen in all stages from beginning to completion, and one might quite certainly foretell the time when these miserable ruins would be only a vast mass of wood, mud, and useless rubbish. Gazing upon this wretched dwelling, it seemed cruel to think that a man should be obliged to find shelter there. Yet Iermola, accustomed to his pile of trash, approached this den without repugnance; he opened the door and entered his chamber. Then, as it was very dark inside, he hastened to kindle the fire and make a blaze of pine wood which he kept ready for this purpose in the little hearth of his stove. Gradually every corner of the room was lighted up, and might be seen distinctly by the blaze of the dry wood. It was a small chamber situated in an angle of the building, where the roof and walls were still left, and which must formerly have been used as a bedchamber and office for the innkeeper. The doorway opening into the large dining-hall of the inn, now entirely destroyed and uninhabitable, had a few planks nailed across it which were chinked with a mixture of chopped straw and mud. The large old stove, having been patched and mended every year, had lost its rectangular form and become externally utterly irregular, bulged out, rounded, dented, and altogether shapeless; and the metal plates which formerly closed it were now replaced by some tiles. Inside the fireplace, now stopped up, a few planks served as cupboard shelves, and the end of the mantel-piece as table and sideboard. It may be easily imagined that the furniture was not elegant. It was partly of village manufacture, and had been roughly made with axe and saw; the rest was composed of a few respectable old pieces brought from the _dwor_. When the new owners sent Iermola away empty-handed, after thirty years of service, he was granted, as sole recompense for a long life of labour and devotion, permission to take with him a few old, broken, and useless pieces of furniture which otherwise would have been thrown on the rubbish pile. The poor but worthy and industrious old man had succeeded in transforming these into almost comfortable furnishings. The ingenious Iermola knew how to make the most of the least thing; and so his one apartment was soon quite decked out with souvenirs of his youth and happy days. He slept on an old sofa with broken and twisted feet, which was of fine wood, and had once been painted white and gilded. At his head stood a little round table supporting a chess-board which had been made and inlaid by the hand of some old master; two or three old chairs, upon whose seats some boards, nailed on, took the place of the velvet cushions, were evidently of Dantzick manufacture, but it was only by the aid of numberless nails and strings that the different pieces succeeded in holding together. Near them was a large wooden chest painted green, whose rough appearance clearly indicated that it had been made in the village. A bench, rough-hewn with an axe, was near the door; another table of unplaned plank served to hold all his collection of jugs and plates of common pottery. In contrast, on the mantel-piece stood a small pitcher of fine Sèvres china, without a handle; egg-cups and mustard-pots with delicate bright flowers shone there, a tea-pot of Saxon china with dainty feet, one of which had been broken off fifty years before, a cup of Wedgwood, and a butter-dish of Russian manufacture in the shape of a paschal lamb. The general appearance of the good man's chamber was poor and neat, but sad, because it was filled with mementos of former comfort striving to conceal present poverty. The drapery which covered the wall near his bed was a fragment of Turkey carpet, torn and patched, but still in strong contrast with the coarse bed-coverings. Broken glasses, porcelain, and bits of china glittered beside pots of clay, mahogany, and pine. On the wall, not far from a rude picture of Our Lady of Poczai, was hung a fine engraving by Raphael Morghen, horribly mouldy and old, with part of one corner torn off; it was "The Last Supper," after the painting by Leonardo da Vinci. Farther on was an old picture of the twelve apostles, by Hoffmann, of Prague, and a small painting on wood of the German school, much injured, and representing the birth of our Saviour. The only real adornment of the room, therefore, was the exquisite neatness and order which reigned in it. There was no litter to be seen in any part of it, not the smallest crumb or the least speck of dust; each thing was in its place, and although in this poor apartment all sorts of things were mingled,--provisions, food, cooking utensils, the poor man's wardrobe, and all his simple stores,--there was neither inconvenience nor confusion. Cupboards were made on the walls, shelves set up in the corners of the room, the large chests rolled under the table; the hiding-place behind the stove--the fireplace, over which a piece of cloth was hung--served to shut up and conceal all disorderly objects. Even the chips and bits of wood used to kindle the fire were piled up neatly in their own proper corner. It is true that Iermola had very near at hand, in the ruins of the inn, a sort of cellar surrounded by walls, where he stored his more cumbrous provisions; but he could not leave many things in a place which had no fastening, for poverty, scorning the laws of proprietorship, often dares to share with poverty. On entering, the old man contented himself with lighting in the stove his pieces of resinous wood, for candles or oil were luxuries which he did not allow himself; then he looked around to see if all was in good order in his dwelling. After that he took one of his pots and proceeded to warm his supper, which the cossack's widow usually prepared for him in the village, or which he sometimes cooked himself on his return to his lodging; and then he seated himself on a stool in the corner of the fireplace, and began to say his prayers. The wind sighed fitfully in the branches of the pines and the oaks close by his little garden; a deep silence reigned all about him; and Iermola, sad and motionless, was beginning to dream as he prayed, when in the midst of this profound stillness the cry of a baby was suddenly heard, at first feeble and indistinct, then loud and shrill. It was like the cry of a new-born baby; and it seemed very near, as though it came from the other side of the garden, out of the clump of pines and oaks. "What can it be?" said the old man, interrupting his prayers, and rising from his bench. "It is now so late. Can it be possible that any silly woman can have crossed the river with her baby to come and ask for medicine?" He paused and listened, but the trembling, feeble wailing did not seem to come nearer nor to recede; evidently the child remained in the same place. It was impossible to believe that any woman working in the fields could have left her cradle there; the chilliness of the evening, the lateness of the hour, the solitude of the secluded place, would not permit such a thought. And still the wailing cry continued. "Ah! it is doubtless an owl," thought the old man, as he seated himself once more. "It is perched on one of the trees at the end of the garden, singing. But one could swear that it was a baby. How perfectly they can imitate the human voice!" He continued to listen; the wailing became more and more distinct and pitiful. "No, truly, it cannot be an owl; I must go and see. Perhaps some accident has happened. But what can it be?" So saying, Iermola rose quickly, put on his cap, seized his stick, and rushed to the door, forgetting his pipe, which usually he never left behind him. When he reached the threshold, he became convinced that there was no longer any doubt that the cry he heard was not that of an owl, but the wail of an infant. This frightened the good man, who, following the sound of the voice, set out to see whence it came. He went at once to the garden, and thought he saw something white lying at the foot of one of the nearest oak-trees. The old man's eyes had not deceived him; on the thickly interwoven roots, padded and made velvety with mosses, a little baby, wrapped in swaddling-clothes, lay crying. A baby! A baby here! all alone! deserted and cast off by its parents! The good man could scarcely conceive such an idea. He trembled with fright, surprise, sorrow, and pity; and darting forward, scarcely knowing what he did, he tenderly lifted the poor little creature, who, feeling perhaps that some one was near, immediately ceased to cry and be frightened. Then, bewildered and forgetting his stick, the old man fled back to his chamber, carrying the baby, trembling, crying, and repeating over and over to himself, "A baby! A baby! How could this have happened?" Suddenly it occurred to him that doubtless the little one had only been left alone for a moment; that the mother would be very anxious if she should not find it again on the spot where she had just left it. He then began to shout as loudly as he could, repeating all the calls known to the Polesian tongue, which brought back to him his shepherd days; but no one answered. "At any rate it is impossible to leave this poor baby out on so cold a night," said he, with emotion; "I shall take it to my room. Any one will immediately suppose that it is I who have picked it up." He opened the door of his lodging. The fire had gone out in the stove; it was pitch dark. He deposited his living bundle on the bed, and again lighted his chips and twigs, of which this time he was lavish. But when the light again glimmered through the room, and the old man returned to the side of the baby, who moaned constantly, his fright and astonishment knew no bounds. The little creature evidently did not belong to the peasant class; the clothing in which it was wrapped sufficed to show that. And in vain did Iermola imagine a thousand reasons, admit a thousand suppositions; he could not comprehend how a mother or a father could have been able to decide thus to abandon the innocent little creature, the very sight of whom caused him to shed tears of tenderness and emotion. In fact, from the moment when the baby's first cry had reached his ears and his heart, a strange feeling had taken possession of this old man hitherto so tranquil. He felt moved, frightened, but at the same time awakened and enlivened; it seemed as though he had grown twenty years younger in a few moments. He therefore examined with curiosity this little unknown being whom Providence, perhaps in pity for his terrible isolation, had sent him as a consolation at the very moment when he was sadly longing for some one tie which might still bind him to life. The child, swaddled with care, was nevertheless clothed externally in such a manner as at first sight to conceal his origin. The heartless mother and unfeeling father, touched by some small feeling of solicitude, had covered the baby's long clothes entirely with a large piece of coarse white percale, leaving exposed only a part of the little suffering, weeping face. Iermola gazed at the baby with his own sad eyes, and took its little hands in his. It was some time before he remembered that there was something else to do; that a baby who cried so was perhaps hungry; that an unlooked-for burden had been sent him from heaven; that it would be difficult for him to take care of it, even with every exertion that he could make. Then came flashing like lightning before his mind the images of a cradle, a nurse, smiles, maternal cares, at the same time also his own poverty, which would not allow him to pay any one to take care of the little one. Suddenly he said to himself that hireling hands were not fit to touch this gift of God,--this frail new-born being whom Providence had doubtless intrusted to him that he might be its nurse and father. Then he trembled, as it occurred to him that some one might take this baby from him; and at this thought he felt ready to faint with terror, although he had not yet been able to make up his mind what he should do with it. "No," he cried aloud, "I will not give it up to any one; it is my child,--the child whom God has sent me. I will never desert the little orphan." But he must hasten; the baby cried and moaned continually. Iermola again took it in his arms. What should he do? How should he begin? Whose advice should he ask? As he was thus carrying the baby up and down the room, his arms filled and his mind bewildered by this strange adventure, a heavy little package escaped from the long clothes and dropped on the floor. Iermola in still greater astonishment picked it up and found about fifty pieces of gold wrapped in a scrap of paper. His surprise was so great that he almost let fall his precious burden. "So they are rich people, who have abandoned their child, at the same time paying some one to take care of it." And the old man, simply and deeply overcome, paused a moment, endeavouring to comprehend the baseness of this world of which he knew so little. Perhaps in that one moment he intuitively divined all the misery and woe of human existence. "My God!" he cried, "there are perhaps men who would rob this little orphan of this gold! No, no! no one shall know anything about it. I will keep the money and give it to him some day when he is grown up; and I, by the fruits of my own labour, will bring him up." He hastened to throw the gold-pieces into an old casket which was under his bed, and in which he usually kept the few coppers he happened to have; then having wrapped himself in his cloak, he determined to go to the village to ask advice of some of his neighbours. Then covering up his precious burden warmly, the old man, troubled and surprised, yet happy, started for the nearest cottage. IV. FIRST CARES AND FIRST HAPPINESS. In this thatched cottage lived the widow of the old cossack Harasym, with her only and dearly loved daughter, who, having sought for a husband for several years, had not been able to find one, though she was young, beautiful, and consequently well worthy of attention. The cottage which the late landlord had granted to Harasym was situated at the extremity of the village, not far from the river shore, so that the old servant of the _dwor_ could say, in the words of the national proverb, "My cottage is all alone in the world; it has neither neighbour nor master,"--for from its window could be seen only the woods, the waters, and the barren plain upon which rose the ruin inhabited by Iermola. But cordial and friendly communication was kept up between the two huts, on account of the former relations which had existed between the two servants. The cossack's widow never refused Iermola her support and her counsel; he took his meals at her house, and went there for consolation in his hours of sadness, or distracted his mind by a few moments of friendly conversation or hearty interchange of feeling. But the widow's house was far more comfortable than poor Iermola's lodging. The cottage was well supplied; the good woman was active, orderly, and somewhat avaricious; she never had suffered either care or hunger, even just after seedtime or during the dark days, and she always had laid by a little money or a measure of wheat for those who were in want. The cottage, already old-looking, was blackened and wretched outwardly, although the old cossack had built it himself with his master's assistance, and consequently neither care nor expense had been spared. The exterior, therefore, was similar to that of others which a little way off extended in a long line; but the planks of which the walls were built were thicker, more solid, and better arranged, and the interior more convenient, since there was a good stove and a first-rate fireplace, which furnished plenty of light and did not smoke. There was one small lot belonging to this hut, which was left to grow up in grass for hay, and another larger one, which was usually sowed down in rye or planted in vegetables, and which on the farther side joined the commons. The cossack's widow owned four cows from whose milk she made butter and cheese, which she sold to the neighbouring _dwors_ and to the peasants; in addition she had a team of two oxen for ploughing, which she often rented to her neighbours, or sent now and then without pay to cultivate the field of the poor,--also ten sheep, three small calves, and even a horse which she had bought to use in the harrow, but which had proved useless, as it was spavined. Besides herself and her daughter, there dwelt in the cottage old Chwedor, her servant, whose hair had grown gray in the service of others, and who was also a little deaf, and a great toper. Then there was a little orphan about ten years old, who drove the cattle to pasture, and a young servant. It was, in fact, a complete and flourishing household, skilfully managed by the widow. The comfort in which she lived and her honest reputation rendered more striking the indifference with which the young men of the village regarded her daughter, Horpyna, who had now reached her twentieth year, and was justly considered the greatest beauty in the village. She had a tall, erect figure, which she inherited from her father, a charming bright and healthy complexion, beautiful hair, and fine black eyebrows. When she dressed herself on Sunday in her ribbon head-dress, her jacket of gray-blue cloth, and yellow Wolhynian boots with high heels, she might have been taken for a great lady in disguise. The young men of the village gazed at her from a distance, sighed, twirled their caps in their hands, and scratched their heads; but none of them dared approach her, for Horpyna was as proud as if she had been the daughter of a great lord. Besides, it had been whispered about for two years that one of the gentlemen of the lesser nobility who had served in the capacity of agent in a great land-scheme was suing for her hand, and made frequent visits to her and her mother. It was this which frightened and discouraged the village suitors, who took pleasure in laughing secretly at Horpyna's vanity, her fine-lady airs, and her liking for the nobility. But the old mother, apparently expecting no good to come of such a rash project, used every effort in her power to marry off her daughter. She went with her to all the fairs and jubilees; she invited the fathers of families and the young men to suppers and wakes. Every one went gladly to her house, were entertained, ate and drank heartily, but nothing came of it all, and Horpyna still had not seen the arrival of her bottle and napkin.[4] It happened that Iermola encountered no one on his way to the widow's cottage; and he reached it all out of breath, holding in his arms the baby, who still continued to cry. But the light which glimmered from the window told him that the thrifty housewife was at home. He therefore hastened with his burden straight into his old friend's chamber. The widow was seated on a bench near the table, leaning her head upon her hands, and seemed in deep thought; Horpyna was standing beside the fireplace. They were both gloomy and silent; but when they saw Iermola with his burden, they rose at once, somewhat confused, and uttered a cry of astonishment. "What have you got, old man? What is it?" cried the mother, who was the first to speak. "See what it is," answered the old man, as he laid upon her lap the baby, upon which his eyes were fixed. "Look at it; see, it is a baby which God has given me." "A baby! to you? How is this?" "It is a marvel, a miracle; I can scarcely believe it myself. I had just come from the river shore, where I had been to help the raftsmen bind up the wood; I had lighted my fire and sat down to say my prayers, when I heard all at once something moaning under the oaks. Now it sounded like the voice of an owl, and then like the wail of an infant. At first I was sure it was an owl, because those hateful birds have nests in the old trunks, and I went on with my prayers; but suddenly the voice rose in louder weeping. Then I could not tell what it was, and I began to be anxious. I ran out hurriedly and looked around; and what do you think I found? This baby. And now what shall I do with it? What shall I do?" The two women, shaking their heads in their extreme astonishment, had listened to Iermola in profound silence. "Some one must have brought it there," said the widow, at last; "but who could it have been?" "And who could have been willing to desert such a pretty baby?" answered the old man, indignantly. "How could such a thing be possible?" "Oh, oh! There are many people capable of such a thing," replied the widow, shaking her head sententiously. "This is not the only instance which might be related of human depravity. Did you never hear of the unnatural mother who had the atrocity to give her sweet little baby to be devoured by swine?" Old Iermola, not being able to comprehend what he heard, kept silence, opening wide his eyes and shaking his head. Meanwhile the two women had been kneeling on the floor that they might see the baby better. "How fine and white his long-clothes are!" "And how delicate it is!" "It must be the child of some lord, for no one in the village would have dared to do such a thing." "And was it really brought and placed near your hut?" "Yes, yes! but advise me; tell me what I ought to do with it." "Do what you like best," answered the widow. "You can take it to the steward, who will have it sent to the chief of police; and then it will be taken to the hospital." "Take it--and send it--to the hospital!" cried the old man, in a voice choking with tears. "Ah, do you call that good advice? Would any one there pity it; would any one take care of it? How could I be sure they would not leave it to die?" "Well, but what are you going to do with it," replied the old woman, shrugging her shoulders. "Ah, I do not know; advise me, neighbour." "Well, what do you think of doing?" "How can I tell what to think?" answered the old man. "My head is going round like a crank. I would not for anything in the world abandon a child whom God had intrusted to me; and when I think of rearing it myself, I fear I am not capable of doing it. But I feel almost sure I could; why should I not?" "But you would have to put it out to be nursed; you could give it to Jurck's wife." "No, no! not for anything in the world!" cried the old man. "Jurck's wife is too wicked; she treats her own poor child badly; and besides, she would ask God knows how much for taking care of it, and I always have a hard time making both ends meet. Could you give it a little milk? See how it is crying; perhaps it would drink it. I will buy some milk from you every day." At this the cossack's widow burst into a loud laugh. "Well, well! So you are the one who is to rock its cradle, amuse it, and make its broth? But if you do, you must remember that you will not be able to do anything else. A little baby is a constant occupation and care. I remember very well what I suffered with my little Vymoszek, who only lived one year, and with my Horpyna too. I had not a moment day or night without anxiety." "But I do not need much sleep, and I have not much to do," replied the bewildered old man, who felt himself drawn more and more to the poor little foundling. "Three or four hours' sleep is quite sufficient for me; and a little baby sleeps almost all the time, provided his stomach is not empty. I should find plenty of time to rest myself, take care of my garden, and roast my potatoes." "But what would you give it to eat?" "Why, milk, to be sure." "Suppose it should not be able to drink, it is so young and so weak." At this Iermola heaved a deep sigh. "It may not be able to drink at first," he said; "but it will learn after a while. But what shall we do for it now?" Then the cossack's widow took the baby in her arms so as to examine it closely. Her daughter ran to get some new milk, and the neighbours, attracted by curiosity and by the few words which had fallen from Horpyna as she passed, began to assemble, first by twos and threes, and then in large numbers. Since the village had been in existence, in the memory of the oldest inhabitant nothing like this had ever occurred, so there was no end to their observations, exclamations, and conjectures. The oldest inhabitant gave his advice; the counsellors counselled; the young and the old gave their ideas on the subject,--women and men and even the servants. But no one could suggest any very acceptable plan; each repeated the same opinions, each differing a little from his neighbour in particulars, but in the end coming to the same conclusions, and all recommending the wife of Jurck to Iermola as nurse. There were numberless conjectures, wild suppositions, jokes, and accusations with regard to the wicked parties. But no one had the slightest suspicion who the authors of the scandalous act could be. No one had seen any strange person about nightfall either in the village or its vicinity; the roads and foot-paths had been deserted; at the ford, at the mill, at the inn, no stranger had appeared. After discussing the matter a long time, the villagers gradually dispersed, spreading the strange story as they went along; at last no one remained but old Chwedko, the illustrious proprietor of a gray mare, who stood leaning on his stick, and after a few moments of thoughtful silence addressed his friend Iermola as follows:-- "There comes to my mind at this moment something which happened twenty years ago. A farmer of Malyczki, who was a friend of mine, had the misfortune to become a widower; his wife left him a poor little orphan who had scarcely drawn a breath. "The poor man, who was blind in one eye, lame, and poor, had nothing to pay a nurse. He went in vain from cottage to cottage trying to find a woman compassionate enough to be willing to nurse his child; and he had no cow even to furnish him milk. Do you know what he did? He bought a goat with the last half-rouble which remained after the funeral expenses had been paid; and that goat nursed and reared for him the little daughter, who afterward became the loveliest girl in the village." At these words Iermola trembled and rose. "Somebody find me a goat!" he cried aloud. "Where is there a goat? I will buy one at once." "The Jew innkeeper has one." "Then I shall go and buy it." He had already started for the door when Chwedko and the cossack's widow stopped him. "Take care what you do, good man," said his old companion. "The Jew will fleece you if he knows that you really need the goat very much." "Ah, well, let him ask what he will, provided I get the animal." "He will take your last shirt from you, old fool," said the cossack's widow, in her turn. "You know Szmula; he is a regular thief, the most miserable rascal that ever lived, even among the Jews of his class. Do not be in too great a hurry, for God's sake! Use a little deception at least, and say that you want the goat to raise a little flock, or else he will make you pay more than you would have to give for a cow." "I will go with you," said Chwedko, "see if I don't; between us we shall be a match for the Jew." "But what shall we do with the baby?" "Never mind about it; I will keep it here. No harm shall happen to it." "I pray you, good mother," said Iermola, trembling, "take special care of it." "Ha, ha! he undertakes to give me lessons, do you see? Just as if it was the first baby I ever had in my arms. I shall rock it, and feed it with some milk, and perhaps I shall let it suck the end of my finger. Do not be at all anxious." "I shall be back again in a moment," continued Iermola; "do take care that nothing happens to the baby." The old woman burst into peals of laughter as she listened to him, he looked so anxious. Just as he was about to cross the threshold, he remembered that he had not smoked for some time; he drew from his bosom his old wooden pipe, which was his constant companion, went up to the tinder, lighted it, and then started off with Chwedko through the darkness in the direction of the new inn situated in the centre of the village. V. SET A CHEAT TO CATCH A CHEAT. In a small town where, by reason of its trade in wood and its rafting, the number and the means of the transient inhabitants is considerable; where the boatmen, the merchants, and their employees constantly come and go,--it would not be possible for a Jew, without money and without credit, to keep the principal hotel. Consequently the illustrious Szmula, who owned the inn of Popielnia, whence he reigned over the village and its vicinity, was not a mere innkeeper going from time to time a distance of three miles to purchase a little barrel of brandy. He was a Jew who had grown rich upon the profit of his trade in wood, timber, tar, and ashes,--in fact, all the products of the Polesian forests, including dried mushrooms and conserved berries. His inn also, particularly in the springtime, brought him gain which was not to be despised; and Mr. Szmula, justly valuing the rotundity of his girth and the dignity of his position, began to set himself up for a great lord. The new inn, from which he lorded it, was different in appearance from the old-fashioned inns whose architecture had been perpetuated according to Slavic custom because they were intended to be used for public assemblies and councils. It was without the traditional vestibule, projecting and supported by pillars, for the practical Israelite cared but little to entertain the poor and infrequent travellers who usually passed through that secluded region; but there was a stable and coach-house sheltering the great carriage which was used in going to the fairs, and the house had externally very much the appearance of a gentleman's _dwor_. On one side was a large apartment, which was in fact the dining-hall of the inn, where heavy benches were placed all about the wall, with an enormous table in front of them. In one corner there was a sort of staging which was shut up during the night by means of several window shutters, and where during the day brandy was retailed from the counter. In the other part of the house, which was furnished with some elegance, lived Szmula Popielauski and his family; and there was a pretty unoccupied room kept for the merchants of his religion who might stop in the neighbourhood. The front room in this portion of the house made some pretence to the name of drawing-room, for it contained a wooden sofa polished and varnished, and covered with a sort of damask studded with gold stars, two chairs with arrows of black wood on their backs, a mirror suspended on the wall, the framed portraits of two illustrious Israelites,--the rabbis of Hamburg and Wilna,--a cupboard filled with china cups, cut glass, and bottles of rum, and a somewhat rickety table supported by a lyre and covered with a bright cloth. The floor of this room had once been painted white, but the colour having been rubbed off in many places, it was now variegated; the stove was closed by a small iron door with a brass knob; and Szmula, having done all this _proprio sumptu et cura_, to satisfy his taste for elegance, congratulated himself upon the effect. In the second room the Jewish dirt began to assert itself, but did not exclude attempts and pretensions to elegance. Above the bed was placed a fringed canopy with curtains covered with enormous flowers. Near this might be seen a cupboard of black wood, full of books and papers, and a small rickety bureau; also a pile of potatoes, one or two buckets of kindling-wood, some cakes of dough drying on a plate, a large earthen pan full of dish-water, and a white turkey, walking composedly about surrounded by her brood. Szmula was no longer in his early youth. He was about fifty years old, and was married a second time, his late spouse having left him only one son, who kept a shop of his own in the next town. Not being satisfied with this only scion, Szmula had taken to wife a young Jewess, very poor but extremely beautiful, who had borne him three children during the three years of their marriage. His gray hairs were honoured by this blessing from the Lord. At first sight, this grave descendant of Israel was very pleasing, with his long beard and hair, his regular features, his serious and winning expression. One had a desire to study him closely, and to believe in his honesty. Nevertheless, his beauty and the sweet expression of his eyes were, as is so often the case, deceptive. In fact, there could be no more insatiable vampire, no more greedy blood-sucker, than the worthy Szmula of the village of Popielnia. The constantly increasing profits earned by his deceit and tact did not render him above turning to account the smallest opportunities. Besides his bills of a thousand roubles and his coupons of government bonds, he deposited without shame in his chests the big copper money bathed with the sweat of the wretched peasants; and puffed up by his position and his wealth, he treated the poor villagers as though they were mere beasts of burden, and fleeced them without mercy. The result was that when the villagers had any business to transact, they preferred to do so secretly with the poorer Jews who lived in the little town; and this aroused the deepest resentment in Szmula. He could not forgive them for being unwilling to allow him to cheat them. He considered their conduct a daring revolt; and as an old tradition, founded upon some unknown basis, gave him the right to claim one pint of flour when a peasant took his corn to the mill, he thought therefore he had the right to fly into a rage and make a terrible fuss when a peasant took his cow to the market or sold a bag of corn without his royal permission. Gifted with indefatigable energy, Szmula neglected nothing, for all gain was acceptable to him, and he always had time for everything. His presence of mind and dexterity never forsook him. Such was the all-powerful autocrat to whom the simple-hearted Iermola was about to apply in the hope of buying his white goat. Fortunately, he had with him old Chwedko, who was infinitely better acquainted than he with all the subtleties of human rascality; who, experienced, cunning, and prudent, spared neither time nor words nor pains when the question was to economize or to earn a little money. As they went along, therefore, Chwedko gave all sorts of advice to Iermola, but the latter heard little of it, so absorbed was he with his own plans for obtaining the goat. Unfortunately this old animal was the pet of Sara, Szmula's second wife, and also of her eldest son, who often amused himself by pulling the goat's beard, although she had more than once mercilessly trampled upon him. The goat in question was not worth more than twelve florins; but Iermola was quite willing to give twenty rather than not get it, and even Chwedko thought this a not unreasonable price considering the circumstances. But how were they to approach the subject and make this proposition to Szmula? If the Jew for a moment suspected how exceedingly necessary the animal was to poor Iermola, he would take advantage of the situation and fleece him unmercifully. The question therefore was, if possible, to deceive the Jew, so that he should not have the opportunity to rob the unfortunate Iermola. When the two men were within a short distance of the inn, Chwedko, who had reflected for some time, made a sign to Iermola to stop. "Stay here a moment, near this cottage," said he, pointing to the spot. "Wait here a moment for me; I will go and feel the Jew's pulse. Do not fear; I will find some good way to arrange the matter. If we go and ask him for his goat outright, he will make us pay as much for it as the price of a cow. We must manage to have him offer it to us; leave it all to me." "But what are you going to do?" "You shall see; you shall see," answered good old Chwedko, deeply interested in Iermola's project. "Only be careful to do just what I tell you." Then Iermola, making a great effort to be quiet, seated himself on the ground beside the wall of the hut, for he was in great need of rest for mind and body. He leaned his head on his hand and fell into deep thought. For the first time in his life he was obliged to think of the future. As for Chwedko, he went straight to the great dining hall of the inn, but Szmula was not there,--no one was there, only the goat. Partly opening the door of the chamber, carefully wiping his feet, and humbly asking permission to enter, he stepped inside with a low bow and holding his cap under his arm. He took special care not to step off the door-mat, for the Jew flew into a rage if any one soiled the floor of his chamber. Having established himself firmly in his position, Chwedko dropped his hand down to his knees and made another low bow to the dreaded Szmula. In order to be favourably received by the innkeeper, it was really necessary to go through with all these formalities, as the far-seeing Chwedko well knew,--first to wipe one's feet, then stop at the threshold, and above all, not to call the worthy man Mr. Innkeeper, but instead, Mr. Merchant, for our Szmula maintained that if he kept an inn it was for his own entertainment, and that it was for his pleasure alone that he lived in the country. "Well, what do you want, Chwedko?" asked the Jew, without rising from his easy-chair, where he was bending his head, with his long nose over a book, yet ready without hesitation to interrupt his devotions whenever his interests required it, for he knew very well that God is more patient than man. "Mr. Merchant--I want to tell you--there is an occasion." Thus the lower classes speak of every unexpected event which may serve as a pretext for feasting or drinking. "An occasion! What is it? A baptism? A betrothal? A wedding or a funeral? Is any one dead, any accident? I'll venture you have come to ask for some brandy on credit." "No, indeed, sir; but I chanced to hear something, and I wanted to tell my lord the merchant about it. It is perhaps an opportunity to make something." "Let me hear; what is there to be made?" said Szmula, rising, thrusting his hands into his girdle, and approaching Chwedko. "Your Honour" (this title was specially flattering to the Jew's vanity),--"your Honour knows Iermola, the old man who lives in the old ruined inn." "Certainly I know him; but he is only a poor devil, a beggar." "That is true, but it does not prevent his having gained a few roubles." "Well, what? He wants to drink them up?" "No, no! he does not drink brandy, but he has taken it into his head to buy a cow, paying half the amount down and asking credit for the balance." "A cow! and what will he do with it?" "He was going to the town to look for one; but I stopped him because I thought of a plan for him." "To the town! always to the town!" repeated the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "The fools! That is their first thought. But tell me, Chwedko, what is your plan?" "I have tried to make him think that it is not a good idea for him to have a cow and be in debt; that it would be better for him to buy a goat with his money. He would have milk immediately, and in a little while a flock. Perhaps you would sell him your white goat?" Just here the Jew fixed his piercing eye on Chwedko's face, but he fortunately was not disturbed thereby. It was scarcely possible, in fact, to suspect any design in so simple a proposition. The innkeeper, however, tried to sound the intentions of the good man by a sudden question. "Is Iermola here at the inn?" "No; since noon he has been down there with the neighbours. But if you wish, I can go and bring him here, though usually he does not like to come to the inn. But perhaps you do not wish to sell your old white goat? I merely thought of this for your interest; why should you let all the money of the people go out of the village? However, if the idea does not suit you, say nothing about it, and let him go on to the town." "Wait a moment, wait," said the Jew, after a pause, seeing Chwedko with his hand on the knob of the door. "Why should he go to the town?" Here he called Sara, who came in with a discontented countenance; they exchanged a few words in their own language, Szmula speaking in a low voice and his wife looking very cross. Chwedko tried to divine the intentions of the couple from their voices and their gestures, but in vain; the Jewess went out at last, and Szmula, turning to him and slapping him on the shoulder, said,-- "You are a good man when you want brandy on credit. I have told Sara to let you have a rouble's worth; do you hear? Bring Iermola here in the great hall. The goat is there; he can buy it. It is a good goat; he will like it. It is an excellent goat. How much money has he?" "I do not know really," answered Chwedko. "He must have, I think, about fifteen florins; and the cossack's widow will probably lend him something more." The Jew nodded his head silently, and having thus taken leave of the peasant, who hastened to rejoin his companion, he put on a warmer overcoat, for he took great care of his precious health; then he walked slowly into the great hall under pretext of going to look over some accounts with his servant, Marysia, who on the Sabbath as well as all other days served at the bar of the inn, besides which she took care of the children, milked the cow, in fact, rendered herself generally useful to the household. The great hall, dark, dirty, and mean-looking, without any floor, dimly lighted by a torch of resinous wood which was smoking in one corner, was occupied at this moment only by Marysia (who was so very fat and short that the peasants compared her to one of the big-bellied barrels in which bacon is put up in brine), the white goat, who wandered around looking in all the corners for something to eat, and a Polesian peasant, who, after having taken a small glass of brandy and an onion, had stretched himself beside the wall with his money-bag and his shoes under his head, and was sleeping like a rock, and snoring like a chariot in need of greasing. Szmula walked up and down for some time, looking first at the goat and then at Marysia, who was quite astonished at his sudden entrance. He yawned, sighed, and turned his thumbs over each other; then all at once hearing the sound of a footstep in the vestibule, he went to the window and began chalking figures on the shutter, keeping his eyes fixed on his calculations, and pretending to be very busy. Just at that moment Chwedko appeared, followed by old Iermola, who was trembling like a leaf and blushing also at the thought of the farce he was obliged to play in order to get the white goat. His first glance fell upon the tall figure of the Jew; and this glance would doubtless have been sufficient to betray him if Szmula had seen it. But fortunately the Jew at that moment was entirely taken up with his own rôle; he seemed utterly absorbed in important business, and was standing with his back to the two friends. "Good-evening, my lord merchant," began Chwedko. "Good-evening," answered Szmula, half turning round, and muttering a few words through his beard. "Well, what shall we do? Shall we take a drink of brandy?" continued Chwedko. "For my part, I rarely drink; but to keep you company--Pour out something for us to drink, Marysia." "You are going to the fair," resumed the first speaker; "you must strengthen yourself for the journey." "Ah! so you are going to the fair, are you?" interrupted Szmula. "Perhaps you have something to sell. I shall be glad to buy it from you." "No, I am going for another purpose." "And what is it?" said the Jew. "This is the way all of you peasants do,--as soon as you have any business to transact, you run to the town. Are you thinking of buying anything?" "See here, my lord merchant," answered Chwedko, interrupting, "my neighbour wants a cow; he is lonely, and for company's sake is willing to take on himself one more bother." "But why get a cow?" asked the Jew, in a scornful tone. "Well, it would give me some pleasure, and perhaps some profit." "Pshaw, pshaw!" cried Szmula, waving his hand, "one can see plainly that you never have owned a cow, and that you do not know what it is to take care of one. First, you must pay the little herdsman, and God only knows how much the herdsman asks; besides, the cattle always come home hungry. Then you will be obliged to buy hay,--and hay costs as much now as pepper; and tailings,--and tailings are now ten coppers a bag; and buckwheat,--and I do not sell that for less than forty coppers a bag; that is what every one pays me. Besides, she must have grass and potatoes; and if you do not give her some of all these things, the animal will get poor. Then there are so many diseases and so much time when the creature gives no milk. Think of it! not a drop of milk for six months in the year!" "Yes; but one has the calf and a little milk." "And who, pray, will take care of the animal for you?" interrupted the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "What did I tell you?" here put in Chwedko. "For a poor man like you a cow is only a bother and nothing else." "But she would give me nevertheless a calf and a few drops of milk." "Yes, about milk; talk about that," answered the officious go-between. "As for milk, I can assure you there is nothing so good as a goat. Observe, a goat costs very little and lives upon anything it can find,--branches, leaves, or stubble. Besides, a goat needs no care; and when once you have tasted goat-milk, you can be sure you have had something to drink, it is so sweet and nourishing." "Really, to tell you the truth," said the innkeeper, in his turn, "I can assure you there is nothing like a goat. If any people know how to manage, it is our race, I believe; and you see that we almost invariably have goats. But men have opportunities to observe, yet do not comprehend; a goat is a treasure." "Well, when I have thought the matter over, perhaps I shall buy a goat," said Iermola. "And you will do well," cried Chwedko,--"you will do well, I repeat. Now suppose Mr. Szmula were to sell you his white goat?" "What is it you are saying?" said the Jew, quickly, as though he had heard by chance. "I would not sell my white goat for any price; do you hear? It is the only pet of my wife and children, and moreover it is an invaluable animal; it is worth more than a cow." "I am sorry," answered Iermola, looking attentively at the white goat, which was strolling around, "for the town is not here; my old legs will scarcely carry me so far, and, dear me, I might have decided to buy your goat." "True, it is only a goat, but such a goat!" answered the Jew. "Have you ever seen one like it? She has so much instinct, so much sense, upon my word, one might almost talk to her; and as for her milk, it is all cream. You might go twenty miles and not find her equal. It is not a goat; it is a treasure, a rare possession." "But it is old," observed old Iermola, respectfully. "Old, old! Well, what does that matter? The older a goat grows, the more it is worth. Besides, how could it be old? It has hardly begun to live; it will live twenty years yet," cried Szmula, becoming more and more excited. "How much did it cost you?" asked Iermola. "Oh, it has cost me-- I cannot tell you how much. First, when it was just born, I paid two roubles for it. For you see this is no ordinary goat; it is of a fine breed,--a very rare breed. I would not take six roubles for it; she eats almost nothing, and she is always fat, and every year she bears two kids." After this speech there was a moment of silence. Iermola turned pale and became agitated, not knowing what to say. He gazed at the goat, which continued to walk around, stamping on the ground with her hoof, and poking her head into every corner where she perceived the faintest odour of food. She occupied herself in picking up scattered leaves, bits of bark, and cabbage stalks; and in justice to her, it must be said that she minded her own business and disturbed no one. "She would suit you exactly," said Chwedko, resuming his rôle of courtier. "She never would run away, because she is already accustomed to the village. She knows where to go to graze; she is old, gentle, and used to being milked." "And she is not an ordinary goat," repeated the Jew, in a sententious tone; "she is of a rare breed,--a good breed." "But where should I find so much money?" sighed Iermola. "Come, see here," answered Szmula, coming nearer and speaking earnestly, "you are an honest man; I will have every consideration for you. In the town people might cheat you; I will give you a good bargain, and let you have the goat for three roubles. Now that is the best I can do; make up your mind." Chwedko, who had not expected such reasonable terms, hastened to conclude the bargain, quite satisfied to find Szmula in such an accommodating mood. "Come, hold out your hand, neighbour, and thank my lord merchant; you have made an excellent bargain. Pay for the animal and take her; I hope you will be quite satisfied with her." "Well, what shall we do?" sighed the old serving-man. "I will take it at that price, since my lord merchant will not take less. Please give me a bit of cord so I can lead the goat home." Accordingly, the purchase was quickly made and satisfactorily beyond all expectations. Iermola drew from a knot in the corner of his handkerchief three roubles, which he gave to Szmula. The Jew examined them, threw them on the ground, as was his custom, and then, dropped them into his pocket. "You will return the string to-morrow?" said he, as he slowly retired to his chamber. "How about the treat?" said Chwedko, timidly. "That is Iermola's right," answered Szmula, "but since he did none of the bargaining, you shall not pay for your little glass of brandy; I will treat myself." Then Marysia threw to the two friends a piece of cord with a buckle at the end which was used to carry the fagots of kindling-wood. And Chwedko, having shut the door, began to chase the goat, who, suspecting some foul play, fled from the least approach of her two pursuers. The Jew had already gone away to his own apartment. "Well, upon my word, you have shown your sense," cried the servant when she saw that her worthy master had disappeared. "What a shame to give twenty florins for a miserable old beast! you might have bought three young ones at the fair for that price." The two old men kept silence; and having tied the string to the animal's horns, they led their conquest away. Iermola was trembling with pleasure; the tears filled his eyes; and he embraced his neighbour. "You have done me a great service; may God reward you!" he murmured. "For the present, I shall not think of showing myself at Szmula's house," sighed Chwedko, who recognized the full extent of the danger to which he had exposed himself. "As soon as he hears about the baby, the rascal will suspect some trick, and never will forgive me. He would have fleeced you famously had he known that the goat was such a necessity." Talking thus in low tones, they reached the widow's hut, forcing the goat to obedience by various means, more or less gentle, for she had not the slightest desire to go away from the inn. Meantime the storm began to mutter behind them, for Sara, greatly enraged, had just rejoined her husband, and was relating to him the story of the baby left at old Iermola's house, which news she had just learned from Marysia, the bar-maid. Szmula, who was not wanting in sagacity, understood at once why his goat had suddenly become so necessary; he pulled his beard and bit his finger-nails. "Just wait a while, you rascal, you scoundrel of a Chwedko," muttered he, shaking his head. "If I live only a little while longer, I will pay you for it." VI. WHEN ONE LOVES. In the life of a good and loving man,--one who, like Iermola, had led an isolated existence and had preserved in full force all the strength of his affections,--an event such as that which had just happened produces a sudden and entire change. The old man became young again. He felt the ties which bound him to the world renewed and strengthened; he had henceforth an aim in life, a hope, a bond, an affection, a new desire for work, the delights and anticipations of an unknown feeling. The poor orphan, cast off by his parents, became the crowning treasure of his old age. A sort of excitement, such as he had not felt for years, took hold of his entire being, and made him at once stronger and more tender. He was disturbed; he wondered; he feared; he hoped; and he was anxious concerning the morrow. Tears sprang to his eyes. He felt that he had changed; he had become another man. He had forgotten the past, and he was dreaming of the future. He felt himself blest, very happy, never suspecting the weary moments, the cares and toil he was preparing for the remainder of his existence. Like the bird in whose nest the cuckoo lays her eggs, he was astonished, frightened, content. For the first time he found, to his surprise, that he dreaded death; that he felt the need and the desire to live. Chwedko no longer recognized him, he was so utterly changed; the old man, usually so silent and indifferent, now spoke with warmth and vivacity, so entirely did he resume the attraction, the gestures, and thoughts of a young man. He found it impossible to remain patiently any longer beside Chwedko, for their stubborn companion never ceased for a moment to make every effort in its power to get away from them and return to the alehouse. He therefore confided the goat to the care of Chwedko, and hastened on in advance. He rushed into his old friend's hut and ran at once to the wooden bench where the new-born baby was lying asleep, quieted and satisfied by the good milk it had drunk. Beside it stood Horpyna, the little shepherd, and the servant, who were watching in silence this unexpected guest. Iermola made his way through the little group, and seated himself on the floor so as to see the baby better. "I think he is asleep," he whispered in the old widow's ear. "Ah! to be sure, the poor innocent one," replied the old woman, nodding her head. "And did he drink the milk?" "Oh, certainly he did, and stopped crying immediately. But about the goat?" "We have bought it; Chwedko is leading it hither." Good old Iermola gazed with rapture upon his precious baby. "How beautiful he is!" he cried after a moment. "It must be the child of some nobleman." "He is a fine hearty boy," interrupted the widow; "but all children look alike when they are small. It is only later on, my good old man, that it is possible to distinguish those who have sprouted up under the hedge like a bunch of nettles from those who have grown up in the sunshine in the open fields. But at least this one is as lively as a fish; so much the better for you,--you will have less trouble." Iermola laughed, but at the same moment his eyes filled with tears. "Mother," he replied, "never in all my life have I seen so beautiful a baby." "You have lost your senses, Iermola," cried the cossack's widow, bursting into a loud laugh and shrugging her shoulders. "Are you really thinking of bringing up the child yourself all alone?" "And why not?" replied the astonished old man. "Do you suppose I would turn him over to strangers?" "But you will not be able to do it. It seems an easy thing to you; but what will you do all alone, no woman near you at your age? Remember it must be fed, bathed, put to bed, amused, and looked after; this will be too great a task for you, all by yourself." "Let me alone," answered Iermola, waving his hand. "It is not the saints who boil the pots;[5] I will prove it to you. You shall tell me what to do; and as true as there is a God in heaven, I never will be separated from this baby." "Has the old man gone crazy?" cried the widow, shrugging her shoulders. "He thinks it is as easy to bring up a child as it is to raise a little dog; and how much worry and fatigue he will have during two long years!" "The longer the better. Don't say anything to me, mother, don't say anything; I will not listen to you, I will bring him up; I shall do it well, you will see." Every one laughed at old Iermola's enthusiasm. He was unable to jest on the subject, and for a moment he even began to be doubtful of himself, to hesitate. "Good mother," said he, in a low voice, a little sadly, "help me, teach me, advise me; you will find that I shall know how to show my gratitude. When harvest-time comes, or when it is time to work your garden, you will find that all that sort of work will cost you nothing." "Make yourself easy," answered the widow; "you know that I am not stingy with my good advice. I will help you and this orphan; but tell me this one thing, do you really believe that in your old age, and knowing nothing about nursing or bringing up children, you will be able to undertake to be its mother?" At these words Iermola bowed his head and made no reply. Judging the feelings of others by those of his own heart, he feared that under this pretext some one would come and take his baby from him. Then he rose, cautiously approached the bench, raised the coverings, took the baby gently in his arms, and started toward the threshold. At that moment the door opened, and Chwedko appeared, accompanied by the goat. The white head and horns of the animal appeared in the dark space of the half-open door, touched by the light of the flickering candle, and began to move. Horpyna, at sight of it, was startled, and screamed. "Well, well!" cried the widow, "here is a nurse." "Let us go back to the house," whispered Iermola. "Good-evening, mother; come to see me to-morrow, if you will be so good." "I will, if only for the sake of curiosity," answered the old woman. Then the good man, constantly fearing lest they should take his baby from him, hastened to leave the house. His heart felt lighter when he found himself in the street. Chwedko followed behind him, leading the goat, and both went on in silence toward the old ruined inn. Iermola, however, was communing with himself all along the way. "Why should I not be able to do it?" said he to himself. "I understand,--I understand; the old woman wanted to keep him herself, the beautiful little angel. But I will not give him to her. No, indeed; she shall not have the care of him. Once more I repeat, 'It is not the saints who make the pots boil.' I will bring up the child! I shall have a son!" he cried, with joyous pride. "My good Chwedko, take care of the goat; I will give you a florin, for you helped me very kindly. May God have in store for you a more abundant reward!" The two, walking cautiously along, at last reached the door of the old house. Iermola laid the baby, who was still fast asleep, upon his own bed, and then undertook to light a fire; as for Chwedko, he even put off going to see after his gray mare, the only possession he had in the world. Seeing this, the old man gave a florin to his friend, embraced him, and sent him off, remaining alone in the room with the goat and the baby. He did not think of going to sleep; he felt no need of sleep, he had so much to do, so many preparations to make. At first he seated himself near the stove, not knowing what to do first, his eyes fixed on the baby as one gazes on a rainbow after a storm. The old goat wandered restlessly about the room, butting against the door with her horns, and mousing around in the corners, picking up whatever she could find to eat. The noise at last woke the baby; and Iermola sprang forward to hush it, when it occurred to him that the best plan would be to tie the Jewess (that was the name Chwedko had given to Iermola's new possession). Accordingly he threw her a little straw, and she became quiet, resigning herself to her fate. The baby slept on sweetly and soundly. Iermola had now no bed for himself, but he did not care for it; he sat down upon the piece of a tree-trunk, cut flat off at both ends, which served him as a stool whenever he wished to sit near the stove. His bed was well filled; and he had so many things to think about and so many things to do before to-morrow morning! He had already been warned that he would have to announce the discovery of the baby to the steward Hudny, who represented the estate, and tell him that he, Iermola, would undertake the charge of the poor little one. In addition to this disagreeable duty, which he would have given anything to escape, he had to make a cradle for the baby and to attend to a number of other small matters. Then the creature might waken and cry; he must soothe it lest it should shed tears. However, he felt that he could do all this, for strength did not fail him now,--that strength which comes from the heart. The whole of this bright, short spring night was passed by him full of anxiety and care; the first gray light of morning which shone through the window found him still disturbed and embarrassed, but feeling no need of sleep or rest. Finally he thought he would like to go and cut some feet for the cradle from the old logs which were in his other room; but he feared to leave the child, and besides, the goat might disturb him. The creaking of the door even might waken the little creature; and what if, when he was busy at work, he should not hear him cry! But the sense of these difficulties and apparent impossibilities overwhelmed him only momentarily; at other times he told himself that it would be easy to surmount it all, and he strengthened himself by hope, forgetful of hunger, fatigue, and want of sleep. The sun was just about to rise when he undertook the task of milking the goat, so that he might have some milk ready when his dear little one wakened; but the old Jewess was not in a kindly and accommodating humour. She was stubborn as a goat; that describes her temper. Moreover, she was accustomed to obey only her old master and mistress, and absolutely refused to submit to the will of her new owner. At first Iermola treated her with great gentleness. He patted her, spoke to her, and endeavoured to convince her of the necessity there was for her to be docile; but all was of no avail, and he was finally compelled to resort to violent measures. Then the goat boldly raised the standard of revolt; she broke her rope and rushed toward the door of the chamber, butting it with her horns. The baby, at this noise, woke; the old man tore his hair. Fortunately, at this moment the cossack's widow arrived, the curiosity which had consumed her since she wakened having led her to Iermola's hut. Seeing him in such a state of bewilderment, she burst into a loud laugh, but she also set to work and succeeded in milking the goat with the most surprising ease. It might have been because the Jewess was accustomed to allow herself to be milked by women, or perhaps seeing herself alone against two, she doubted the expediency of opposition; but she voluntarily submitted to the widow. As for Iermola, he was already rocking the baby. "Well," asked the old woman, "how did you pass the night?" "I did not go to bed," answered Iermola; "but the baby slept sweetly. Only that miserable goat--" "Oh, you will not have much trouble with her; she will become accustomed to you in a day or two if you feed her well. And so the little one slept?" "Like a little angel! I am sure that there is not a baby in the world who sleeps better than he. You should see how intelligent he is! I believe he almost knows me, neighbour." The orphan's adopted father was greatly astonished when the widow burst into a hearty laugh on hearing him say this. After that he kept silent, quite abashed. "I really do not know why God did not give you a wife and children," said she, a moment later; "or rather, why He did not make you a woman." She stopped suddenly; just outside the door a loud voice was heard, saying, "Ha, Iermola! old idiot, come here; you know very well that I expect you." It was the voice and the signal of the steward Hudny, who, having been already informed of the event of the evening before, desired by visiting the hut to see with his own eyes what had happened, so that he could relate the whole affair to his wife. The old man trembled at the approach of this stern master, whom he feared exceedingly, and whom he usually carefully avoided; but leaving the baby in the hands of his old friend, he hastened out of the hut. The steward was mounted on a fat little horse, with a well-kept and glossy coat; he wore a gray cloak lined with lambskin, long boots, carried a whip in his hand, and had a cap pulled over his ears. One could see at a glance that he had not left his home fasting; and it was easy to perceive that he had fortified himself against the fog with the usual quantity of brandy. He was one of those stewards of the new regime, who had taken the place of the loyal and faithful servants of the old. To the defects of his predecessors, which he had preserved intact, he had taken care to add others peculiar to himself, and which were the penalty he paid to the advance of the times. The worthy Mr. Hudny, as former managers had done, treated the peasants as clowns and clodhoppers. He beat them, oppressed them, and rendered them miserable; moreover, he outrageously robbed and abused those who called him by the old title of manager, enjoining it upon his subordinates to address him as my lord the steward, and announcing to all who would listen to him that he should soon rent a large estate. He and his wife lived like bugs in a rug, on this fine old deserted domain; they seized upon everything they could possibly take, and sought by every means in their power to escape from a position which was distasteful to them. Neither of them had any heart; but they possessed a revolting pride and an absolute want of principle, such as is manifested only in the ranks of a half-disorganized and deeply corrupted society. Two small bright eyes, a little crossed, which sparkled above a round red face, partly concealed by two enormous eyebrows, on account of their uncertain and conflicting expression, at once threatening and cowardly, gave at the first glance some idea of the character of the man. The rest of his rough and irregular features were partly concealed by his abundant beard and by the enormous whiskers which met under his chin. Iermola bowed till his hands touched the ground. "What are the orders of my lord the steward?" he asked. "What is the news at your house? I hear some talk of a cast-off baby." "Ah, yes, most illustrious master," answered the old man, adding the word "illustrious" if possible to secure a favourable hearing for his story. "Yesterday evening I heard a moaning sound under the oaks. I thought at first it was an owl; but, no, indeed, it was a baby, please your lordship." "A boy?" "Yes, a fine boy." "And you found nothing else at the same time,--nothing but the baby, eh?" said the steward, fixing upon the old man his piercing, avaricious glance,--a glance which was almost terrifying. "No explanation whatever? No papers, no medal? For everything of that sort, you understand, must be turned over to the police; and the baby must be taken to the hospital." At these words Iermola began to tremble and wring his hands. "No, my lord," he cried, "there was no sign of an explanation; the baby was wrapped only in a piece of coarse white cambric. I swear to this, my lord; but I do not wish--I will not give this little one to anybody, for God Himself gave him to me." "Oh, oh! there must be something at the bottom of all this," replied the steward, laughing his wicked laugh. "A child is left at your door, and you wish to keep it? But an inquest may be held, some difficulties may arise, and some expenses be incurred. It is best that you should take the brat to the court or to the chief of the police, so that they can decide the matter; and as for the piece of cambric, send it at once to my wife, do you hear?" So saying, the steward dismounted and gave his horse to the good man. Then he entered the hut, and Iermola's heart began to beat very fast. The poor old man dreaded for his child the presence and the gaze of this man, particularly as he could not go and protect the baby, for he could not leave the horse. He would have liked exceedingly to be present at the interview, but that was impossible; he listened intently, however, so as to hear as much as he could of the conversation which took place between the steward and the cossack's widow. This mental strain and anxiety agitated him to such a degree that when Hudny came out of the lowly mansion, Iermola was wiping away great drops of sweat as large as tears, which were running down his cheeks. Fortunately the cossack's widow, for whom the steward entertained a sort of respect, had resolved to purchase peace at a moneyed price, and had taken care to buy her supply of butter from the Hudny dairy, and in some way or other succeeded in persuading him; and the result was that he did not persecute Iermola further on the subject of the baby, nor did he again order him to deliver it over to the police. "Fie, fie, old fool!'" said he, as he remounted his horse. "Upon my word, it seems absurd for you to take upon yourself such a useless burden. However, I will undertake to make the report to the court; but if you take my advice, you will get rid of the new-comer as soon as possible. What necessity is there that you should have another mouth to feed; and why should a child be brought to you? Ah, it must be a droll story," he added, laughing again his coarse, wicked laugh. Iermola, in his terror, kissed his knee and hand and elbow, and begged that he would leave the baby with him with an expression so paternal and tender that any one but the steward would have been deeply touched. But thus Iermola escaped a disagreeable errand; he was not obliged to go to the _dwor_, which would have been bad for him for two reasons: first, because the sight of the dear old house awoke in him painful memories; and secondly, because the steward and his wife, gentle and fair-spoken to their superiors, were harsh, scornful, and unkind to the common people. Thus he also had his whole day to himself, and could do all that was needful for the baby. At that moment the sun rose, glad, bright, and radiant, like a messenger of hope and faith. Motion and labour began; a thousand noises awoke along the river shore. As the news, the wonderful news, had spread like lightning, all whose business led them along that road went into Iermola's house to see the baby and hear how it had all happened. The cossack's widow, more eloquent than her neighbour, undertook to tell the story, which she constantly clothed in new colours, repeating the smallest details with indefatigable delight. Meanwhile the old man occupied himself in making the cradle, for which, fortunately, he found a rush mat, perfectly woven and sufficiently light. This mat, swung between the two feet which he had constructed as well as he could, then filled with hay, and covered with the softest and whitest cloth that Iermola could find among his rags, was ready about midday. It would have been, indeed, much easier to suspend a basket by a rope to one of the beams of the ceiling, as was the custom of the peasants, and rock it with his foot. But Iermola was afraid of everything where the baby was concerned,--the rope, the hook, the basket, the beam; and he preferred to undertake a tiresome and difficult task himself rather than to expose the innocent creature to any danger. The widow rallied him upon his anxieties and fears, but she could not convince him. Then when the cradle was finished, he found it necessary to rearrange the chamber,--that room in which nothing had been moved for so many years. Now it must be arranged differently altogether,--so that the light should not fall upon the baby's eyes; so that he should not feel the draught from the door or the heat from the stove. And after that, he had to build a little shelter in one corner for the goat, with the help of an old door and a broken-down ladder. The obstinate animal did not become at all more docile. She ate whatever was thrown to her, but she would allow no one to come near her; and it was necessary for the present to keep her tied. When his various preparations were ended, Iermola came and seated himself beside the widow, and listened attentively to all the precepts she laid down to him on the subject of caring for the baby. By dint of strict attention and numberless and exact questionings, he succeeded in learning precisely what he should give him to eat, how many times and in how much water he should bathe him, how he should amuse him, quiet him, and put him to sleep. The profound and inexpressible affection he felt for the innocent new-comer was only equalled by the intensity of his hatred for the horned and rebellious goat, who persisted in her disobedience, and would not endeavour to appreciate the good fortune which was in store for her. All the while that Iermola was listening to the widow, he cast upon the Jewess a menacing glance, unable to boast sufficiently of the baby's lovable qualities or sufficiently to deplore the goat's unworthiness, her stupidity, and the detestable habits she had acquired while frequenting the inn. It was in such important occupations that the first day of poor old Iermola's paternity was passed. VII. A NEW LIFE. The fortunes of man are often very strange. He frequently passes through long, barren, unemployed years, awaiting the one moment which brings into relief and into activity all his faculties and all his powers; it seems as though he had slept an age in order to awaken for one hour. A new situation arouses in him unknown sentiments, enlightens his mind, opens his heart, and changes the indolent dreamer into a worker, an indefatigable athlete. Thus it happened to Iermola, whom the mere presence of this unknown child had regenerated and revived, and who, to the great astonishment of the widow, the people of the village, and all who had formerly known him, not only acquitted himself without difficulty of the care necessary to be bestowed upon his nursling, but became quite another man. He always had been considered one of the most good-for-nothing and insignificant beings in the world, silent, humble, timid, and ignorant. People had become accustomed to see him every day at the same hour in the vicinity of the ruined inn, and to hear the same words of greeting repeated by him every day. With his bowed head and stooping shoulders, and his eyes fixed on the ground, and leaning on a cane, he might be constantly seen, now on his way to the river shore, and now going toward the _dwor_; he gathered grasses, kindling-wood, and fagots, and cultivated in his garden a little tobacco and a few vegetables. On fine summer evenings he repeated his chaplet sitting on his door-sill, and sometimes, when his complete isolation did not weigh too heavily upon him, he allowed several months to pass without appearing in the village. He never went to the inn, never showed himself at weddings, funerals, or baptisms; and when he went to them because he was invited, he stayed only a very short time, and was in a hurry to return to his den, where he squatted down and secluded himself as though there was some sad mystery attached to his life. Moreover, he visited at none of the houses in the village with the exception of the widow's hut, whither he was drawn by memories of old friendship and also the need of assistance, for there he had his linen washed and mended, and took some of his meals. Some said that he was sulky and cross; but those who knew him best rarely spoke of him otherwise than in terms of kindest friendship. And indeed under his cold, rough exterior was concealed a rare heart, a heart of gold, one of those hearts to be met with among the poor and simple more often than one believes. Nowadays a goodly number of thinkers interested in such matters, and who judge quite erroneously, have succeeded in discovering in the peasant far more bad qualities than good ones. But considering the influences to which the lower classes are subjected, the examples they have before them, their surroundings, the poverty which enervates them, and the want of moral education which brutalizes them, one can only be astonished at the treasures of honesty which God puts into their hearts. Under such a condition as theirs, the greatest faults are pardonable; for which of our reformers proposes to inculcate either moral or religious principles? Therefore the virtues they possess really seem miraculous. In order to know the lower classes, it is necessary to observe them closely, and to study them, and not allow ourselves to be led astray by the prejudices and false ideas which we may have imbibed from the speeches of interested persons and from books. Virtue, with them, is the more to be respected, because it is indigenous, like pure native gold. As for us, we are inoculated with it; it is preached to us, taught us from our infancy. It is very easy for us to be honest. Our own interest, our self-love, the aid which circumstances give us, the advantageous emulation with which the social struggle inspires us, our conception of duty,--all help to clear the way for us; and in spite of this, all are not virtuous, or at least as virtuous as they ought to be. It is not at all astonishing, therefore, considering all that we have on our side, and all that makes against the lower classes, that good, equitable, and strict judges have discerned more worth and virtue in the lower than in the higher classes, and have invited the fortunate ones of this world to follow the example which by a sort of miracle is presented by those who enjoy fewer comforts. We, who are in constant and active communication with our country people, do not hesitate to recognize that they are better by nature and by instinct than the people in other classes of society, than the people of other European races, especially the Western races. Let us examine, compare, and number their vices; and we shall be astonished to find still so much morality among a populace so miserable and entirely abandoned, who must have received the strength to be virtuous simply from the air which surrounds them, from the blood which flows in their veins. It is easy for us to understand and excuse their faults if we will only be just. Iermola was precisely one of those men, gifted with a marvellous instinct of virtue and feelings naturally affectionate and just, whose nobleness servitude had not been able to stifle, possessing a heart which coarse and imperfect civilization had not been able to make cold, and earnest moral strength which old age had not withered or destroyed. I can find no other word than "instinct" to express that rare and powerful faculty; and I would willingly admit, if I were writing a treatise on psychology, that by the side of the coarse, egotistical, material instinct exists a second one, noble, generous, sublime, different in every respect from the other, which elevates often to the highest plane of virtue the weakest and simplest natures. Those who possess it usually act contrary to their most evident interests; they listen only to their hearts, which never breathe the voice of violence and passion, but rather that of pure love, which longs for perfection, and action, which reveals the need of devotion and tenderness. The old man of whom we are speaking never had deplored the miseries of his useless and suffering life. He never had cursed his past; he neither scorned nor complained of men. He found a sufficiency in himself, suffered, was silent, and did not succumb, because he accepted everything with a humble and thankful spirit. No one ever saw him spare himself; he was always ready to help others, though he could do but little for himself. Every one knew him in the village; and strangers, as well as old friends, knew to whom to apply when they needed help or sympathy,--for poor old Iermola had nothing else to give. To watch and care for a sick person, to harvest a widow's field of barley, to take care of a houseful of children when the mother of the family was away, to collect herbs and recipes for curing wounds and diseases, were the things that Iermola knew how to do best, and that he did with most pleasure. People made use of him the more willingly because he would not accept any pay, and because he never drank brandy. Among the lower classes it is customary in such cases to recognize by some gift or other even the smallest service rendered; the good villagers would be offended if these slight marks of their gratitude should not be accepted. They therefore slipped into Iermola's hands a few presents which he took, lest he should wound his friends; some eggs, a little butter, a small loaf of bread, seemed to him more than sufficient return for his services. He bore no grudge against those of his old friends whom he had obliged, who in times of sickness and need had come to him for help, and afterward deserted and forgotten him. He never complained of their indifference, never called their neglect ingratitude or coldness of heart; he knew the villagers had but little time at their disposal in which to pay debts of affection or gratitude; that generally it was not the will which was wanting, but the possibility; and their indifference was often feigned and very frequently forced. It is necessary to know thoroughly their life of labour and weariness, to feel the effect of fatigue and its consequent lassitude, in order to comprehend it and not be surprised by it. And if with regard to matters of the heart Iermola was superior to his neighbours, in other respects he was still a child of the village, retaining its tastes, habits, inclinations, and prejudices. The day following that upon which the event we have related took place, nothing was talked of all over Popielnia but the baby found under the oaks by old Iermola, and the goat bought from Szmula,--for Chwedko boasted as much of this good bargain as he usually did of his famous mare. There were a thousand conjectures concerning the inexplicable appearance of the new-born baby,--an event the like of which was unheard of and unknown in the village; this miserable act was laid to the door, not of the peasants very naturally, for they would not have been able to commit such a deed, since they had no such habits, but rather to some unknown father and mother belonging to the nobility. Suspicions fell first upon one and then another neighbouring lord; but nothing confirmed them, and they contradicted each other. Effort was made to recall exactly everything which had taken place on the two previous days; unfortunately, the tracks of the person who had brought the baby and placed it in the garden had been entirely effaced. One of the villagers had indeed seen, about nightfall, a carriage driving rapidly away in the direction of Malyczki; but this proved to have been only the _briczka_ of the young secretary, who had been to pay a visit to Horpyna and her mother. Another remembered having seen, from a distance on the river shore, a man on horseback, holding under his arm a bundle wrapped in a white cloth; but he learned that it was the manager Hudny, who was taking a ride, and who, on account of the cold, had wrapped a towel round his neck. Marysia, the servant at the inn, also recalled the unknown Polesian who the previous evening had snored so loudly on one of the benches at the inn, and had disappeared when the cocks began to crow; but could he have slept so quietly if he had been the one who undertook to abandon to fate such an innocent creature? At the inn, in the fields, in the woods, on the river shore, everywhere, in fact, nothing was talked of but the foundling baby; but no person knew any more about the matter than another. All were, however, astonished at Iermola's determination and laughed at the old man, shrugging their shoulders. Meanwhile, in the good man's hut the cossack's widow was preparing a bath for the little one. As she was unwrapping it from the piece of coarse percale which was to be sent to the steward's wife, she examined the child more closely, and began to share the convictions of his adoptive father. The baby was surely the offspring of some noble family, he was so delicate, so fresh-looking, so charming. There was no mark on his clothing, but around his neck was a silk cord from which hung a small medal of gilded brass which Iermola supposed to be gold, and put carefully away. Because of this the two old people began to wonder if the baby had been baptized; and the widow told her neighbour that when there was any doubt on the subject, it was always prudent to have the infant sprinkled with the waters of holy baptism. That very evening the baby took the name of Irydion, which was that of the saint the church invokes on the day it was found. In the dialect of the lower class, this name assumes a Slavic sound, and is transformed into Radion or Radiwon; the little one was therefore called Radionek, as a sort of pet name. Iermola wept with joy as he took him in his arms and covered him with caresses, saying over and over a hundred times that at last he had a son, and that this son would make him so happy. Our good man got a little tipsy for the first time in his life, on the occasion of the baptism. He treated Chwedko and the widow to bountiful drinks, embraced them both, pressed their hands, and showered affectionate words upon them. As for the unfortunate goat, who regarded all these joyful demonstrations with angry eyes, he shook his fist at her threateningly. "Listen, wretched Jewess," said he to her, as he stood before her with flaming eyes and uplifted hand. "Listen, vile descendant of a horned and bearded race: if you are not gentle and obedient, if you are not willing to be an honest and affectionate nurse for this dear little baby, I will immediately find another to take your place. But as for you, I will cut you in two with a wood-saw, as truly as there is a God in heaven." To these menacing words the goat replied by stamping her feet, shaking and throwing her head up proudly, and all the people present burst into peals of laughter; but it was observed that from that time forth she conducted herself with much more gentleness and docility, as though Iermola's violent harangue had finally triumphed over her indomitable obstinacy. VIII. HAPPY DAYS. Such was the beginning of this self-imposed paternity; in spite of the difficulties at the outset, the good man was so successful that at the expiration of three months he had become perfectly acquainted with all the duties and requirements of his new occupation. The village people never tired of seeing the old man with the baby in his arms, walking with him in the fields or on the river shore; they would immediately surround the pair so strangely but so entirely united, and overwhelm Iermola with questions and the baby with caresses. What may not love, will, and patience overcome? The old goat, which had shown such obstinacy of character in the first days after her separation from Szmula at last grew so attached to her new master that she followed the old man and the baby everywhere. At first she ran away several times and went back to the inn. Szmula had even given secret orders to have her killed, intending to put her four quarters into the pot, but Iermola, divining his intentions even at that distance, gave the baby for a few moments to the widow, and found the goat concealed behind a pile of straw in the pig-sty; whereupon he, by his cries and threats, frightened Szmula so terribly that the Jew never again had any desire to face such an adversary. As a finishing stroke to his misfortunes, Szmula was obliged to bestow gratuitous drinks upon the village men who had been attracted to the inn by Iermola's cries and uproar, and whom he naturally wished to get rid of as soon as possible. Finally, the goat, well cared for and well fed, began to understand that she could henceforth expect no good from Szmula. She therefore regarded him with supreme indifference; and serving her new owner with fidelity, she would not even turn her head when she happened to pass by the inn. Consequently she became a great favourite with Iermola, the thing he loved best in the world, except the well-beloved baby, of course; and as the child jabbered to her constantly, and she was always with him, she became not only his nourisher, but almost his nurse. The baby knew well her black fierce eyes and her long beard, which he pulled with his little fingers; the Jewess would come at his slightest call and stand over his cradle with wonderful intelligence and precaution. She became, in fact, one of the family; and Iermola, rendering her full justice, was utterly astonished that he had not been able at first to recognize her excellent qualities. But the satisfaction which the old goat gave him--and he would not now have given her up at any price--was nothing in comparison with the infinite and ever-increasing joy the baby was to him, as he grew and developed day by day. Little Radionek had a peculiarly gentle disposition and uncommon strength and health, as is usually the case with poor little orphans. It seems as though God in His providence bestows earlier and more abundantly upon those who have no mother the faculties and forces necessary to existence. But however lovely and well-developed Radionek may have been, Iermola doubtless saw in him many more virtues and charms than he really possessed. The widow rallied him on the subject, but this did no good, and only irritated him; he called her wicked, jealous, and blind, and would go away, low-spirited, carrying his treasure with him. The old woman, however, was also sincerely attached to the child, who certainly owed much to her. Indeed, without her counsels and assistance, the adoptive father would have found it very difficult to acquit himself in his new, strange, and hard position. All his neighbours were good to him, and helped him in time of need, for the baby became the pet, the darling, and the wonder of the village. After several months of watchfulness and continual care, Iermola at last found time to ask himself what he would do in the future, and even spoke frequently of the projects he had formed for himself and the baby. Ah, he had so many dreams, and built so many castles in the air! First of all, he did not wish the child to be a simple villager; he desired for him a better condition and more brilliant and noble career. But the choice of a career seemed very difficult to him; for his dear Radionek everything seemed too humble and too pitiful. What he would have liked best would have been to buy an estate and see him some day manage it as he chose; but poor as they were, it was foolish even to think of that. He was of course obliged to think of something else. During his long seasons of thought Iermola reviewed a number of trades and different occupations; but he always found some fault with them. The shoemaker from sitting so constantly must have bent limbs and stooping shoulders; the miller was obliged to stand all day; the blacksmith was exposed to being burned by his hot fire; the mason was tired with carrying tiles and climbing ladders and suffering from the cold and the wind and the heat. Iermola did not wish to expose his dear child to any of these dangers and troubles. He always firmly intended to have his dear Radionek learn to read and write, but it was necessary to wait a few years before doing that; and the chorister in the church, the only man in the village who had dived into the mysteries of the alphabet, and who would have been able to take charge of his pupil's education, was already very old. If he should die, would his successor be as accommodating or as learned as he? This was a sadly perplexing subject for the old man. He conceived the idea of settling the matter by asking the chorister to teach him, so that when the time came he would be able to teach the child to read and write without any one's assistance. With this intention he bought a primer from a Jew pedler; and soon every day the old man might be seen with the baby in his arms and the goat following him, going along the one street of the village on his way to the farther end of it, where he took his daily lesson from old Andrej Prosforowiez. It was beautiful to see the old man perspiring and growing red in the face, studying and working over the pages of his primer, holding the baby with one hand, and with the other the iron needle which he used to point to his letters. One consoling idea sustained him through all this hard task. At least, in this way the old chorister, who was not very patient, would not be made to torment Radionek, whom he would doubtless have caused to pass some unhappy half-hours. Iermola knew very well that when he should undertake the task of paternal education, he would succeed by means of gentleness and perseverance in imparting all he knew to his child, without either trouble or contention. But truly it is no easy matter to undertake to learn the alphabet when one is almost sixty years old; to sit quietly with fixed attention for long hours; to keep eyes still which have been accustomed to wander freely; to take an interest in those black, irregular, and excessively small characters. It is an enormous undertaking, a real torment, which can be endured only by remarkable perseverance, will, and strength of affection. Iermola, indeed, groaned and was weary more than once; but he did not abandon the task which he had so bravely begun, and at last the time came when he could read. Fortunately, his sight was still good, which helped him very much in his work; and he found less difficulty, after all, than the chorister had feared. The old instructor received as his pay a half-roll of linen containing fifty yards, and very wide, which had been kept a long time, with a shiny silver rouble in addition. As for the care bestowed upon the baby, the old man acquitted himself as if he had been a foster-father all his life. The cradle was placed beside his bed; the goat slept in a corner near by. At the slightest sound from the baby, the father was on his feet to see what the innocent creature needed. He slept but little; but he never had needed a great deal of sleep. During the day he took the little one in his arms and wandered with him along the shore, in the woods, in the fields, under the oaks; and when he grew weary he sat down on the door-sill. This sight, which at first had appeared so strange and ridiculous to the villagers, at last seemed pleasant and interesting. They smiled at the orphan, and admired the perseverance and tenderness of the foster-father; and on Sundays, a few old companions came out to the ruined inn to see the baby and talk with their old neighbour. Iermola was charmed when he found himself surrounded by this little circle of friends, in whose presence he could show off the attractions of his darling pet; and by his earnest praise and repeated recitals he at last succeeded in persuading his neighbours that the pretty boy he had found promised to be really an extraordinary child. What was indeed very strange in all this was that in spite of his various cares and constant fatigue Iermola grew visibly younger. His figure was more erect than before, his step lighter, his countenance more smiling, fresh, and fair; work, want of sleep, and fatigue did not overcome him so much as hope soothed and strengthened him. It might really be said that from the moment when he had found a hope and an aim he had begun a new existence, a sweeter life. Nevertheless, his existence, as may well be imagined, was not a succession of joys and ever-renewed delights; the presence of the child, while sensibly increasing his wants and expenses, forced upon him a formidable undertaking, a constant labour, for henceforth he must supply not only the bread for to-day, but that for the morrow also. The poor usually require very little to satisfy their daily wants. Iermola was particularly temperate and sober; he could easily do without this or that thing when necessary, and he had never, up to the moment when, by God's providence, the new-comer had appeared in his cabin, suffered from hunger. He had indeed no certain income; but he never begged, and he managed, by doing his best, to pay very regularly a rent of twenty florins a year for his little garden and poor cottage. It is very hard for us, who have been accustomed to a better style of living, to understand how the poor can sustain themselves, and be content upon so little. Old Iermola had saved up during his long years of service only a few pieces of cloth, which he had laid by, one at a time, together with about twenty roubles and some worthless rags. He could have obtained for these enough to pay his rent in advance and buy his daily food; but if he had not added to this little sum by his daily earnings, it would soon have been exhausted. Iermola, it is true, spent very little upon himself, for he got his meals at first one place and then another in the village; the cossack's widow fed him oftenest, and was not willing to receive anything from him in return. Moreover, he was always content with a little bread and bacon and some potatoes; he took great care of his old clothes, which fortunately had not yet given out. But there was that dreadful rent, which had to be paid from the profits of his garden, which formed the sole income of the good man. This square bit of ground, surrounded by a paling of laths and situated close to the old house, was almost as large as an ordinary peasant's garden; besides this, there was, a few rods from the inn, about an acre of good land on which oaks and pines grew. There Iermola sowed some tobacco in the spots he thought most fertile; farther on he planted potatoes, cabbages at the end of his garden, beets, peas, and other vegetables in the rest of the enclosure. Sometimes his little crop turned out well, and then, besides getting from his garden all that he needed for his own subsistence, he sold enough to bring him the twenty florins necessary to pay his rent. At other times the vegetables were a failure; and the poor man was obliged to resort to other means of procuring the sum. Under such circumstances, the woods and the river were a great resource for the peasants; and as the inhabitants of Popielnia were not forbidden access to them, they all found there some means of existence. So long as Iermola had lived alone, he had engaged in fishing; for this purpose he stretched nets and set weirs. In fishing at night with a lance he was at times not unsuccessful, and he sold the fruit of his labour at the neighbouring _dwor_ or in the town. In addition to this, he gathered and dried mushrooms, which were a still more profitable commodity, as the price of them had for some time been going up. But after he had little Radionek almost constantly in his arms, these two employments became impossible. He could not leave the child alone, and spend the night fishing or pass the day in the woods. And meantime the expenses increased; the small supply of money had been used at first to buy the goat and several trifles the baby was obliged to have. It was necessary for the poor man to do something new. Formerly he had worked gratis in the fields of his friends and the poor; now his time became dear and precious to him. He resolved to work for hire. Soon he might be seen, like those women who at times when work is pressing join the reapers in the fields, starting out every day with the goat, the baby, three stakes, a basket, and a tent. He put the baby in the basket between two furrows under the shade of the piece of coarse linen, stretched on top of the stakes; the old goat watched the little one, and he meantime cut down, gathered, and bound the wheat. In this way he earned his food and about twenty coppers a day in addition; for it is rare that a labourer is paid more than that in Polesia. He had to work three days, and work hard too, in order to earn two florins, which elsewhere is given for sixty sheaves. He had to cut sixty sheaves of thin, scattering wheat, and stoop over them, sweating and breathless, then carry them; and they make them heavy in Polesia, although in order to form them, one has to gather the straws one by one. Often, returning to his deserted home from the distant harvest field, carrying the basket and the baby, the old man felt overcome with the weight of his years and the heat of the day, worn out and sleepy and almost sad; but one single glance at little Radionek, who was always smiling, sufficed to restore his strength, and the night's sleep refreshed him and prepared him for the next day's work. In fact, Iermola never had worked so hard or been so fatigued before; the villagers regarded with respect his perseverance, his earnestness, and his faithful devotion. Not daring to touch the gold found in the baby's clothes, because he considered it the orphan's property, he undertook to supply everything himself; and this became more and more difficult, for he scarcely had time to work his garden. He bravely devoted all his mornings and evenings to this work; the rest of the day he occupied himself in working in the fields. But the heart can conceive and work out miracles as soon as it is warmed and animated by a ray of affection. It is a unique and sovereign talisman. Without it everything is full of thorns, everything is difficult; with it all obstacles melt away, and dangers disappear. At the end of a few months of brave and constant effort, field labour began to be unsatisfactory to Iermola. The baby grew, and the earnings were very small; besides, the chorister had charged a rouble for his lessons, and God knows how much time the study-hours occupied each day. The poor man became at times very sad; then his one resource was to seek his old friend, the widow, to whose house he was in the habit of going for consolation and advice. He was always welcomed cordially and joyously there. The widow was perhaps a little sour and cross occasionally; but she was always really good and affectionate. When at his old friend's house, Iermola was never troublesome, never inconvenienced any one; on the contrary, he often made himself very useful,--for however weary or anxious he might be, if the widow asked him to her table, or even to warm himself by her fire, he felt obliged to cut up her wood, or go to the well for water, in fact, to take the place of old Chwedor, who usually took himself off to the inn for the evening, and could scarcely be moved from there, even if one drove him with a stick. The widow had a great deal of trouble with the drunken Chwedor, but it was a difficult matter to find servants in the village who were willing to live on a farm, the strong, hearty men greatly preferring to take their axes and go to work in the woods; she was compelled, therefore, to put up with this good-for-nothing creature, who, if he had not had the assistance of the young orphan servant, would scarcely have accomplished the feeding and caring for the cows. Chwedor was truly a singular being; he seemed to be two men in one. In the morning, before he had taken anything to drink, he was industrious, obedient, diligent, and silent,--he even sometimes did things of his own accord which his mistress had not commanded; but when he returned from the fields, although he had solemnly sworn never to drink again, he would scarcely have driven the cattle into the courtyard before he would suddenly disappear, and installing himself at the big table in the hall of the inn, would drink, swear, scream, and give himself up to the most noisy and ridiculous behaviour. With his cap pulled down over his ears, and his hands on his hips, he would grow excited, scream, swear, abuse the innkeeper, sing, dance, stick up his mustache, and strut about as though he were neither more nor less than a _waiwode_. On his return to the cottage he went regularly to bid his mistress good-night, and after that went to bed, still singing and swearing, then fell asleep and snored; and when he awoke in the morning, he was as pleasant and obedient as the previous evening he had been brutal and blustering. After having shirked the widow's service, using most abusive language to her, the evening before, he would be eager next morning to reinstate himself in her good graces by all sorts of kind attentions and ingenious devices. She herself had several times discharged him; but as it was almost impossible to procure another servant, and as Chwedor was thoroughly well acquainted with the duties of a farm, the noises and rows of the evening were invariably followed by reconciliation and peace in the morning. But in consequence of Chwedor, Iermola was particularly welcome at the widow's cottage whenever he came in the evening, first, because he helped a little, and then because she found in him a willing listener to whom she could relate all her gossip and make all her complaints. Horpyna also loved the old serving-man, especially for the sake of the baby, who always smiled for her so sweetly. One day as Iermola was returning late from the fields, having spent the whole day without being able to gather his task of sheaves from the scattering and ill-grown barley, his heart sad and anxious, and very weary from stooping so long, he turned in the direction of the widow's cottage. As soon as Horpyna saw him, she took the little boy in her arms and began to jump about the room with him; and the old man sat down by the fire and gazed at the flames dreamily. The sun had given him the headache; fatigue had stiffened and bent his back; the weight of the reaping-hook had bruised his wrinkled hands, although he had carefully wrapped the handle with a piece of coarse cloth. This temporary weakness, by which he was for the moment overcome, frightened him on the child's account and not on his own; he began to sigh heavily, and his old friend, as she busied herself with her cooking, understood very well that he was in need of counsel and comfort. "Now, you see, good man," said she to him, "I told you how it would be; when you took the baby, I knew you would not be able to raise it. But perhaps you are over-anxious and have been unfortunate today, for you sigh so sadly." "Yes, yes, it is true,--all true, neighbour. I realize now that I am no longer twenty years old; for when I return from the fields, I am good for nothing but to lie down in my grave, I am so sick and weary. But what is to be done? I must work or die of hunger. And Hudny would drive me out of my poor den if I did not give him his twenty florins at Michaelmas; and I must eat and take care of the baby. Think of it, I can earn only twenty coppers a day, and I have a broken back." "But I tell you now, as I have often told you before, that you must find some other means of earning your bread. You have spent your whole life seated by a table in an office, with little work to do, and suddenly you take a notion to handle the reaping-hook and the scythe just as those do who have been accustomed to it all their lives. Why do you not try to find some other sort of work?" "Because, really I do not know how to do anything else." "But you did not know how to read a while ago, and now you tell me you have learned. Can't you learn how to do something else?" "Do you think I could?" "Indeed?" answered the old woman, in that interrogative formula which often in the language of peasants takes the place of affirmation. "What?" "How do I know? Any sort of trade. You do not want for sense; you have seen and observed a great many things; you would learn much faster than any number of young giddy-heads." "I should not like the shoemaker's trade, though I sometimes mend shoes," replied Iermola, shaking his head with a thoughtful air. "There are plenty of tailors who come from Kolkiow with their measuring sticks on their shoulders; and no one would be willing to trust a piece of cloth to me, lest I should spoil it. As for cloak merchants, there are already three." "Yes, and there is not even one honest weaver, who would not steal a third of your package of warp," cried the widow. "The old man who steals least will keep you three months waiting for your roll of cloth; and if you pay any of them in advance, they will sell it to the Jews. I can truly say no one here really understands weaving, though it is a trade which pays well. Now, couldn't you undertake to learn it?" "But how about the weaving-room and the loom? How could I put it in my house? The room is small; the goat occupies one half of it, and the baby the other; all my furniture is already piled up one piece on top of another. It is impossible to think of such a thing. If you want to give me helping counsel, think of something else." "Bless me! I should have been very glad if you would have learned the weaver's trade, as I should then have been able to find some use for my thread, which is rotting here, and I do not know what to do with it." At this Iermola laughed, but he also sighed. "Ah! you are advising yourself, then, and not me. Think of something else, neighbour." "Can't you think of anything?" cried Horpyna. "I know of something. Haven't you told me that at the _dwor_, when you had nothing else to do, you used to amuse yourself by playing on the violin?" "Yes, that is so; I used to play sometimes all the evening." "Very well; why not be a musician?" "Pshaw, for shame!" cried Iermola, spitting on the ground. "It is not right, Horpyna, for you to give me such advice. Suppose I should take to drinking from playing at weddings and balls? And then how could I take the baby with me to all the inns?" "Ah! that is very true. I have advised you as my mother did. But why couldn't you leave the baby with us?" Iermola smiled and shook his head. Just at that moment the two large pots which the widow had on the fire knocked together; one of them, which was probably already cracked, burst wide open and broke in pieces. The boiling water dashed all over the fireplace, on the coals, and spilled upon the floor, and would have gone upon the widow's feet if she had not jumped aside. There was a moment of confusion. Horpyna gave the baby to the old man and ran to her mother's assistance; the widow began to cry; the servant screamed with fright; the half-cooked potatoes rolled upon the floor; the dog, which was asleep upon the door-sill, was startled, and began to bark loudly. Some minutes passed before order was restored. Fortunately, no harm was done, except to the pot, for the boiling water was all over the floor. The young girls set to work to pick up their supper; and the widow, having cursed the decrees of fate, seated herself on the bench to collect her wits. But when they came to put the potatoes again on the fire, and went to the loft for another pot, it was found that there was not another there so large as the one which had just been broken; and they were obliged to use in its stead two small ones which were like small pennies in comparison. "There never was such a pot as that," cried the widow, recommencing her mournful wail. "I remember perfectly the day I bought it. It was at the fair at Janowka. It was as white as milk, and so strong and solid. One might have cracked nuts on it. We came back home at night, that drunken Chwedor and I. As we were passing by Malyczki, he let the wagon run into a rut; Chwedor and I and everything that was in the wagon were thrown into a ditch. There were five pots and a sifter. 'Confound you and your brandy!' said I; and I began to grope about for the utensils. "The sifter was ruined,--the wagon-wheel had broken it in half; two of the smaller pots were broken all to pieces; but my big white pot had rolled two fathoms away down the road. I ran after it; it was perfectly whole, and had not even the slightest crack. I could scarcely believe my eyes. I have used it for two years, and I never shall find another like it. Ah, that is what we need,--some good potters. To get another set, I must wait till a pedler takes pity on us and comes this way. But as the roads are bad and the merchandise easily broken, they come seldom; and they cheat us--oh, the way they cheat us is a caution! Now there is Procope, the potter at Malyczki; he makes such indifferent, ugly black pots. They are really good for nothing but to hold ashes. He is compelled to go away to sell them because we know them so well; no one here would buy them. Suppose you learn to be a potter; what do you think of that? It is an honest and quiet trade, and it is not hard work." "Do you think I could?" said Iermola, shaking his head. "But who would teach me? And the clay? Is it good about here? And how could I build an oven? Besides, even supposing I could do all that, I should need a wagon and horse to carry my wares about; and suppose I should happen to upset them?" "Well, really, what is the matter with you to-day, old man?" cried the widow. "Everything seems disagreeable and difficult to you. I repeat to you your own proverb, 'It is not the saints who make the pots boil.'" At this, all present burst into a laugh; Iermola alone remained silent and thoughtful. Thus passed this memorable evening, which was to bear so many fruits; for although Iermola did not then make up his mind clearly, he nevertheless, on returning to his home, begin to think seriously what there was for him to do, and gradually he recovered hope and courage. "Since I have succeeded in learning to read," said he to himself at last,--"which is much the most difficult thing in the world,--I ought to be able also to learn a trade. I am old, it is true; but do arms and thought and will belong to youth alone? We shall see." IX. A VISIT TO THE DWOR. Next day the old man intrusted Radionek to the care of his friend Horpyna, and under some pretext or other started for Malyczki. A thousand projects were whirling in his head. The village was of medium size, surrounded by deep marshes and immense forests, built upon barren soil composed principally of sand and peat-moss. Nevertheless, the village was wealthy, for it was inhabited almost entirely by industrious mechanics. The peasants of this town were obliged to buy bread every year; the soil was like that of the district of Opoëzynsk, and perhaps even worse, and returned for one bushel of wheat sowed only sixty sheaves, which would scarcely yield a bushel of grain, making a gain of only the straw. They were therefore compelled to resort to other means of subsistence. They made charcoal; they sold bark; they dealt in staves, made tubs and casks, and turned out various other small household utensils; they constructed carriages and ploughs, or were carpenters, weavers, or clothiers; they even wove caps and red belts; and there was one potter among them. But this last trade was not very profitable, although the man made his living,--for his wares were considered of indifferent quality. As a general thing, potters rarely set up a business in a place where no one has previously worked at the trade; in most cases the ovens have descended from father to son for a considerable length of time. Formerly, in the ancient times, when the potter's art was more necessary, because it was called on to furnish the sacred urns used at the sacrifices, the qualities of the different clays were better understood, and also the degrees of heat in the kiln; the situations for manufactories were better chosen, and a better standard of work prevailed among the men of the trade. At the present time it is rare that any one attempts to build a kiln on a spot where no one has ever built before. Potteries are carried on just where they have been for ages, and the same clay is used which furnished the funeral urns of our ancestors. The last descendant of the potters of Malyczki had sunk pretty low in his profession as artist and also in the social scale; he drank, lounged about most of the time, and cared very little about the quality of his clay, and still less about the quality or the beauty of his wares. His pots gave forth no sound to the touch; they were black, ugly, and so easily broken that the people in the village never bought them except when in extreme need. But during his expeditions to places at a distance he managed to get rid of them; and in his neighbourhood he passed for a rich man, for he put on proud airs and indulged himself in everything. He ate bacon, drank brandy, wore a robe of lambskin with a collar of gray astrachan, a woollen cloak with a hood, and a big cap of black lambskin as high as that of any gentleman. He had never had a son, and only one daughter, recently married to the richest peasant in the village, to whom he had given such a handsome dowry that his neighbours could scarcely believe their eyes or their ears,--horses, cattle, three chests of clothing, and a cap full of silver roubles. Iermola knew all about these matters, for formerly, when he was in the service of his good master, there was frequent intercourse between the _dwor_ of Popielnia and the _dwor_ of Malyczki, and also between the two villages. Consequently, from the first the idea suggested by the widow had taken possession of his mind. He did not wish to reveal his designs at first lest he should be laughed at; and under pretext of some business common to village people, he set out for the _dwor_ of Malyczki. For many years there had lived in this _dwor_ a weak and decrepit old man, once a chief of squadron in the national cavalry, and an old friend of Iermola's good lord, whose name was Felicien Druzyna. He had once been rich, but had lived to see all his fortune melt away during the civil wars; and he had for a long time wandered about the world, travelling sometimes in the north and sometimes in the west. Finally he returned to Polesia, to live on the estate which was all that remained of his possessions. For several years his infirmities had so increased that he was now confined to his bed, and prayed for death, which seemed to refuse to put an end to his sufferings. Even the exterior of the house in which he lived in Malyczki showed that it had formerly been the seat of considerable wealth. It was old-fashioned, large, and gloomy, surrounded by an old garden, trellised in the French fashion of the time of Louis the Great; and there were large ponds, a chapel and a small bastion,--monuments left behind by the ancestors of the chief of squadron. But all these ancient beauties were falling to ruin; the revenue of one poor village was not sufficient to maintain so much splendor. The monotonous life of the old man brought out all his peculiarities. It may have been that he had naturally an ill temper; it may have been that the sorrows of his long life or the sufferings of his long illness had rendered him extremely irritable; but in his old age he had become unusually violent and passionate. His only son, who was about thirty years old, and a young relative of his wife, who assisted in taking care of him, could not leave him for a moment, and were condemned to a continual punishment by the constant whims and endless persecutions of this despotic old man. But in spite of his physical weakness, the chief of squadron retained such remarkable activity and vigour of mind that he still exercised the entire control of his affairs. He treated his son as a child of twelve years old, his ward as a servant, and held his servants in the harshest manner to the strictest performance of their duty. The keys of all the granaries, the cellars, and cupboards were brought to him every day after the distribution of necessary provisions, and were carefully placed by him under his pillow. When he ordered corporal punishment to be administered to his servants, he never prescribed less than fifty lashes; the oldest received a hundred in compliment to their age. Every one in the house trembled before him, and obeyed his slightest breath; and each one was obliged to be ready to account for the smallest trifle whenever he took it into his head to inquire about it. Thus the blind old man, irritated by the gloom of his life, and by its inaction, which was even more difficult for him to bear, endeavoured to distract his mind by ruling his house and family as strictly as possible and torturing every one by whom he was surrounded. Every one who came near him was compelled to serve him; no one had the right to live for himself. A skilfully organized system of constant watching produced continual quarrels and anxieties, which had become the chronic condition of this unfortunate household, where neither confidence, joy, nor liberty existed. Even the old man's son, Jan Druzyna, who was kept constantly beside the sick bed, was losing all joy, hope, and love of life. Nevertheless the old chief of squadron, so ill-natured and so harsh in his manners toward his own family, was to strangers particularly affable, kindly, and good-natured. He adopted one line of conduct for outsiders and quite another for the bosom of his family. He gave hearty welcome to the guests who sometimes visited him, was obliging to his neighbours, and compassionate to the poor. He spoke kindly to every one, smiled, often joked, and even rendered small services; consequently those who did not know him, and only saw him at such times, could scarcely believe the tales which were told of the old soldier's cross and tyrannical conduct. It is certain that the sufferings of disease, the long weary hours of blindness, the misery of sleepless nights, had all contributed to sour his disposition; but his heart had remained kind and sympathetic, though he had resolved to disguise the fact from others by such constant and unusual severity of manner. Moreover, the exaggerated ideas which he had conceived of military discipline, and of holding a firm hand upon the reins of domestic administration, had confirmed him in the practice of this fussy and incessant despotism. The young heir of the little domain and poor Marie, the far-off cousin, both nailed to the side of his bed or his easy-chair, passed days filled with bitter repinings. Their mutual attachment was their only comfort. The old man had in some way or other discovered the affection they bore each other,--these two young creatures so cruelly tried; he had even by persuasion and cunning induced them to confess it to him, but having done so, he at once forbade them under the severest penalties, even under penalty of his curse, ever to think of marrying. He, however, continued to keep them about him in the solitude of his home, not seeing the necessity of separating them, for he thought his word was all-powerful, and that no one would have the audacity to resist his commands. The young people consequently were forced to keep strict guard over themselves, and went on with their wearisome task with sorrow and tears, carefully concealing in the old man's presence their firm and constant affection. Some one was obliged to watch beside the old chief of squadron night and day, for he would have some one always by him, and generally preferred his son Jan or his ward Marie; and he rarely quitted his bed except to stretch his swollen limbs on the cushions of his big easy-chair, which was rolled around his chamber. He slept badly and with frequent interruptions. Usually he dozed until about ten o'clock, woke up about midnight, and slept again at daylight after he had taken his coffee; then until dinner-time he attended to his business, calling his son, his ward, and his servants by turns to his bedside. He would shut his eyes again for a moment after the midday meal, then rouse up again to worry, command, and torment his servants and entire family all the rest of the day till evening. The old officer took much less precaution in regard to his health than he ought to have done, considering his numerous infirmities; he drank brandy several times a day, ate tremendously, and paid no attention to the advice of the doctor, who constantly recommended temperance. Beside his easy-chair or bed were discussed the most important affairs with regard to improving the lands and the most minute details of the household economy. He consulted, contradicted, judged, and finally condemned. The old man divined everything, and remembered so perfectly everything that was said to him that nothing could be kept concealed from him, although he was blind and helpless. In former times, when he had good health, he was one of the best friends and most frequent visitors of the lord of Popielnia. Iermola at that time had seen him in private; and since then the old officer, out of respect for the memory of his friend, had sometimes assisted him. To his _dwor_, therefore, Iermola now directed his steps, relying upon the old officer's excellent judgment and the kindly interest which he had always manifested for him. All the inhabitants of the _dwor_ rejoiced at the unexpected visit, hoping it would have the effect of amusing the old officer, and so gain some respite for his slaves, or at least it would cheer him for the time, and force him to assume the affable and lively manner which he always had in reserve, not for his own family, but for his guests. In fact, when Druzyna was informed that Iermola wished to see him, he began at once to abuse everybody, ordering them to bring him in immediately, and also to bring some brandy and a good breakfast,--in a word, he found means to scold and torment half his household in a sudden overflow of friendly welcome for his guest. Then hearing a timid little cough coming from the doorway, he greeted the new-comer in a pleasant and good-humoured voice,-- "How do you do, old man? What is the news from Popielnia?" "Nothing, most gracious lord,--nothing but hunger and poverty." "And you,--what have you been doing? Has anything new happened at your house?" "Indeed, certainly," replied the old man, sighing; "something very new. Has my lord heard nothing about it?" "Why how in the devil could I know anything?" cried the old officer. "You see how I am, shut up here with ghosts like Lazarus; and as for these people here, they take special pains not to tell me anything which could interest or distract me,--they prefer to be silent or else sigh and complain. But what has happened?" "Oh, the strangest thing that I believe has ever been heard of within a hundred miles of us." "But what is it? Do not weary me, my brother." "Well, it is this; the good God has sent me a child." "What, the devil! have you been fool enough to get married?" "No, no, gracious lord." "Well, how then!" repeated the chief of squadron, contracting the gray brows upon his wrinkled forehead. "My lord does not comprehend at all?" "No; the devil! I do not comprehend at all; I am waiting for you to explain yourself more clearly." "Some time ago--it was in the month of April--some one came and left a baby near my cabin." "How? What? When?" exclaimed the chief of squadron, moving about anxiously. "It was in the month of April." "Come, go on; tell me quickly how it all happened." Iermola then related every detail of the story concerning the baby, the goat, all his hopes and anxieties; the difficulties he had encountered in earning enough money, in learning to read, and the necessity which was now upon him to undertake some trade. The old officer listened attentively; and what was still more strange, his son Jan, who had started toward the door as the old man entered, glad of an opportunity to get some fresh air, was so interested in what Iermola was telling that he stood motionless in the doorway to hear the end. "Truly, this is a strange thing!" cried the chief of squadron when the story was finished. "Unnatural parents abandon their child on the threshold of a poor cabin, and the Lord sends the orphan a father a hundred times better than the one Nature had bestowed. But my old friend, the blessing from Heaven comes to you rather late, it seems to me. Since the world began, no one ever heard of a man of your age taking it into his head to learn a trade and undertaking such rash business projects. How old are you?" Iermola knew perfectly well that he had lived sixty good long years, but he dared not confess it, lest the chief of squadron should discourage him still more or laugh at him; he therefore replied without hesitation,-- "What does that matter? As soon as the hair turns gray, one is old. But it is weakness and poverty which make us feel our years; and God knows the number of them." "Pshaw! pshaw! God knows, but man knows too; I can tell you pretty well how old you are," interrupted the chief of squadron, counting on his fingers. "You were six or seven years old when you were taken as shepherd boy at the _dwor_. I was not here then; but when I came to this country forty years ago, your late master told me you had then been living with him about seventeen years. So counting it all up, you are now past sixty, my brother." "That may be; but since I feel well and strong--" "Ah, that is a great blessing!" cried the chief of squadron. "You are not like me; I am wretched and infirm, tried sorely by God, despised by men, and cast down to the very earth itself, which should long since have swallowed me up." "Gracious lord, you ought not to speak so." "Come, come! we all know our own troubles. The ass must rub the place that hurts." "Well, then," said Iermola, slowly, "to go back to my story: in order to rear my little one, I shall be obliged to work for him and for myself. I am not very strong, and I get along slowly working in the fields. I would like to find some other means of living,--to learn some trade or other." "Why, you are crazy, my friend," cried Druzyna, laughing till he choked; "your apprenticeship would be a long one. And besides, how would you ever learn? You have now neither arms nor eyes nor strength." "I cannot, however, go and beg." "Bless me! of course you would not wish to do it." "No, I am not willing to do it, neither for the child nor for myself. I should be ashamed to go wandering up and down the roads with a sack. No, no! a hundred times no!" "Very good; but how will you be able to learn a trade at your age?" "Why, it seems to me that I should learn now more easily than when I was young. A man is more attentive at my age; he knows the usefulness of things, and is not so easily distracted; and then he likes to keep his hands occupied,--it soothes him." "Ah, my dear friend, you must be young indeed, to be able to speak in that way. Believe me, my good man, the young man has nothing in common with the old one. The old man has a different heart, a different body, a different head,--is another man, in fact, and a weaker and more unhappy one. As for you, you are fortunate indeed, if you can at your age feel the strength and courage to work." "Truly, it seems to me that since I have succeeded in learning to read I could also learn a trade." "Well, well, perhaps you can, but at least choose something easy," answered Druzyna, shaking his head. "Some one advised me to learn weaving; but I should not have enough money to buy a loom, and I should not know where to find a place to put it. My own room is so small." "Well, what are you thinking of doing?" "Why, to tell you the truth, I came here to beg Procope--" "Ah, ah! to make pots!" cried the chief of squadron. "Well, but if yours are no better than his, you will not make a fortune." "Perhaps if he will only show me how to begin, in the end I may do better than he; but Procope is jealous of his knowledge and proud of his trade; he would not be willing to teach me." "There is a way to remedy that difficulty," said the chief of squadron. "I will send for him and speak a few words to him. There are no secrets which he will refuse to share with you after he has received my orders." Iermola shook his head sadly. "What one is forced to do, one never does well," he said. "Well, see if he will do it of his own accord; and if you are not successful, I will come to your assistance." Then after a few moments, the old man sent Iermola off much more tranquil and comfortable, and ordered him to present himself again in the evening and inform him of the result of his interview with Procope. X. WHAT A STRONG WILL CAN ACCOMPLISH. On his way to the potter's house, which was situated on a little hill where one could see the bright kiln surrounded by freshly moulded pottery and shaded by an old pear-tree, Iermola gave himself up to thought. It seemed to him that at last he had hit upon a wise and happy idea. His wrinkled old face began to light up; he rubbed his hands and walked on toward Procope's cabin with a firmer and lighter step. The potter of Malyczki, after having married off his daughter, had established himself, with a very young servant and a little apprentice, in this cottage then vacant, where he for the greater part of his time led the idle life of a village epicurean. Generally he did but little work, for he relied upon the half-rusty roubles which he had earned in his youth; he was seldom seen seated at his wheel or busy with his kiln, but could be found frequently at the inn, or seated at his own table before a well-supplied plate and a brimming goblet which his servant had just brought to him. Iermola therefore found the man he was seeking, at table, in front of a pint of brandy and a great bowl of fresh milk thick with cream. Procope's hair was quite gray, but he was still erect and vigorous. He was a peasant of tall and massive figure, with broad shoulders, strong as an oak, and had a white beard which reached to his girdle. One glance at him was sufficient to tell that he had strength to struggle with a bear. When he was tipsy at the inn, every one was afraid of him; for he would shake the village boys with his long arms as though he were shaking a pear-tree to make the pears fall off. He could put his broad shoulders to the axle and move a loaded wagon; and with one hand he could lift a bag of wheat as easily as any one else would a handful of straw. The potter wore a pair of well-tarred leather boots, large white pantaloons, cut after the cossack fashion, and a shirt of gray cloth, fastened at the neck by a large red button, and lower down by a broad belt of the same colour, and was stirring his spoon in his porringer while watching the servant, who was seated in front of him, showing her white teeth and covering her face with her hands as she laughed. At this moment Iermola appeared in the doorway, and saluted the inhabitants of the potter's house in the following pious fashion,-- "Slawa Bohn! Glory to God!" The two old men had long known each other; and besides, Procope was generally pleasant and hospitable to every one so long as he was not intoxicated; when he was, he was terrible. But just then he was perfectly sober, and he immediately rose from his table. The servant disappeared, and the two men embraced each other cordially. "Well, what is it that the Lord God sends you to say to us?" was the potter's first remark. "You will drink one good glass, won't you?" "I will take one glass," said Iermola, "though it is not my custom to drink at all." "Ah, ah! a good drink of brandy never did anybody any harm. After that, we will talk over your business, if you have any." "Ah, yes! I have something very important to talk about," replied the new-comer; "but it is a long story." "Then begin at once." "Wait a while, till I recover my breath." "As long as you like." As he spoke, the servant reappeared; she removed the bowl and spoon, leaving the brandy on the table. The two old men began by complaining of the weather and the high prices of provisions. Procope lamented considerably over the inconveniences of his trade; and gradually they conversed with frank cordiality. "You must know," said Iermola, suddenly, not without much internal agitation, "that I am myself the son of a potter. From time immemorial my ancestors owned kilns and made pottery." "Ah, indeed! really?" answered Procope, with visible astonishment. "Yes, truly, as I have told you; but my father and mother died when I was quite an infant, and I can barely remember the fact that they worked in pottery. But to-day there is still in our old garden a fine potter's kiln, which is overgrown with grass. As for my paternal property, it has passed into other hands." "But never in the world was there a potter found among the people of Popielnia." "My father was from Wolhynia, and he lived only a very short time after coming here." "Ah! that is a different matter," replied the potter, slowly sipping his brandy. "And, you see, in my old age, I have taken it into my head to take up my old trade again," stammered Iermola, blushing and looking down. Procope stared at him, then began rubbing his head and speaking in broken sentences. "You want to take the bread out of my mouth, you wicked old man," he muttered in a menacing tone. "Only listen to me," continued Iermola, much agitated; "instead of injuring your trade, perhaps it may be that I can help you to gain something. Do not be frightened without reason." "All right, let me hear; tell me." "You have no son; your daughter is married; and you have laid by a nice little pile of money. It seems to me that it is high time for you to take some rest. The clay you find about here is good for nothing. You are obliged to go a long distance to sell your pottery, for no one will buy it here; the quality is too poor." "Come, come! look out; mind what you are saying," growled the angry potter, striking the table with his fist. "Do not be angry, Procope; remember that I can do nothing without your assistance." "You want to rob me." "Not at all; you will see that my plan will bring you quite a neat little income." "All right, let me hear it, then; and the devil take you!" "Well, it is this: if you would only just help me a little at first, I am sure I could succeed; it seems to me that it runs in the blood to do it. Let us build, in partnership, a kiln at Popielnia. We will both attend to the firing of the pottery; and as a compensation for your trouble, half of my profits shall belong to you as long as you live, and you need do nothing all day long but lie down with your feet in the sun and your head in the shade." At this Procope shook his head gravely. "That would not be a bad thing; but who will go security for you?" "Your lord." "The old officer, the wicked old scoundrel?" cried Procope. "Yes, he himself; he has seen and pitied the trying situation in which I am placed in my old age, and has advised me to do this to remedy it." Procope was confounded, and for a moment made no reply. He looked puzzled, and pulled his beard. "Is it really the chief of squadron who advises you to do this? What does he know about the business? You all seem to think that it is as easy to turn pots as to plough a furrow, and that one can light a kiln as easily as he can make soup. Now, I have worked at making pottery all my life, and still I do not always succeed." "Because you do not take the trouble to do it. You have money enough, food, and a cottage; why should you worry yourself when there is no need of it?" "That is true enough; but do you really believe, my old friend, that you can learn easily? Mind, I tell you that this thing needs a young head." "Only try me; your lord will be pleased if you will." "The devil take him with his lord!" muttered Procope. "Do you suppose the lord cares for the needs of one man?" "But suppose we should find at Popielnia some good clay for making white pottery? You only make dark things which are ugly and good for nothing." At these words, Procope rose up in a perfect rage, his fists clinched and his eyes bloodshot. "They are good for nothing?" he cried in a voice like thunder. "Just wait till I get hold of you, old scoundrel, and you will see that your lord himself will not be able to help you." "And will you be any better off after you have killed an orphan child and a poor old man?" answered Iermola, humbly, looking down. His gentleness and submission disarmed the old potter; and he began to smile. "What orphan are you talking about?" said he. "Ah! so you know nothing about it all?" "Nothing at all; I have been travelling for a long time. Tell me about the orphan." Then the old man, quite satisfied with having appeased the terrible potter, who, though violent and passionate, was really good-hearted, set to work to narrate his adventure, without omitting the least incident or smallest detail, as peasants always do when they tell a story; and fortunately he succeeded in telling it in such a way as to interest and touch Procope. The old potter called his servant that she might hear it also; and thanks to Iermola's touching recital, a whole hour passed without their knowledge. True feeling called forth true feeling; and pity arose in their hearts. Procope continued to swear and grumble, now, however, no longer at his visitor, but at those unworthy, miserable, wretched creatures who had been so hard-hearted as to abandon a poor child to all the chances of fate and the miseries of an orphan's life. Iermola's situation consequently interested him and excited his pity; perhaps also the remembrance of the dreaded lord, so well known to all his serfs, contributed to increase this favourable impression. To make a long story short, when the little company rose from the table, after having talked for several hours, the potter promised Iermola to come to Popielnia the next day to see the child and look for clay. Having obtained this promise, which was sealed in a good bumper of brandy, Iermola returned to the _dwor_ to inform his protector of the fortunate result of his day's visit; then hastening through the woods by an unfrequented path, he reached Popielnia, anxious about his little charge and fearful lest Horpyna had hindered him from sleeping by too much petting, or made him sick by stuffing him with sweets. Tired and dusty, his lips parched, his brow damp with perspiration, full of anxiety concerning the next day's interview with Procope, and trembling lest he had entertained vain hopes and lost precious time, Iermola at last reached the widow's cabin. He immediately seized his dear little Radionek and devoured him with kisses as though he had not seen him for a year; then not desiring to confess to his neighbour the proceedings of the day, he hastened to return to his own cabin. The next morning he was up at daybreak. He was obliged again to intrust the baby to Horpyna, for it would have been impossible to hold him in his arms as he wandered about the vicinity with Procope; then he busied himself sweeping and arranging his cabin, putting out a flask of brandy, and roasting in his oven a good-sized piece of meat for Procope's dinner, knowing he would not be content with a little, for he was accustomed to living very abundantly. The potter of Malyczki kept his promise faithfully; about eight o'clock in the morning his little one-horse carriage stopped before the old inn. They put up the mare as well as possible in a half-fallen angle of the wall, and then, as Procope, after having taken two or three drinks of brandy, asked to go first to see the baby, they immediately repaired to the widow's cabin. They were probably expected, judging from the sumptuous reception which was offered them. The old woman, anxious to second Iermola's efforts, and urged on by her vanity to appear liberal and magnificent in the presence of her guest, had prepared an excellent soup of oatmeal and gruel, a large dish of sausages,--the favourite meat of the inhabitants of Popielnia,--and also a large and appetizing omelet, which greatly added to the luxury of the reception, and at the same time gave the potter a great idea of the widow's opulence. Consequently the old artisan, overflowing with good-humour, thought the baby pretty, interesting, and good; it is true that Iermola expatiated upon all his virtues and precocious characteristics. At last, a little later, as the poor foster-father was burning with impatience, the two men left the cabin to go off on their search for potter's clay, though Procope separated himself with evident regret from the dishes and bottles, and would gladly have deferred the expedition to another time. Iermola sent up fervent prayers to God from the very bottom of his heart, imploring Him to point out to him some good clay; for to tell the truth, he had not the least idea where to go to look for any, and had scarcely any hope of finding it. He, however, comforted himself by saying that Providence often accomplished more than men dared hope for. Having always heard that oak-trees grow best in clay soil, and knowing that the peasants went to look at the foot of the trees around his garden, in the very place where the baby had been put, for the clay which they used to repair their cabins, he resolved, guided by some vague instinct, to go first to that spot. The two men took from Iermola's cabin a large strong spade, and went together down the little slope which led to the bottom of the garden. Procope, in order to appear important, walked slowly, with both hands stuck through his belt. "Why, there is nothing here but pure sand," said the old potter at first. "The clay, if there is any, must be underneath it; and who knows if it is good for anything? It seems to me we had better look somewhere else." They went on a few steps farther, and when they came to the big oak, which Iermola had christened Radionek's tree, the old man took a notion to dig in that place. Procope, who, naturally listless, disliked exertion, seated himself quietly on the ground; and Iermola, spitting upon his hands, went bravely to work. The first spadefuls of earth he threw up were absolutely worthless; it was only white sand, then gray sand, then yellow sand, then gravel. Suddenly the spade encountered something heavier, more compact, and offering greater resistance; and digging down, Iermola found some clay. But this clay would not do: it was yellow and full of small pebbles; it was thoroughly mixed with sand and gravel. Iermola offered a sample of it to Procope on the spade, but he contented himself with giving it a scornful glance and shrugging his shoulders. "Dig deeper; dig somewhere else," he growled, red and breathless from the effect of his recent good cheer; "and--see here, give me your pipe." Iermola at that moment would have given not only his pipe, but even his last shirt, to conciliate the good graces of the old potter; so quickly taking his clay pipe, which was already lighted, from his lips, he handed it to his companion, and bending down, he silently went to work again with his spade. At the bottom of this layer of clay another appeared, thicker and deeper, but Procope was not satisfied with that; it was not the real potter's clay. Underneath the third layer suddenly appeared a sort of green earth, very curious-looking, dense and compact as stone, of a dirty cloud-colour and filled with fawn-coloured veins. As he saw this strange, disgusting-looking earth, Iermola felt cold in his very heart; he threw down his last spadeful of earth with a jerk, and almost breathless, leaned upon his spade. At that moment Procope's eye caught sight of a few pieces of earth which rolled to his feet; his face lighted; he stooped, took a bit of it in his fingers, mashed it and cracked it with his teeth. "Oh, ho!" he cried, in a transport of delight, "You surely knew about this bed of clay. Do you know what sort of earth this is? Why, it is a kind of potter's clay which never has been found within twenty leagues around; there is none known of nearer than Wlodzimiez. Ah, you old raven, old rogue! I did not know you were so designing," continued Procope, letting fall his pipe. Iermola was struck dumb with astonishment at these words; but he comprehended the necessity of appearing to have acted knowingly, while in reality the hand of Providence alone had led him. He smiled mysteriously and shook his head. "And is the bed deep? Dig a little farther and see," said the potter. "When I say that there is not such clay within twenty leagues from here, so tender and strong, and as fat to eat as butter-- Unless you go to Wlodzimiez-- Oh, such pots as we shall bake! Such pots!" They both then began to dig, and soon discovered a thick and abundant bed of clay. True, they again came upon some veins of whiter earth, mixed with gravel and sand; but these slight layers soon disappeared, and the precious clay, thick and greenish, was there alone, rich and inexhaustible. They carried some of it away with them in an old cloak,--a good big lump which they wanted to try; and having drunk several bumpers to finish up the affair, Procope remounted his carriage and took the road to Malyczki. Thus it was that the discovery was made at Popielnia of clay, the existence of which had until then never been suspected. That very evening the future potter, the first of all the potters who have rendered the village famous, knelt down in his chamber after Procope's departure, his eyes wet with tears of joy, and prayed fervently. "The child will have bread!" he cried, perfectly wild with delight. "I thank Thee, my God! Thou hast heard my prayer. The child will have bread!" XI. A POTTERY AT POPIELNIA. "The Lord God feeds and clothes his servants," says the Slavic proverb; and the servants of God are men of kindly hearts, throughout whose lives the guiding hand and love of God is as clearly seen as in the destiny of the children of darkness may be traced the result of sin and evil. This world is so wisely regulated and so skilfully directed that all the good done here bears good fruit by reason of natural causes; while evil carries with it not only its punishment, but in addition the principles and germs of evil. Often the inevitable results of these two great causes are for a time invisible to the eyes of men; a day comes, however, when one sees appear upon the surface what has been fermenting in the vast depths. Often too the great results of good and evil, done here below, are not made manifest in this world; the justice of God, hindering us from seeing them, allows us only to have a presentiment of them. There is one thing certain,--that wherever in this life one meets with faith, love, and devotion, he can be sure also of finding peace of mind and heart, superhuman strength and power. There is in this world nothing like this for directing the will and making it a power. Love has insight, spiritual presentiments, an innate intelligence, an instinctive knowledge, which amount to infallibility. Wherever love is found, and under whatever form it appears, when one meets it, one recognizes his king. The animal, raised and animated by love, becomes human. Maternal tenderness, devotion, and fidelity ennoble it. There is nothing sadder in this world, nothing more repulsive, than a life blasted by selfishness and hatred, by the voluntary separation of one being from the duties and interests of others. The world is framed and bound together by this great tie of love, which makes it one, entire and lasting; and the heart in which no love exists is excluded from the family of God. Love had sufficed to transform, to strengthen, to rejuvenate Iermola, this weak and poor old man; it had come to the brink of the tomb to give him a new life and to give him more strength than he had had in his youth. You ask me perhaps why I have chosen a being so small and so weak as the representative of a feeling so sublime and generous. But he who has love in his heart is never either small or weak. As for the rest, I shall here repeat the Latin axiom, _Natura maxime miranda in minimis_. This truth was not made to be perceived only by the microscopic world of learned men and naturalists; in the moral world there are very many opportunities to apply it. But to return to the moment when that fine potter's clay was found at Popielnia,--a great event in the life of our old man,--everything came to him abundantly and without trouble; everything appeared easy to him, although neither the village people nor strangers could understand how an old and almost decrepit man had been able to learn a trade of which until then he had been entirely ignorant. But with man, will is everything; and when a powerful feeling directs it, to what elevated aim may not the two attain? The clay was tried at Malyczki, where Procope's pottery kiln was all ready for use; and when Procope had turned a couple of pots out of the new clay, after marking them, he put them in among his others. As soon as the kiln was cold, they hastened to take out the pots and examine them, and found two which were white, pretty, light, and resonant, quite different from those made of the Malyczki clay; the sight of them alone threw Procope and all who were present into ecstasies of delight. Neither of them had cracked during the firing, and when they were both taken to Popielnia and put in the widow's cottage, every one in the village came to see the wonderful things; and Iermola, perfectly beside himself, hugged the two jugs and wept. After this it was easy enough to come to an understanding with Procope with regard to the apprenticeship to the trade, the construction of the kiln, setting up the wheel, and other necessary implements; the most difficult part of the business was conciliating the terrible steward Hudny, whose permission was indispensable before digging the clay or building the kiln in the garden. Fortunately, the steward's wife proposed to make something by this new industry. One of the new pots was given her to try; and after that Hudny put no more insurmountable obstacles in the way of the manufacturers. Not being willing, however, to depart from his long-established custom, he gave Iermola to understand that he would be obliged to pay him cash if he expected to obtain permission to work at his trade. So many obligations, so many necessary expenses now overwhelmed the future potter,--who was still unacquainted with his future trade,--that he scarcely knew how he should be able to undertake it. Procope was not willing to give him his time for nothing; the establishment, the tiles, the different instruments, and the digging of the clay were all sources of expense. The poor man's room was now too small; he had to repair, as well as he could, another one, which was next to it. All these preparations caused much loss of time; and the little supply of money was diminished and exhausted with frightful rapidity. So before the poor man could be in a condition to make anything by his new business, he was compelled to go considerably into debt. Once he thought of using Radionek's money, which he had put away so carefully; but he could not make up his mind to resort to that means. He feared, moreover, and not without reason, lest he should be annoyed by disagreeable conjectures, and exposed perhaps to painful persecutions, if he chanced to allow even one ducat to be seen in his hands. Fortunately, the widow, while she scratched her ear and shook her head, decided from time to time to open one of her sacks in order to help her old friend, for she was sincerely attached to him as well as to Radionek, the beautiful adopted child. Nevertheless, as the expenses increased, she grew more and more afraid that the whole pottery business would be a failure; and she frequently reproached herself for having encouraged the old man to choose that trade. Procope, whom the old chief of squadron had ordered into his presence, telling him in plain terms that he expected Iermola's business to be successful, had set himself bravely to work, hoping, however, secretly to derive considerable profit for himself. As for Mr. Steward Hudny, Iermola paid him twenty florins for permission to dig clay and build a kiln. Then he was obliged to hire two workmen to fit up and plaster another room. A fortnight from that time old Iermola hauled, mixed, and prepared the clay, turned and dried his pots, and was at last ready to fire the first pottery which had ever been manufactured in Popielnia. Procope undertook to watch the fire; and the first burning succeeded so well that on the whole there were very few pots injured. Then when all the pots had been carried in and ranged round the room, the eyes of the two old men sparkled with delight, their handiwork looked so good and so pretty, was so resonant, so round, and so neat, and promised to be so good and solid. The pots stood the second firing splendidly, and as novelties are the rage even in a village, at the expiration of a few days they were all sold out,--not one jug or dish was left. The profits of the sales, it is true, were not sufficient to pay off all the debts; but the cossack's widow received a part of what was due her, the old man kept some for himself, Procope made a feast with the portion which came to him, the steward's wife pocketed her share, and Iermola, justly proud, entertained brilliant hopes for the future. In the midst of all these worries Iermola never lost sight of little Radionek, and always kept him in his arms as much as possible. The child gave less trouble every day; one could almost see him grow. His intelligence developed; and it was evident already that he would one day be a charming frolicsome child. In his busiest moments Iermola intrusted him to Horpyna, who was always glad to have him; but he never allowed him to spend the night under a strange roof, for he was too lonely without him. When the baby was away, the poor goat did not know what to do with herself. If she stayed with the baby, she missed the old man; if she followed Iermola, she would bleat sadly as if calling for Radionek. Fortunately, the first hours spent in the stupid lessons of his apprenticeship passed so rapidly that Iermola became convinced of the truth of the proverb, "It is not the saints who make the pots boil." Thanks to his quick mind, he learned rapidly the first principles of his art; but the turning and sizing of pots, the manipulation and preparation of the clay, were far more easy to comprehend than the manner of arranging the pottery in the kiln and managing the fire. The care necessary to keep the fire moderate, to prevent its going out, and to extinguish it at the proper time, so that the pots should not be burned too much, was the greatest difficulty of all for him,--a difficulty which could only be overcome by long habit and experience. Procope, who was anxious to make himself very necessary to the old man, only half revealed to him the secrets of his art, which in great measure Iermola was therefore obliged to guess at, and only learned the truth after long groping in the dark. His strong and tenacious will enabled him to concentrate all the faculties of his mind on this one object; and this was a great help to him. By the time the winter was over, and spring once more clothed in verdure and flooded with water the shores of the river Horyn, when the mariners again appeared on its banks with their rafts, Iermola had really, in every sense of the word, become a potter; his whole stock of pottery was sold at once to the carpenters and woodcutters in the forest. They literally grabbed for them; and the steward's wife was seriously angry because none were left for her, and the old man was obliged to give up even the small dishes he had kept for himself. Meantime little Radionek grew and developed every day, and possessed every grace and beauty which were necessary to delight a father's heart. He already began to call Iermola by that dear name, and this brought the tears to the old man's eyes; the child was learning to walk alone, and no longer needed the old goat, for he could now manage to eat a crust of bread, and the good Jewess was only needed to amuse him. At the end of the year a little kid was added to the family; Iermola was not vexed at this, although he was sometimes much displeased to see that the Jewess bestowed her attention upon her young offspring to the neglect of his adopted son. Radionek played with his innocent, frolicsome little brother in such a pretty, sportive fashion that the old man, as he watched them, often held his sides for laughter, and this furnished him excellent reasons for going and embracing his child and being grateful to the kid. Thus into this solitary ruin, which a year before had been dreary and almost deserted, hope, joy, and life had entered with the foundling child. One would scarcely have recognized Iermola, he seemed so much younger, and was so active, contented, and clever. The portion of the inn which he inhabited had been repaired and carefully covered, and another room furnished next his; the garden where the kiln stood was shut in by a small, very solid gate and by carefully trimmed hedges; it was evident that the good man was gradually acquiring comfort and competency. Iermola had employed a servant to help him and to take care of the goats; he was a little orphan about ten years old named Huluk. It was impossible for Iermola to do everything by himself; and now he had enough to pay for the child's services. He really needed a woman in the cabin; but the widow came often and overlooked the household. Besides, his bread was baked, and his linen washed and mended at her house; and it was she also who prepared most of his dishes and undertook to make provision for the winter. Every time that Iermola boasted to her of the results of his trade, she reminded him of her broken pot, which had first suggested the idea to him; and there is no telling how many times she told the story over, and commented on the accident. Providence had also granted her what she desired most; for her Horpyna had at last made a very brilliant marriage. The young secretary who had for so long been attentive to Horpyna and made her frequent visits, after much hesitation, reflection, and a great struggle with his feelings, had concluded to listen only to the voice of his heart and asked her mother's consent to their marriage. This was not exactly the person the widow would have chosen, though her daughter was marrying an officer and making a brilliant match. She would have greatly preferred that she should have married a rich peasant, a farmer, who would probably have lived near her. But the young man would not hear of such a plan; he was preparing himself to be a surveyor, and was ambitious. The widow therefore was obliged to give up her daughter, and live alone at Popielnia on the small estate which the old lord had given her. The wedding was very elegant; and the next day after, when the young man, impatient to be settled in his own house, had carried off his bride, the widow, not being able to remain all alone in her deserted cottage, where everything reminded her of her daughter, went and spent the whole day with her friend Iermola. From that time she rarely passed a day without going to his house, for she could talk freely with him about her dear Horpyna, of her utter loneliness and her sad old age; and as Radionek at such times touched her heart and distracted her mind, she gradually became very fond of him. XII. PATERNAL HAPPINESS. We now pass over an interval of ten years before we again seek the child and old man whom we left growing and working, and dreaming hopefully of the future. Everything in the neighbourhood had changed very much, and nothing more than Radionek, whom no one would have recognized, he had grown so tall and handsome. The peasants, whose children, early accustomed to rough work, grow slowly and seem with difficulty to get away from the earth, looked upon Iermola's adopted son with astonishment, and shook their heads, saying that he must owe all his strength, elegance, and beauty to the vigorous blood and strong constitution which he inherited by birth. None of his little companions in the village could be compared to him; and it was certain that none of them had such a father as his, or had been, like him, surrounded from the cradle by constant care and tender love. Radionek's appearance attracted every one at once; his features were fine and remarkably regular, his face rather too oval, his nose straight, his mouth small and expressive, his eyes brown and full of fire and life, and his whole countenance full of pride and happiness, sensibility and strength. His hair was cut close above his forehead after the Polesian fashion, thus revealing still more the nobility of his expression by exposing his brow; his beautiful, fine long hair, which had been allowed to grow on the back of his head, fell in golden curls upon his shoulders. Seeing the elegance of his vigorous and supple body, one could scarcely believe that he had been deprived of his natural nourishment when an infant. The breadth of his shoulders foretold a figure of unusual height and strength; the simplicity of his education, which had early accustomed him to rough work, inconveniences of all sorts, and the inclemency of the seasons, had gifted him with the agility, vigour, and elasticity of a young wild animal. The expression of Radionek's eyes betokened a bright clear mind; he had a firm, frank glance, as though he knew nothing about the struggles and burdens of life, or at least, if he knew of them, did not fear them. The child, young and full of curiosity, lively and tender, animated by pure and ardent sentiments, owed his amiable qualities and his uncommon development to the affectionate heart and tender love of his excellent father. Thus it is that the love of one being is shed upon all who surround him, elevates and ennobles them, and bestows upon them intelligence and strength,--unique and precious gifts which no other power on earth can bring them. Radionek, who felt himself surrounded by Iermola's care and protection, and who from his infancy had seen about him only what was cordial and tender, was accustomed to sweet sentiments, and had imbibed them; he loved all things,--and loving, he was happy. All the inhabitants of the village considered him their nursling; and with the exception of the steward Hudny, who was still at Popielnia, though each year he made preparations to take a large farm, there was not a single person who did not take great pleasure in welcoming and petting the little boy. In all their plays, in all their undertakings, the children of the village, both girls and boys, obeyed the slightest sign from Radionek; and although he was a little better clothed and was handsomer than any of them, and though he knew more than they did, he never took advantage of his superiority, or even overestimated it. He was pleasant and affable to all, and never wounded any one. It is rare that any real father ever watches over and teaches his child as Iermola watched over and taught Radionek. During his earliest years, he had cared for his body; later, when his ears and his eyes were opened, he began to awaken his soul and to prepare him for the struggles of life. The instinct of affection had in this respect guided him marvellously; and thus was wrought imperceptibly one of the miracles of life. The master learned and developed along with his pupil. Will had enlarged and softened his heart; feeling had elevated and enlightened his mind. In seeking for the true and the good for his child, Iermola had found them for himself; the chilled, sleeping, half-dead seed had produced fruit, late, but excellent and fine. The old man, wishing to instruct the child, had been obliged first to learn himself; he had studied, compared, reflected, meditated, prayed, and he had finally learned by the power of love what is rarely accomplished by wit and reason. He knew but little, it is true; but that little was a great deal. The child knew how to read, and read no book but the Bible. Here it was that he found nourishment, from the healthful source of life. Besides, the old man, who feared constantly that he might die and leave Radionek entirely orphaned, had taken care to teach him his trade as soon as he had acquired some skill and quickness, and to make him fully acquainted with all the little secrets of his daily work, the knowledge of which gives a man independence and teaches him to depend upon himself. Our peasants are still in that stage of barbarism which belongs to half-civilized people, and which gives them a certain superiority over civilized races, enabling them to supply all their own wants. Even a very young villager knows how to do a great many things. Every day he is obliged to try his skill in some way; he is at once farm-hand, carpenter, miller, architect, mason, dyer, weaver, and in almost any case of urgent necessity he easily succeeds in doing what is needed. Among people living in a state of higher civilization and bound together by joint responsibility, the case is quite different. Such a mode of living reduces them to real inferiority; the English emigrants who settle as colonists in new countries almost all succumb to the difficulties of a life which is unendurable to them. Not only in large cities, but even in the villages, the necessaries of life can all be bought ready-made, and consequently each one knows only one trade; all necessities can be obtained by exchange. It is true that in this way each particular article is skilfully manufactured and sold cheaply, and a profit is made by exchange. We cannot, however, recognize as healthy and beneficial the result of civilization in the exclusive employment of the faculties of man, which in time transforms him into a sort of machine, and if he is thrown out of his place, in the end renders him useless, as a wheel cast from the axle. This evil is only the fatal consequence of the imprudent and excessive division of labour, which offers great advantages doubtless, but which, carried to an extreme, presents great dangers. In this respect our nation is not yet subject to the prejudices which in the West exercise such a baleful influence. Iermola, like every peasant of his time, knew therefore a great many things which he had learned in the business and events of ordinary life; and if he did not place these things in the honourable rank of attainments, they nevertheless constituted for him an inestimable treasure. A potter by trade, and a very skilful potter, he was at the same time a tolerable fisherman, having learned, at first for his own amusement, to use the netting-needle and to set weirs. He used the axe skilfully, was not unacquainted with the different sorts of work necessary in a mill, was an excellent teamster, and knew a great many things in connection with out-of-door work which are usually known only by regular farm-hands. While the child, during these ten years, had grown wonderfully and become much handsomer, our good Iermola had grown very little older; there was scarcely any noticeable change in his appearance. He stooped perhaps a little more; and sometimes his limbs were stiffer and more weary. He still devoted himself constantly to his adopted son, and worked in his pottery; and this continual activity kept up his courage and strength. One of the most important secrets of the higher knowledge of life--which unfortunately is not learned from the lips of a master--is a healthful and constant employment. Many old men have prematurely given up life, which they might have sensibly prolonged if they had not allowed the fire to grow cold and die out. In the laborious life of peasants all the hours of the day are occupied; the body does not languish in weak repose; motion strengthens and preserves it. With us, very often intellectual languor and idle effeminacy kill the body, formed to move and act; the unused organs fall into a sort of atrophy; the intellectual faculties even, reduced to inaction, wear out and are destroyed; we sleep and sleep, and finally we cannot waken. Iermola, on the contrary, lived a life of labour and motion; consequently he did not seem to grow old, he at most only faded. In fact, the manufacture of his pottery was not very laborious, neither were the household duties which devolved upon him; Radionek and Huluk spared him all the most tiresome work. But his life was not an idle one; and he did not give up a single hour more to rest during the day under pretexts of fatigue or great old age. The deep peace which reigned in his mind and heart contributed wonderfully toward preserving him in such a healthy and happy condition. He could not even imagine that any one would some day come and demand the child of him, and have the right to take him away. A few years more and he would see Radionek, his darling child, a man, comfortably settled, married, no longer needing help, flying with his own wings. The trade in pottery increased daily. Old Procope had died a few years after Iermola had ended his apprenticeship with him; and his pottery kiln, managed by a young servant, had yielded only more and more indifferent articles till it had finally fallen entirely into disuse. But Iermola had no need of this favourable circumstance to dispose of his pottery, for which there was always an excellent market; but he was none the less well pleased to find that the town of Malyczki was henceforth supplied from Popielnia. Moreover, the vessels made from his excellent clay were so solid and so light, had, in fact, so many attractive qualities, that it was not necessary to recommend them very much; it was not even necessary to carry them very far, but only to the little neighbouring town, where the Jews and hawkers bought them up at once. The potters in the vicinity made only extremely fragile ware, of a dark, heavy sort of clay; consequently, as soon as white pottery was put upon the market, there was a rush for it, and it sold for much better prices than the other. Iermola made only pots and dishes and housekeeping utensils of different sizes, shaping them always after the long-used models, and never thought of inventing other forms; but Radionek, who had now grown to be quite a big boy and was becoming every day more active, inquiring, and mischievous, began to weary of turning and burning perpetually the same vessels of the same old-fashioned shape. At first he began to vary the stripes and the red festoons which are always found on the pottery of the country; he amused himself by getting up new and more complicated and elegant designs, which he constantly altered. Then he took it into his head to give new and less simple forms to his dishes,--to make plates, pitchers, and little twin vases, of a quite new curve and design. Finally, he undertook to manufacture clay toys for children, and even small figures of horses, which also served as whistles, thus carrying out without knowing it the old Hindoo tradition; for in the old Indian land small horses made of baked clay are still used as talismans in the fields and gardens. All his playthings were badly baked and not very successful; but the old man had not the heart to forbid his dear Radionek such childish amusements. When for the first time all these new shapes and designs of pottery ware were taken to the fair and displayed in the market, the good women gathered round them and shook their heads long and gravely. Such novelties frightened them and seemed useless; they were accustomed only to the old sizes and shapes, and severely criticised these innovations. But these little fancy articles, being cheap and amusing, pleased the children and young girls; the rich villagers bought for their children the little horses and twin vases instead of _obwarzanki_[6] and honey cakes; and by the time the fair was over, the whole supply was well sold. Iermola, highly delighted, smiled as he stooped down and kissed Radionek's forehead; and the boy clapped his hands, jumped up, and threw his arms around Iermola's neck. But at this same fair our Radionek spied some glazed porringers and plates, some saucepans which were of a beautiful green colour inside, and other utensils ornamented with a brilliant vitreous glazing which Iermola and he did not know how to give to their wares; and the boy began to feel anxious and somewhat envious. They returned home; Radionek was quite gloomy. "What is the matter? Should you not, on the contrary, be rejoicing?" said Iermola to him. "Your little designs have been successful beyond your expectations; why are you making yourself miserable, my child?" The child looked up at him and embraced him in silence. "See here, father," said he, after a moment, "when I think of all those beautiful glazed things, I cannot sleep." "Those glazed things? You wish to make some like them? And what good would that do? Our wares, such as they are, sell well, thank God! In order to make glazed dishes, you must have another kind of clay, and work it in another way, and perhaps use other implements; that would give us a great deal of trouble. Why bother our heads with it all?" "But, father, you did not see how much the merchants charged for their glazed porringers. And how beautiful they were, all painted with different-coloured flowers, and so solid and neat-looking! The people said that nothing one might put into them would stain them, as is the case with other kinds, and also that it is much less trouble to keep them clean. Now, father, why should not we make them also?" "Good Lord! what sort of an idea have you taken into your head?" cried Iermola, with a sigh, for he was content with his present life, and desired no other. "You do not know, my child, how difficult it is. As for me, it is too late for me to learn new things; and for you, it is too soon. If you desire it very much, you can learn when you are a man." To this Radionek made no reply. He kept to himself the earnest desire which he had conceived; and though in the bottom of his heart he never forgot the beautiful glazed pottery, he spoke no more about it, for fear of worrying the old man. But the good father desired above all things to gratify his child's wishes, although he did not sympathize with his youthful hopes, which might lead to such bitter disappointment if the enterprise was unsuccessful. Good Iermola therefore resolved to spare neither time nor pains until he could somehow make that unfortunate glazed pottery; and as he never decided upon any important matter without consulting his neighbour the widow, he went out one evening to ask her advice. In this other house also, the ten years which had passed had brought many noticeable changes, which had come about gradually and almost insensibly; the widow had lost some of her strength, but she continued to manage actively her house and farm. Horpyna, now the wife of a steward, lived a few miles away; having begun life making her own dresses and wearing a silk handkerchief on her head, she now wore bonnets and hats, and was not quite happy when her mother came to see her, because she wished to pass as the daughter of a gentleman. She rarely came to Popielnia; and when she did come, it was always because she had some request to make of her mother. The old widow of Harasym was always thankful for these short and rare visits, and was always ready to give anything Horpyna asked, provided she had the comfort of seeing her daughter and her grandchildren. When very soon Horpyna would prepare to depart and would not consent to leave one of her children with her mother, the poor old woman would burst into tears, and for several days she would remain seated silently in front of her stove, scorching her face and swallowing her tears; but lest she should bring shame upon her daughter, she regarded her wishes and never went to her house. This continual solitude and constant longing had rendered the widow much sadder than formerly; she found her only consolation in the companionship of Iermola, to whom she could speak of Horpyna and make her lamentations. He in his turn talked to her of Radionek, and in any important matter always sought the advice and experience of his old friend. So at this moment, when the question of undertaking the manufacture of glazed pottery arose, he hastened to take counsel of her, leaving Radionek and Huluk busy about some work in the shop. "Well, what news have you brought from the market?" asked the widow. "Did my Horpyna happen to be there?" "Yes, she was there," said Iermola. "One is scarcely able to recognize her, she has become such a fine lady; she was driving in a painted carriage with two horses and handsome leather harness. They put up at the hotel, and came out to the fair grounds to make purchases." "And she did not ask you anything about me?" sighed the old woman. "Of course,--of course she did; how could she have failed to do so? She charged me to give you her love, and she called to me from her carriage for the express purpose; she patted my little Radionek's cheeks." "And did she have any of her children with her?" "No, not one." And this exchange of question and answer would have continued endlessly had not the widow been struck with the expression of anxiety and grief upon her neighbour's face. "But what is the matter with you? Are you sick, old man?" said she. "Ah! you are right," answered Iermola, sighing and seating himself on the bench; "I have another great trouble." "Well, well! tell me about it. We will see what can be done." "Ah! this will be a difficult matter to remedy. My youngster, who is obstinate and impetuous as any crazy young thing, has seen the glazed pottery at the fair; and now he has taken it into his head to manufacture some of it, and I cannot possibly make him give up the idea." "Well, did I not tell you so?" "What did you tell me?" "Why, don't you remember? When he began to make his little horses, and his little queer-shaped jugs which scarcely held a pint apiece, I predicted that by the end of the year he would be wishing to make beautiful fine pottery." "Well, it has happened as you said," answered Iermola, "and now it is impossible to make him listen to reason. I have said what I could to him, but that does not prevent my being anxious to please him; and I really do not know how to do it." "Why, go and examine the glazed ware closely." "Ah, mother, I would willingly do that; but it would not help me at all. It is not difficult to turn the dishes; but to glaze them is a very difficult matter, because several drugs must be mixed together for that purpose, and besides, one must know how long to bake them. My eyes are not very good now, and neither is my memory," sighed the old man. "But if you only knew, mother, how much I would like to please my child!" "But how can you do it?" "I do not know yet at all; but even if one cannot succeed, one can always try." "Yes, I am sure of that," answered the widow, with a smile; "how can you possibly refuse your child anything? I know all about that, you see. I was just so about my Horpyna; we scold and fret, but we end by doing what they wish. Consequently you will go, my poor old man, to learn to make the fine glazed pottery." "Yes, certainly I shall go," sighed Iermola. "Only I would not like the child to know about it. If I should not succeed, it would trouble him very much, but if I could only learn all by myself-- Good Lord, how glad I would be!" "That's just the way I used to do,--just the way," cried the widow. "Ah, my God! I know all about it. But tell me, where would you go?" "I would take a little money and go and look up one or two of the potters who sold the glazed ware at the fair; they might teach me if I paid them. If I did not succeed at once, I would take the child; he would understand at once. The only thing I fear is that they would drive me away. How could I propose such a thing to them,--to come to them to learn for the purpose of taking away their living?" "Ah! you are right; you might not get along so easily perhaps as you did with Procope; but Nad syrotojn Boh z kalitojn,"[7] she added, "and with the help of Providence, you may be able to succeed." "That is what I think," said Iermola, rising to take leave of the widow. "To-morrow I will pretend to have a little business, and will go to town; please, neighbour, while I am gone, have an eye upon Huluk and Radionek, and do not let them cut up any pranks. They would just as soon go out on the river in a leaky boat or do some other such silly thing." "Oh, no; they are very quiet, reasonable boys." "Yes, certainly they are, thank God; but they are so hot-blooded. If a notion strikes them, they are capable of getting lost in the forest, or jumping into the river. May God preserve us from any such misfortune!" "But it will be hard to keep them near me." "Certainly; but you can see what they do, and warn them, neighbour." So saying, the two old people separated, and Iermola immediately announced to the boy that the Jews in the little town owed him some money for his pottery, and had told him to come for it after the fair was over; and that as he wished to collect all the little sums which were due him, he perhaps would be obliged to remain away some days. He then enjoined upon both boys to be very good, and work well during his absence, and not to go near the river, or wander in the forest. "Are you going to walk?" Radionek asked him. "What do you mean? I surely shall not go in a carriage," answered the old man, smilingly. "But couldn't you hire a wagon?" "How could I? There is not a single horse in the whole village, except Chwedko's mare, which he would not lend for anything in the world; and as for being dragged along by oxen, I would rather walk. Besides, my legs swell when I sit all the time, and it will not do me any harm to stand up a while." Poor old Iermola did not remember his age, and attributed the swelling of his limbs to his sedentary occupation, while it was really the effect of age and weakness. He was never willing to spend anything upon himself; and from the moment his business began to pay him anything, he put by all he could spare for Radionek, so that if he should die, the child would not be left penniless. He would certainly have preferred to use Chwedko's mare; but that would have cost him something, and Iermola was extremely economical in everything that concerned himself. So Radionek was unable to persuade him to hire a wagon; but toward evening he sent Huluk to the village secretly, to learn whether any one was going to town. Then, as he had laid by a few coppers, the product of his work, he charged Huluk, if he found no other opportunity, to hire Chwedko's mare, enjoining it upon the old man to say that having himself some business in the town, he offered a seat gratis to his neighbour Iermola. Everything happened as fortunately as possible. Chwedko's wagon was not hired out for the next day; and the old man, having received two florins for his trouble, engaged positively to feign and lie. Accordingly, by the end of the evening Radionek had everything arranged; and when Huluk returned from the village Radionek went and kissed the old man's hand. "Father," said he, as he did so, "we have just met Chwedko; he is going to town to-morrow with his mare, and he says that he is lonely by himself and wants you to go with him. In this way it will cost you nothing, good father." "Chwedko? Where? How?" asked Iermola, in great surprise, as he embraced Radionek. "You are joking, my child, aren't you?" "No, indeed; ask Huluk," replied Radionek, who exercised over his young valet an authority born of intelligence and affection. "Oh, certainly not," answered the boy. "I understood him plainly, I assure you; he even begged that you should not start till he comes, for to-morrow, before day, he will be at the door of your cabin." Iermola bent his head in token of consent, and after that was anxious only concerning the purpose of his journey. At the bottom of his heart he was quite content to go with Chwedko and so rest his old limbs. He embraced Radionek once more, and then went to bed, always thinking about the beautiful glazed pottery. Radionek, who was now silent on the subject, thought of it as much. Although he no longer spoke about it, lest he should worry the old man, in his dreams he was constantly handling the large dishes and beautifully glazed pitchers, all painted red and green and white, black and yellow, so as to make them bright and beautiful and attractive. The poor child wearied his brain trying to discover the secret of those preparations which to him seemed like magic, but having no idea, no suggestions on the subject, it was impossible for him to come anywhere near the truth; he could only sigh and worry and grow weary. XIII. THE GRAY MARE. The morning of the next day was clear and bright; from early dawn the sky had been perfectly clear and radiant, which is the sign of a storm. A few fleecy white clouds hung above the forest,--an indication that a shower of rain would fall toward evening; the sun was burning hot; there was not a breath of air. Chwedko was as good as his word, and appeared with his horse and wagon at the appointed hour; he did more than this,--he carefully kept Radionek's secret. He went into the cottage to announce his arrival and light his pipe, calling Iermola hurriedly, as if he had gone out of his way, and complained of being obliged to go on the journey. "Come, father, come; be quick! Are you ready? When there are two of us, the road will not seem so long. The Devil has sent me on a trip to the city; and the road is very long, and it is so hot. What will it be at noon? We must hurry. Sit down, sit down; do not be ceremonious!" Iermola took his little bag of money and hid it in his bosom, and was then ready to start. "Come, let us be off, neighbour." The two old men sat down in the wagon on a bundle of hay, and Chwedko's gray mare, fastened by her collar surmounted by a bow of wood ornamented with little bells, having cast a glance at her master, decided to start, and went trotting through the village. In the ordinary life of our lower classes, the creatures which aid them in their work and supply their needs form a portion of their society; the pet lamb, goat, cow, calf, horse, even the goose and hen of the courtyard become companions and sincere friends. How many cares and regrets are had on their account, and how much trouble they give! From time to time they quarrel, fight, and injure one another; but if one of the household animals falls sick or dies, there is lamentation and weeping. Chwedko's gray mare, of which we should here make mention, for it richly deserves it, belonged to the class of the elect, with whom it is difficult to live, but who, nevertheless, cannot be dispensed with. Gifted with numberless good qualities and terrible faults, she constituted the entire wealth of her master; she was at once his consolation and his perpetual torment, and played a most important part in his life. In the first place, she was almost the only animal of her kind in this village of Polesia, where the soil was cultivated almost entirely by the aid of oxen; she was consequently well known, respected, and depended upon to execute all pressing commissions, for which one was obliged to hire Chwedko and his horse. The old man, thanks to his gray mare, earned not less than three hundred florins a year; that is to say, three times more than the animal was worth, by taking merchandise to the town and hiring his wagon to the Jews. It might be said with truth that it was Chwedko's mare who fed her master. As for the mare herself, she ate very little. In summer she had no food but the fresh green grass, on which she browsed along the roadsides; in winter a little aftermath, straw from gleanings of grain, a handful of hay, very rarely a small bag of oats, sufficed for the poor beast, which was sober from necessity. Of medium size, old as the hills, healthy, and inured to fatigue, with a sharp backbone and strong neck, the gray mare possessed a bodily vigour which was only comparable to that of her character. When moderately loaded, she would start off at her little trotting pace, and continue the same indefatigably so long as she caught no sight of a stick; but strike her with it once, and from that moment no human power could force her to budge from the spot. Chwedko consequently only carried his stick as a matter of form, and because no villager ever left his cabin without one; but he took care never to show it to his gray, and if when a little tipsy, he inadvertently gave her a touch with it, he knew full well that he should be punished for it by remaining for at least half an hour, nailed to the spot. The mare's instinct, rendered perfect by long experience, had become infallible; she always knew where her master was going, carried him, guided him, avoided the ruts and muddy places, chose the best roads, and stopped where it was necessary to stop, with a precision which was marvellous,--for the reins, as well as the stick, well-worn, were almost past use, and were there only as a matter of form. Chwedko talked with his mare as if he were talking to a man, only employing at such times a more sonorous voice, which the mare at once recognized as being intended for her alone. He praised her, petted her, encouraged her, and loved to talk to her so well that it had given rise to a proverb in the village where he lived; whenever any one told the same story frequently he would be jeered at and told, "Ah, that is Chwedko's mare." The gray mare, naturally very grateful, knew no one but her master, and would not allow any one else to approach her, she was so obstinate and cross; he only could drive her or manage her. All the village people knew her as well as they had known Iermola's goat, which was now dead; as they knew Hudny's chestnut horse and Madam Szmula's black cow. A true type of the peasant horse, lean, small, bony, short and thickset, with heavy well-built legs and a full set of teeth, like all September colts, whose teeth always indicate youth, the gray, when starting out on an expedition, invariably limped with her left foot; but this slight infirmity disappeared when she became animated and warmed up. She had a large head and one eye, slightly injured, and a rough coat; in many places the hair had come off, from a habit she had of rubbing herself against the stable wall. Her tail and mane were very thin, and much tangled, and to look at her one would not have given three coppers for her; yet nevertheless more than one fat nag, well-cared-for, well-fed, and handsome in appearance, would not have been able to compete with her in strength and endurance. She could go the whole day without eating, contenting herself with drinking; for the peasants and Jews water their horses six times a day, thinking thus to supply the place of hay, which they use so sparingly. Hunger was for her a thing usual and to be scorned; in the evening she satisfied her empty stomach with a little hay and a handful of oat-straw. She was not dainty; she did not care for bedding; she would find grass to browse upon in places so dry and barren that a goose even would not pasture there; she only insisted that no one should offend her. When she scented a bag of oats anywhere, she invariably succeeded in getting at it and eating it; she did not fail to eat up the bark strings, finding them both pleasant and profitable. Whenever a strange horse ate his oats in her presence, she always succeeded in getting them away from him, even if it was necessary to fight for it; and she knew equally well how to defend herself against men and dogs, either with her teeth or her heels. Strangers could only approach her very cautiously, for she was always ready to salute them with a kick. This inestimable creature had already served Chwedko at least twenty years, and could not have been less than five years old when she was first put in harness; still up to this time, with the exception of a slight blowing, she had no defects. Chwedko and Iermola, being seated in the wagon, and having lighted their pipes, began to talk together in a friendly fashion, without paying the slightest attention to the gray mare, who took upon herself the entire charge of keeping the road. "Do you remember, neighbour, the day I made you buy the goat?" said the former, smiling. "Ah, ha! that was a good bargain. Szmula has never yet forgiven me for it." "May God reward you, Chwedko! it was an excellent bargain. The goat is now dead, it is true; but she brought up the child for me." "Yes, and he is a very pretty boy now; God bless him!" "I should say he is pretty,--pink and rosy and fresh, as fresh as a strawberry. Ah, what a good child he is, what a dear child!" added Iermola; "it would take a year's time to tell how intelligent he is, and how prudent and honest and amiable." "Just like my mare, if you'll excuse me," interrupted Chwedko; "my gray is a real treasure. Come, get up, my old woman; gee, gee, my dove, get up! And what an idea it was for you to become a potter in your old age!" "Bless me! I had to make bread for the child." "Certainly; but do you not think his parents will come for him some day?" "And who would dare to come and take him from me?" cried Iermola, much agitated. "If they are coming to take him away, why should they ever have abandoned him?" "One never can tell about these things," said Chwedko. "Sometimes parents abandon their children forever; but sometimes they come back and say, 'He is ours; you must give him back to us.'" Iermola, still more agitated, trembled at these words. "How is he theirs?" he cried. "How? The poor little innocent, did they not cast him away, throw him down under a hedge? And who picked him up, reared him, rocked, petted, and fed him? He is now more mine than theirs." "You think so? Bless me! I know nothing about it," said Chwedko. "But I should figure it out another way. And have you ever told the little fellow how he happened to come to you?" "I have kept nothing secret from him; moreover, the whole matter is known through the village. Some one would have told the child; what was the good of keeping it from him? I told him the whole story as soon as he could understand me; and he assured me at once that if his parents should now come for him, he would not leave me." "He has a good heart." "A heart of gold, I tell you, my little eaglet, my Radionek." "Now tell me why you are going to town," said Chwedko, after a moment's pause. "Must I tell you the real truth?" answered Iermola. "Of course; but what notion have you taken up?" "Well, I am not going to the next town; I am going farther." "Really? Your little boy told me that you were going to collect your money from the Jews." "Yes, I told him that; but I have another plan." And here Iermola heaved a deep sigh, and then related to his companion the story of the glazed pottery, to which Chwedko only replied by a scornful laugh and a shrug of his shoulders. "Ah, ah! your little fellow wants the moon. And since you are contented with your business, why not stick to it without running after new ideas? Sometimes, neighbour, people turn fools with trying to be too wise. You make simple, old-fashioned pottery, and you find purchasers, because even the poorest creature cannot do without some of them, the most wretched must have a pot to boil his vegetable stew. But it will be altogether a different thing with your glazed ware; you will be obliged to go to town to sell it, for no one will buy it in the village. The Jews will buy it from you and pay you a poor price. At the fair one makes little; it will be quite a different thing." "But the child wishes to do it so very much." "You will see that this will not help you at all." "Perhaps it may be so; but how can I do it?" "You may try, of course, for you will not mind the time. But do you believe that these potters will be sufficiently tempted by your money to give you the secrets of their art?" "But I will pay them well." "They are not so foolish as to give a florin for a penny. Do they not know that you want to take the bread out of their mouths? You are not going to learn for your amusement,--that is clear." At these words, Iermola seemed troubled and bowed his head. "All that is very true," said he; "but when once God has helped you, He never abandons you till the end. I hesitated very much before, when I went to see Procope; I did not even know where to go to find clay. Yet it was found, and everything succeeded, and now--well, something will turn up." Something will turn up, is the great unanswerable argument of our poor people, to which they have recourse when all others fail,--an argument which answers for everything and puts an end to all difficulties, for it tacitly expresses faith in Providence and confidence in the intervention of God. At this moment the gray mare, being accustomed always to eat her small ration of hay in front of the inn, situated about a third of the way and in the midst of the wood, did not go past the well-known place, but stopped of her own accord. Chwedko also got down here regularly to drink a small glass of brandy and light his pipe. He felt, however, some confusion, seeing that the gray had stopped without his permission; he dared not, in Iermola's presence, go and take his dram without any excuse, but he got down from the wagon and threw a handful of hay to the mare. "How warm it is!" said he, as he shook his pipe. "It is indeed; the sun burns one." "Would you like to go into the dining-room for a moment? Sometimes, when I feel as if there was something heavy on my stomach, I take a little dram." "How about the heat?" "Oh, a little brandy is refreshing." "Very well, neighbour, let's take a drink; I will pay for it," said Iermola, as he got down from the wagon. The inn in question was one among others where the Jew was constantly on the watch for the peasant, his poor dupe. The Israelite who lived here did not hesitate to avow that he made his living by selling brandy. There was no courtyard in front of the inn and no stable for horses. The house was crooked and broken-down, half in ruins and considerably sunken in the ground; but the narrow space in front of it showed at a glance that it was much frequented. It was situated at a cross-road where three ways met, in the midst of an old forest of oak and undergrowth of alder, visibly damaged by the wheels of wagons, and offering a sight to travellers which at once explained the history of Dubowka (this was the name of the inn hidden among the brush-wood). All around there was nothing but remains of straw, hay, grain, bark, bones, bits of bread, egg-shells, fragments of broken china,--to say nothing of the different spots which showed plainly that many of the teams which stopped in front of the inn of Iuk remained there longer than they had intended. Upon these remains of hay, straw, millings, and sometimes grain, the Jew's cow and goats, accustomed to live by plunder, grew fat, for as soon as a wagon appeared, one could be sure to see one of these animals steal from behind the house, with the step of a wolf, and retire quietly with the straw or hay upon which they proposed to feed. It was useless to try to drive them away even with a stick; in fact, they ran off whenever the door was opened, but returned again immediately with the double persistency of hunger and gluttony. The old labourers, being well acquainted with the habits of the place, never left their wagons in front of the inn without leaving their wives or children standing, whip in hand, to drive off the bold invaders. But these impertinent creatures were so sly! if for a moment the children would turn their heads or the mothers begin to scold, one of the goats would jump up on his hind-feet at the back of the wagon and do much damage. Iuk, the owner of the inn, was a little Jew of the very worst kind; lame and quarrelsome, a fool, but a fool after the manner of Sologne, avaricious and mean, in every sense of the words, he cheated and stole from the peasants, without the slightest consideration or shame, and often ended his quarrels with them by fighting with his fists, knowing very well that he would make them repay him in money for every bruise or blow he might receive; and whether beaten or beating, he would always manage to get the advantage. How he succeeded in living night and day in such endless tumult and turmoil, in constant fuss and noise, never closing his doors, and only lying down to sleep about daybreak on an empty bench, is something that never will be understood. Iuk knew every one, having studied carefully not only each individual in his own community, but also each one of those belonging to the small neighbouring towns. As soon as the wagons of the peasants of the vicinity stopped before his door, he knew at the first glance whether he must be ready to receive them with a smile, a blow of his fist, a low bow, or a scornful expression. "Those from Popielnia," said he, "are all great lords; they must always have an onion or a clove of garlic to eat with their bit of bread, and almost every one of them buys a buttered roll. Those from Malyczki are good workmen, but better drunkards; and from Wiezbera they are all Bohemians, all thieves." The Jew, having seen from his window the gray head of Chwedko's mare, recognized at once the custom which was coming to him; and as there was at that moment no one in the inn, he came out upon the door-sill. "Ha! ha! ha!" said he, stretching his limbs, "here is Chwedko going to the city again. What business have you there, my good fellow, that you go there so often? And you also, old potter? This is not market-day. You have some engagement down there, doubtless." "Yes, you are right; an engagement." "Meantime, give us a glass of good brandy." "Why do you say good?" returned Iuk, bridling up. "Do I ever have any bad at my house? There is none at the house of Szmula, your great lord, like mine, you well know; and he pours it out half water, at that." "That is all true; Iuk's brandy is real good, pure gin," said Chwedko, spitting as he spoke, for his mouth began to water. "I tell you there is none in all the neighbourhood like it. Do me the favor to taste it; you will see that only the nobility drink better. Old, fragrant, clear, strong, it is more than twelve years old; I bought it at Bebnow. It cost me dear; but I love what is good, I do,--that is my way." As they spoke, they entered the room, to which one had to descend as into a cellar, for the wretched building had sunk considerably into the ground. The ceiling almost rested on the heads of the inhabitants; and the well-trodden dirt floor, which took the place of a plank one, had sunk so low that the windows of the inn were, on the outside, on a level with the ground. The peculiar situation of this old building; the elevation of the small place in front, where the vehicles stopped; the entire absence of paving or any drainage,--all contributed to form before the door a deep black-looking pond which never dried up and which one had to cross by means of stones. The Jewish innkeeper's ducks and geese paddled here at will; and the travellers who frequented the place, as they stooped to pass under the low door, were obliged to cross very cautiously this offensive Black Sea lest they should get soaked above their calves. The Jew had never felt the necessity of remedying this inconvenience. In times of great drought it often happened that the pond thickened up and was transformed into a gluey and almost solid mud-hole; but the first rain that came would dilute it again, and it would extend half over the room. Iuk did not find this the least obstacle to the comfort of domestic life. In the inner room there were the Jew's wife (a fat, dirty matron with her breast uncovered), his six children of different sizes, a servant, a few goats, some pet chickens and geese, and only one traveller,--a stranger, who wore a coarse woollen cap, and was asleep, sitting on a bench with his head resting on the table. Chwedko, as he entered, slipped upon one of the stones in the mud-hole, splashed the black water all over himself, and swore a terrible oath which wakened the stranger. The latter wore a costume closely resembling that of the towns-people,--a cloak with lappets turned back and faced, a green belt, a large hat; and he had an iron-shod stick which he laid down beside him, with his small bundle tied up in a handkerchief. He was still young, apparently scarcely thirty years old, and had a tall, robust figure, and a round red face. He seemed to know nothing of poverty, for gay life and good cheer had left their traces on his brow and eyes; and it was easy to see that he was tipsy, thanks to the good old brandy of Bebnow, for he had scarcely raised his head when he pulled up his mustache and began to sing a tavern song. At this moment Chwedko was plunging and splashing in the mud-hole, which caused the stranger to burst into a loud laugh and shout,-- "Help! help! The gentlemen from Popielnia are drowning!" Iuk and his people at this also laughed; and the merry fellow, putting his hands on his hips, began to stare impertinently at the two new-comers. "And how do you know that we are from Popielnia?" asked Iermola. "Bah! it is not hard to tell that. All the people of Popielnia wear a mark." "What do you mean? A mark? Do they mark us like sheep with a red cross on our backs?" "Is it possible that you do not know," answered the stranger, "that the tailors in your village make hoods for you different from any which are made anywhere else in the world?" From time immemorial, in fact, the hooded _sukmanes_ of the inhabitants of Popielnia had been cut and made in a peculiar fashion, which fact Chwedko and Iermola had for the moment forgotten. They also, desiring to preserve the old custom, would never have bought or worn any hood which was not of the exact shape worn by their ancestors. "And you,--where do you come from?" asked Chwedko of the young man. "From a country which is beyond the seventh sea of the seventh river, and the seventh mountain," answered the merry joker. "Ah, ah! Even in that distant country it seems, then, that they know about the people of Popielnia; that is very complimentary to us. But without joking, my brother, tell us from what land the Lord God has led you." "From Mrozowica, neighbour." Mrozowica was a large colony of freemen of the lower class, who paid taxes to the Government instead of doing service; it was just there that the potters lived to whom Iermola wished to apply, and the old man felt his heart beat as he heard the name pronounced. "From Mrozowica?" he repeated eagerly. "And where are you going, if I may ask?" "I am going over the world as far as my legs will carry me." "All over the world? Oh, that is very far!" "Well, yes; but I am tired of staying forever in the same place, sitting on the ground with my legs crossed. I have started out to look for poverty along the road." "Why seek for it?" said Chwedko. "It comes soon enough of its own accord." "Let it come. I do not fear it; we will quarrel together," answered the merry stranger. "Do you happen to be a tailor?" asked Iermola, timidly. "You noticed the shape of our hoods so quickly." "Why not? Why shouldn't I be a tailor?" answered the fellow, putting his hands on his hips. "Rather ask me what I have not been. I have been a farmer; I have been a blacksmith; I have been a carpenter; I have been a tailor; I have been a dyer, a musician, and a shoemaker. Ta, ta! All those are miserable trades, starving occupations. Now I am no longer so silly; I am going to be a lord." "That is your idea, is it? Upon my word, you have not made a bad choice," said Chwedko, bursting into a laugh. "Not a bad thought, my brother. I salute you, my lord." And taking off his hat, he bowed down to the ground. "But it seems to me," said Iermola, "that since you have so soon grown weary of all your different occupations, perhaps you will quickly tire of being a lord." "Oh, well, then I will turn beggar; it is a fine trade, and I had as soon be one thing as another," answered the fellow as he sang,-- "'My stick, it is my friend; My wallet is my wife.'" "Upon my word, this is a merry, pleasant fellow; and we have met him just at the right moment," muttered Iermola. "While the gray is eating her hay, and Chwedko is finishing his onion and his glass of brandy, I can easily learn something about the potters in Mrozowica.--See here, brother," said he, drawing nearer the stranger, "won't you take a glass of brandy?" "If you will pay for it, why shouldn't I? A Bohemian will hang himself for the sake of company." "Iuk, give us a good drink of your best Bebnow brandy." "Give it to us, Iuk, you pagan dog, do you hear?" said the young fellow from Mrozowica. "You see," said Iermola, drawing nearer, "I am just going to Mrozowica to--" "Well, take care to take two sticks with you, and sew up your pockets; for they are all thieves and rascals there." "Ah, you must be joking." "It is true; ask any one who has ever been there. There is not one honest man there." "But how about the potters?" "Bah! they are the worst of all." "Dear me! I am greatly disappointed." "Why?" "Ah! there are a great many reasons which you would not care to hear." "I really would not advise you to go there," continued the young man. "If you want a cracked pot, you will be sure to find it there." "But you see that is not what I want." "What is it you do want, then?" "I want-I want--" said Iermola, scratching his head. At this moment Chwedko, who had fortified himself with a good drink of brandy, and who had resolved to serve as interpreter, interrupted the conversation without ceremony. A sober man always finds it extremely difficult to talk with a man who has been drinking; but nothing is easier than for a tipsy man to come to an understanding with another who is also half intoxicated. "He wants--you see," murmured Chwedko, in the young fellow's ear--"this Iermola here--is a sort of potter. But he knows nothing--not at all--about glazed pottery; and he would like to learn how to glaze, you see." "Ta, ta! And why does he go to Mrozowica to learn that?" "Bless me! where should he go?" "Why, I can teach him myself. How much will he pay me to do it?" Iermola and Chwedko, filled with astonishment, stared at each other in silence. "You are joking, aren't you? Are you a potter yourself?" "I am the son of a potter, and I worked six years in glazed pottery. But it is a foolish trade; I am tired of it," answered the man from Mrozowica. "Daub yourself with the glazing, black yourself up with the mixtures, roast yourself in the fire,--that is all the pleasure to be found in it. I spit upon it and left; but that does not prevent my having worked a long time with Father Martin, or hinder me from knowing all about glazing, no matter what colour you wish to use. And my pottery was always bright and polished like glass." "Really?" "Bless my heart! if you wish it, I will prove it to you." "How much will you charge me?" said Iermola, with a bright smile. "How much will you give me?" Iuk, comprehending that some sort of bargaining was going on in his presence without his being able to know just what it was about, hastened to join the group, planting his snout between the two faces, and fearing lest an opportunity to sell something should slip from under his nose. "What are you bargaining over there?" he muttered. "A cat in a sack," answered the fellow from Mrozowica. "Come, come! why do you joke so?" replied the innkeeper. "What is there for sale? I will buy it." "They are haggling over the price of glazing pitchers," answered Chwedko. The Jew, not being able to comprehend, shrugged his shoulders and withdrew a few steps, keeping a watch from his seat by the stove over the traders, who would be obliged to come to him for the drink which would clinch the bargain. After having haggled sufficiently, they ended the matter by the payment of five roubles. They shook hands, drank a bumper of Bebnow brandy, and Iermola, accompanied by the man from Mrozowica, prepared to return to the village. "In this case, I shall not go on to the city to-day," muttered Chwedko, somewhat confused; "the rain would certainly catch me on the road." Iermola and Siepak (that was the name of the newcomer) seated themselves beside Chwedko on the wagon-box, and they returned together to Popielnia, to the great despair of Iuk, who was not able to succeed in getting at the matter, and who vaguely scented under it all a sum of money which was beyond his reach. Thus it was that the art of glazing pottery was introduced into Popielnia; and Iermola thanked God for it as though a miracle had been wrought. XIV. IMPROVEMENT AND DECEPTION. It was about noon--for they had not hastened on the way and had stopped a long time at the inn--when our travellers, having persuaded the gray to beat a retreat, disappeared from the village and stopped with Siepak before the entrance of the old inn. In front of the door sat Radionek, rapidly turning an enormous porringer, and Huluk, as he helped him, was talking with him in gay tones. As soon as he saw his father, Radionek, both surprised and alarmed, sprang forward to assist him to descend. "So here you are, father. Did anything happen on the way, that you have come back so soon?" "Nothing, nothing at all, my child; only I met this honest fellow, who has worked a long time with the potters in Mrozowica, and he has offered to teach me to glaze pottery." Radionek, overcome with joy, jumped up and cried, "Is it really true? Can it be possible?" "Why, yes, I know how to glaze as truly as I stand here," cried the merry Siepak; "and I shall be very glad indeed to play a good trick upon my neighbours in Mrozowica, for I never shall forget the rascality of those lazy fellows. "'I'm not your brother; you're not my father.'" Thus sang Siepak, with his hands on his hips, standing on top of the wagon. Then jumping lightly to the ground, he began to examine with the air of a connoisseur all the implements used in the manufacture of the pottery; but it was easy to recognize in him one of those boastful loungers, those village blusterers, who regard everything from the height of their own grandeur, and make little of everything done by others. The working implements which composed the stock of the poor potter seemed very poor to him; as he looked over them, he shrugged his shoulders so scornfully and seemed so amused that Iermola and Radionek felt sad and confused. Siepak manifested equal scorn in regard to their wares; he treated them unceremoniously as so much trash and rubbish, threw them about, cracked some of them, and stretching himself on the bench, began to boast loudly of what he knew and what he could do, over and above what others knew and what others could do. This conduct was not pleasing to Iermola, who understood men; but he endured Siepak's ridiculous bragging in silence, hoping at least to be able to gain something from his teachings, though seeing him behave in such a manner caused him to lose confidence in him. Meanwhile the man from Mrozowica ordered them to fry him a bit of bacon and give him a pint of brandy; then he lay down in the sun for a nap, and toward evening he repaired to the inn. The next day Iermola was to go to the town to buy some litharge, colours, and other ingredients necessary for glazing the pottery; while Radionek, under the direction of Siepak, who was always joking and singing, should get ready the vessels which were to hold the mixtures to be used in glazing. When finally the preparation of the glazings began, Siepak showed himself skilful and adept beyond all expectation, so much so that his companions were more astonished than they had at first been at his swaggering; but he had scarcely worked half an hour in the cabin, when he could contain himself no longer, and ran off to the inn, where he flattered the musicians, collected half the villagers, and ordering a pailful of brandy to be placed in the midst of the assembly, he led the carousal and dance until about midnight. That night late, two of Siepak's comrades, as drunk as he, brought him back, staggering, screaming, and singing, and laid him down on the ground before Iermola's door; Huluk and Radionek regarded him with astonishment mingled with deep pity. Some time passed before any positive proof of the work could be attained; but during that time Iermola's adopted son, gifted with a mind as quick as it was retentive, had profited so well by the lessons of the cunning young journeyman, and having seen some of the manipulation, had so well divined the rest, that the work of preparing the pottery was no longer unknown to him. He was equal to the emergency; it was sufficient to give him a few suggestions, to put him in the way, to explain some of the processes, and the child's ingenious mind and practical sense supplied what his instructor wanted. Iermola was extremely anxious to get rid of the Mrozowica man's presence as soon as possible, for he feared the effect of it upon Radionek; but in fact, it seemed that the light-headed Siepak was chosen expressly for the purpose of disgusting the child with a life of the frightful emptiness and wretched pleasures of which he had a daily proof. Siepak, it must be said, was an example of a curious moral type,--a type frequently met with among the lower classes, in all its strange ingenuousness; intelligent, adroit, active, and variously gifted, he got but little good out of either pleasure or labour, soon wearying of the one, and never being satisfied with the other. Sometimes, exhausted by his dissipations, he would lie all day long upon his back in the hay, half tipsy, singing with all his might, or else uttering heart-rending sighs as though he were about to die. Then he would go to work with earnestness for an hour, and his hand, which at first would tremble and refuse to serve him, would in a few moments acquire astonishing skill and dexterity; but he would scarcely begin to do well, when he would get tired and give it all up, call in the first passer-by, talk and joke with him, and most frequently end by going off to the inn, where behind the table he spent most of his time. After some attempts which were not altogether unsuccessful, Radionek, under his direction, had begun to use the glazing on his pottery without much difficulty, when Siepak, who was already tired of his sojourn in Popielnia, of Szmula, of the old inn and the quiet which reigned in the village, finding no companions whose tastes suited his own, demanded of the old potter the remainder of the sum which would be due him, and furnished with this, set himself up at Szmula's house, where for three days he kept up a ceaseless orgy accompanied by silly music. The fourth day, taking his valise on his shoulder and his travelling stick in his hand, Siepak started off and disappeared, without bidding any one good-by,--to the great regret of the Jew innkeeper and a few dissipated companions who had every evening passed some pleasant hours at his expense. From that moment he was never again seen in Popielnia. Then the old peacefulness, which had been for a while disturbed, returned to the modest dwelling. Radionek went to work earnestly, and at first wanted to glaze all the pottery; but the old man restrained him by wise observations. "Remember," said he, "that the manufacturing of them is not all; we must sell them in order to succeed. We cannot tell how our new wares will be received in the market. If no one wishes to buy our glazed pitchers and dishes; if we get badly paid for them,--we should have done better with our common pottery, which sells perfectly well. God only knows whether we shall succeed in selling our finest plates and dishes; and if we make no more dark dishes and coarse pots, the people will get in the habit of going somewhere else to get them." Iermola succeeded in persuading the child, who resigned himself to glazing only half the burning. Up to that time their trade had been very good. The old man feared lest this change of affairs should injure it, but Radionek wanted to do something new, and did not count the cost; his father's fears seemed to him silly and groundless. With the lower classes, nothing is accepted and adopted at once. It is necessary to proceed slowly and carefully in order to introduce any new custom; for, obedient to their conservative instinct, our peasants hold with a firm grasp to the habits and even the prejudices bequeathed them by their ancestors. This is what happened after the burning, which was half of common pottery and half glazed ware, was fired. The day of the great _pardon_ arrived, and also the week of the town fair. The stock of pots and plates and dishes was all completed. Chwedko's mare was hired for the day; the wagon was carefully packed; and the old man and the child, leaving Popielnia at midnight, reached the little town about daybreak. They were accustomed to display their wares always on the same spot, under the pent-house of the largest Jewish inn on the square, where all the people attending the fair, accustomed to see them there, could come and find them with their eyes shut. From morning till night the crowd used to gather round them; and generally the sale was enormous. Our potters made haste to unpack their wares as soon as they reached their favourite corner, and separated the common pottery from the glazed. Radionek, as he waited for customers, palpitated with hope; Iermola trembled with fear. When day broke, the crowd began to assemble, and at once pressed around the goods exposed for sale. But it was in vain that the two merchants offered to purchasers their most successful dishes, their best glazed and newest-shaped pitchers, at very moderate prices. Most of the housekeepers gravely shook their heads without saying anything; others frankly declared that they preferred to supply themselves from the potters in Mrozowica. In fact, custom prevailed, and neither the beauty of the wares nor the cheapness of the prices could induce any one to buy; in vain Iermola and Radionek sounded their praises and boasted of their good quality. The customers listened with a mocking and incredulous air, and went off to supply themselves from the merchants long known. Radionek wept in silence; and the old man tried to console him by representing to him that it must be so at first, and that they must resign themselves to be patient and learn to wait. Toward evening they sold part of the glazed ware to some strangers; and there was no common pottery left in Iermola's collection. But as for the other vessels, many were left on hand; and a Jew in the little town bought them all at half price because the old man did not want to take them home. When Iermola and Radionek had counted up their expenses, they found that they had lost. The child was very sad as they went along; but the old man comforted him as well as he could, thus endeavouring to prepare him for the future great disappointments of life, which, though bitter, should not destroy either a man's hope or his courage. XV. THE OTHER FATHER. We have carefully described the life of these simple poor people, and the most important events which had happened to them,--the changes in their employments, the acquisition of new acquaintances, the least increase of their comfort. Their days passed in perfect uniformity and an equally profound peacefulness; Radionek at least conceived of no existence happier than this which had fallen to his lot. His father loved him and as far as he possibly could gratified his wishes; he succeeded in his undertakings; he had something to occupy him, something to amuse him; and the distant and unknown future seemed smiling and peaceful. Sometimes, it is true, the child sat dreamily on the door-sill of the cabin with his eyes fixed on the waters of the river Horyn, on the woods and fields, paying by a moment of inexpressible sadness his debt to the vague and infinite desires and aspirations which arise in the heart of man through the whole course of his life. Then would recur to his mind the remembrance of things his father had told him,--the strange manner of his being found under the oak-tree, his mysterious origin, and the singular and incomprehensible fate which had cast him into the old man's arms. Radionek could not comprehend why he had been forgotten and abandoned; something told him that he would be remembered some day. Sometimes it seemed to him in the silence that he heard the sound of wheels and horses coming to announce the arrival of guests whom he was expecting,--strange, terrible, unknown guests. In his imagination he often pictured to himself under various forms those parents whom he had never known; but whenever he thought of the grief that his departure would be to Iermola, the bitterness of the separation from him, his constant solitude, he burst into tears and resolved never to leave him. In him as in all other young and ardent beings awoke the desire to see new things, to do something different from the old life; but he felt in the bottom of his heart that whatever he might gain by a change of position, he would surely lose some portion of his real happiness. Where could he be better off? Where happier or freer? He worked only as much as he wished to do, varying his occupations; and the old man rarely had anything to say. It is true that Iermola had reared the boy from the first in such a manner as to be able to control him by encouragement and reason; and he had no need of threats. The old man had made himself a child so as to understand Radionek; the child had endeavoured to attain the maturity of the old man. They shared time and years as they shared all the other things of life. The days and months were passing in this perfect peace, which at any moment a sudden change might disturb, when one evening Chwedko, returning from Malyczki, passed by the old inn, because the little bridge had been carried away on the other road, and wishing to light his pipe, went into Iermola's house. The gray, who was not at all anxious thus to extend her circuit, had made, it is true, some signs of stopping; but feeling that the stable was not far off, she had allowed herself to be persuaded. The old potter and the child were seated on the threshold,--the former smoking his pipe, and the latter talking aloud of his hopes for the future,--when Chwedko stopped in front of them with his wagon, and greeted them in his usual fashion, saying,-- "Glory to God!" "World without end! Where do you come from?" "From Malyczki." "Did you go there alone?" "I carried Mikita the potatoes I had sold him." "What is the news down there?" "Oh, there is some news; there is a great deal of news," answered Chwedko, seating himself on the trunk of a fallen tree. "The old chief of squadron is dead." "The old man is dead!" replied Iermola. "Peace to his soul! he has suffered a long time." "And he knew pretty well how to make others suffer." "So he is really dead!" repeated Iermola. "You see old men must look out; death may call them any time. I trust he will not come for us very soon." "He was very sick," said Chwedko; "and I do not see how he held out so many years. But there is a regular upturning at the _dwor_." "And how about his son?" "His son and his people and every one whom he has tormented so much shed fountains of tears over him. All the people from the village are in the courtyard; it is a pitiful scene of desolation." "It is the destiny of us all," replied Iermola, with a sigh. "Yes, truly," continued Chwedko; "but to tell the truth, the chief of squadron was a perfect tyrant over his family. Sick, helpless, and infirm as he was, to the hour of his death he never gave up his keys nor the management of his household, never confided in either his son or his young ward. His son has grown old in his service without enjoying his fortune and without being able to attempt to direct his household; he never would allow him to marry, nor would he permit him to go away from him. He kept the young lady in equal bondage; and though he knew they loved each other, he always forbade them to marry under penalty of his curse." "Ah, well, they will marry now," said Iermola. "So you do not know about it, then? They have already been married for a long time; no one knew it at the _dwor_ except the old housekeeper. The parish curate married them. There were witnesses; but what good did that do them? They could not live together, because the old father kept them both always by his bedside night and day; he would have one or other of them always by him. In addition to this, matters were so arranged at the _dwor_ that the stewards and servants were obliged to tell the master everything the young lord did, or else he would scold and abuse them all; and he had assured his son of his curse if he ever dared to think of such a marriage." "The old man was a little stern, it is true," said Iermola, "but he had his good side. And besides, he suffered a great deal,--so much that during the long hours of the night, one might hear him crying out almost every moment, 'Good Lord, have mercy on me and take me out of this world!' Toward strangers his manner was gentle as a lamb. It was he who managed so nicely to get Procope to teach me how to make pottery; and when I went to see him, he talked with me and told me stories of old times, and joked and laughed. But that was because he was an old friend of my master." The old men continued to talk a long time about the chief of squadron, relating in turn various small events of his life, mourning and regretting the dead man as people generally do, for each one of us on leaving this world leaves behind a certain measure of regret and remembrance. They were still talking when the sound of carriage-wheels was heard at a distance on the road from Malyczki; and they could hear that the vehicle which was coming was not the wagon of a peasant. "That must certainly be Hudny going home," said Iermola. "Let us go inside the cabin; it is best that he should not see us." "Oh, no, it is not he," answered Chwedko; "it must be a stranger. From the sound of the wheels I should say it was a covered carriage. Some one has lost his way, surely." Curious to know who it could be, they stood still with their eyes fixed on that side of the plain which extended beyond the oaks and which was crossed by a narrow pathway. Soon, sure enough, a covered carriage appeared, a very neat and almost elegant one, which was coming at a brisk trot toward the village. "Who can it be, I wonder," murmured Iermola. "Those are the chief of squadron's horses. And that is the young lord and his wife, I am sure. But why are they coming here?" The carriage approached rapidly; and instead of going past the old inn, where the child and the two old men were standing gazing at it with astonished faces, it stopped suddenly in front of them. A man of somewhat more than thirty years, and a woman who was still young, got out of it together and hastened up to Iermola; but before reaching him, they stopped. Then a startled cry, sobs, and tears were heard. The young woman rushed to Radionek; the strange man also stepped toward the boy, who drew back frightened. Iermola understood the whole matter at once. He turned pale, stumbled, and was obliged to sit down, he felt so faint and overcome; for him had sounded that fatal hour, the very thought of which he had always dismissed from his mind with mortal terror. "My son! my dear child!" cried the lady. "Marie, be calm, for the love of God, and let us speak to them first!" The child, who was gazing at his mother with his large, brilliant, and astonished eyes, threw himself into Iermola's arms as though he wished to call upon him to help him. "He does not know me," cried the young woman, in a sad tone. "He does not know me, and he cannot know me; he runs away from me and repulses me. He cannot do otherwise. Oh, it would have been better to give up everything, to bring down upon our heads your father's curse, rather than abandon our child. He is ours no longer; we have lost him!" As she said this, she wept bitterly and wrung her hands. "Marie, be calm, I beg you!" repeated the young man. In the midst of this scene of grief and trouble, Iermola had time to become less agitated, and his face now wore a grave, sad expression. "This child," said the father, in a choking and deeply agitated voice,--"this child, whom you found twelve years ago under the oak-trees, is our son. In order to escape the curse with which our father threatened us, and the watchfulness of the people who would have accused us before him if they had known of our secret marriage, we were compelled to send him away from us, to abandon him for a time, and to forget him. But the priest who married us, and who baptized the child, will be our witness; the man who placed him here--" "He may indeed have been your son," slowly answered the old man, to whom strength had returned at this critical moment, "but now he is mine alone; he is my child. You see he does not know his mother, that when his father calls him he runs to me. I have reared him by the labour of my old age, by taking the bread from my own mouth. No one shall take him from me; Radionek will never leave me." The mother, as she heard this, sobbed aloud. Jan Druzyna held her; but he himself blushed, trembled, and various expressions passed over his countenance. "Listen, old man," he cried, "whether you will or no, you will be obliged to give up this child, whose caresses we have longed for so many years." "If I should give him up to you, he would not go with you," answered Iermola; "he does not know you. He would not abandon the old man who has brought him up." Radionek stood motionless, pale, and troubled. His mother held out her hands to him; her eyes sought his; her lips sought his lips. The mysterious power of maternal feeling roused itself to draw him to her; and the boy's eyes filled with tears. "Anything for your son, anything you can ask!" cried Jan Druzyna. "And what should I take from you?" replied the old man, indignantly. "What could you give me which would supply the place of my beloved, my only child? I ask nothing of you,--nothing but permission to die near him and to die in peace." As he spoke, the old man burst into tears; his limbs shook, and he leaned against the wall to keep from falling. Radionek held him up, and helped him to sit down again on the door-sill; and Iermola, laying his hand on the child's fair head, kissed him passionately. The young mother wrung her hands in despair; her grief increased, and she became beside herself. At last she threw herself upon her child, ardent and strong as a lioness, and strained him in her maternal arms. "You are mine!" she cried, choked by her tears; "you are mine!" And already Radionek no longer sought to avoid her caresses; he had just received his mother's first kiss,--a kiss so sweet, so penetrating, so long awaited. The father also tremblingly approached his child, and kissed him through his tears. Iermola watched them with a glance now sad and despairing, now bright and burning with jealousy; one single moment, one single word, had been sufficient to deprive him of his treasure. "It was happiness enough for me," murmured the old man. "God takes it all from me. I must give him up; fate had only lent him to me. And I shall doubtless not live long. Sir," said he then, in a voice full of tears and emotion, "you see it is I who now supplicate you. I am old; I shall not live long; leave me my child until I die. I shall die soon, I am very old; then you will drag him away from my coffin. How could I live without him? Ah, do not leave me alone for the last days I have to live in this world; do not punish me; do not kill me, if for no other reason but because I have welcomed and reared your child!" "We will take you away with the little fellow," cried Jan. "Come with him; we are more grateful to you than any words can express." The old man interrupted him by sobbing violently; and Radionek hastened to run to Iermola as soon as he heard him crying. He knelt down beside him and hid his weeping face on his lap. "My father, my father!" he cried, "do not weep; I will never leave you. We will not go away from your cabin; we will stay here together. I am so happy with you, I want nothing more." Then the mother, seeing herself still forsaken, began to sob again, and nearly fainted. The neighbours, attracted by the noise, gathered on the spot and were witnesses of the scene. The cossack's widow, Chwedko, Huluk, and others shed the tears of compassion which the poor have always ready even for the griefs and miseries which they cannot comprehend, for the tears of others always suffice to move them to pity. At last the father aroused from the momentary state of stupefaction into which his wife's words had thrown him; he sighed, and going up to his wife, spoke to her for a moment in a low voice. "Whether you are willing or not," said he, aloud, in a stern voice, "you will be obliged to give the child up to us; he is ours, and we have witnesses of the fact. But you may ask anything you desire in exchange." Iermola trembled and rose quickly to his feet. "The child does not know you," he cried; "you will be obliged to take him by force. I will not give him up to you of my own free will, for he is not your child. I will bring witnesses to contradict yours. This is not the child of a gentleman; he is a villager, a working boy, an orphan. Call him; you do not even know his name; and he will not listen to you, for he does not know your voice." "Why, the old man is insane," cried Jan Druzyna, trembling with rage. "Very well; we shall be compelled to resort to other means,--to those which our rights grant us. Do you, then, wish to deprive the child of the advantages and benefits of the position to which he was destined?" "What position? What destiny?" replied the old man, proudly. "Ask him if he has ever been unhappy with me,--if he wants anything more, if he needs anything. I know the sort of life which is lived in the _dwors_ where I have been. Do not destroy my peace; do not desolate my old age; do not take away my child." The young mother then drew near him and took him by the hand. "My father, my brother," said she; "I understand your grief, I know what you lose in losing this child; but I, have I not swallowed my tears for twelve long years? Would you have the heart to refuse an unfortunate mother her dearest joy, her only treasure? Would you be so cruel as to force us to be ungrateful? No, you will come with us; you will rejoice when you see the child's happiness, and you will share ours." These words of the mother went deeper into Iermola's heart; he became more like himself, dried his tears, and said in a low voice,-- "Oh, the hour has come before which I would rather have died! For so many years I have seen it in my dreams, I feared every shadow, I dreaded each stranger, thinking he came to take away from me the child of my old age. I trembled; I prayed God that He would let me die first, but He has purposely prolonged my days. May He receive the present hour as an expiation for all my sins!" During this conversation, Radionek, agitated, troubled, and not knowing what to do, looked first at the old man and then at his parents. His father's eyes expressed great impatience, mingled with tenderness and a certain irritation; his mother wore a more quiet expression, more compassionate and gentle. Iermola felt his strength forsake him again; he once more fell into his seat, his head bent down, his hands clasped. The conversation, thus abruptly disturbed, was resumed, but in a more peaceful and ordinary tone. Druzyna had evidently intended to take his son away at once; but an hour passed, night came on, and he still did not know what to do. Iermola, overcome, no longer offered any resistance; he kept silence, exhausted, and only questioned the child with his eyes. "Come, let us go," said the young man at last, as he turned toward his wife. "We will come back to see him to-morrow." "But the child?" Radionek heard the words; frightened, he threw himself into the arms of his adoptive father, and Iermola, touched and grateful, pressed him to his breast. "You are a good dear child," he cried. "You will not go away from me; you will not leave me alone; you will not forget your old father. You know I should die without you; you can do as you like when you have closed my eyes. And may God's eternal blessings follow you then!" Druzyna, who was gazing in silence upon this scene, led, or rather dragged his wife away by force, carried her to the carriage, and ordered the coachman to return home. Chwedko set off for the village, where he spread this important piece of news. After Druzyna's departure, there was no visible change in the old inn, but the peace and happiness which the day before had reigned beneath that thatched roof had flown away. Iermola, silent and motionless, remained seated on the door-sill; Radionek at times wept quietly, and at others gave himself up to dreamy meditation. Then they drew near each other and spoke a few sad, tender words in a low voice. The morning found them still in the door-sill, half asleep, and cowering in each other's arms as though they feared some one would come to separate them. The broad daylight, as it opened their eyes to the sun, which dispels the terrors of night and revives the forces of life, brought back to them the remembrance of the events of the day before; but it presented them in another light, and awoke in them other sentiments, which gathered about each event, each serious thought, like mercenary servants grouped around a coffin. A thousand ideas, a thousand confused impressions crowded upon their minds, each struggling with the other to clear away the difficulty. Neither the old man nor Radionek felt himself capable of working that morning. The ordinary course of their life had been interrupted; they did not know what to do with themselves. In the child's mind arose, now a thousand images of a brilliant, an unknown future, now regret for past days filled with so much happiness, and which would never return. He tried to recall the features of his mother, those of his young father whom he had seen only in the dim twilight. Sometimes his heart leaned toward them; sometimes he trembled, agitated by a feeling of fear. What would become of him near them? Would he be better or worse than here? And in either case, he would be obliged to begin a new life, to leave his peaceful corner, go to a strange house, renounce all his old happiness, and bid adieu to what he had loved so well. Iermola dreamed also; the new day had brought him new thoughts. According to his custom, he went to see the widow, as he always did when he felt in need of some one to talk to. "Are you crazy?" cried the old woman as she saw him. "How could you yesterday evening have been so obstinate as to keep the child, just as if you had any sort of prospects for him? And besides, he is the son of a lord; he has his position already given him. And could it have done you any harm to go to the _dwor_ with Radionek and live peacefully, enjoying his good fortune?" "Yes, yes! but how could I be to him there what I have been to him up to this hour? I should no longer be his father; I should become his serving-man. They would take his heart away from me little by little; they would spoil and ruin my child. Do I not know something about the life of lords and rich people? Food a little more delicate, clothes a little finer, words a little smoother; but are they happier? God knows we cannot tell anything about it. Ask them if they do not weep in secret, if there are no sad moments spent under their roofs, if their happiness is as great, as pure, as it appears from a distance." "It is doubtless your great grief which causes you to talk in this way," cried the widow, shrugging her shoulders. "Their life is not like ours, that is certain. If our fate is the better of the two, why is it that all do not wish to live as we do? It is indeed a rare thing that a great lord is willing of his own accord to live as we do; while each one of us, on the contrary, would like to taste their bread. But the truth must be told." Iermola remained silent for a few moments, leaning his head on his hand. "Neighbour," said he, at last, "when we shall come to die, it will then matter very little to us whether during our lives we have eaten bread of fine wheat flour or coarse rye bread; no matter how a man has lived, it will be all the same to him, provided he has clean hands and a pure conscience to present before God. And as for knowing whether my child will then have been better off as lord of his father's house or with me, a potter in the old inn, upon my word, it is a serious question which I cannot take upon myself to answer." "But you will nevertheless be obliged to give him up; there is no way of avoiding it." "I shall not prevent him from following them if he will; but he must choose between us, because I myself wish to die as I have lived. I shall lay my bones in our old cemetery. I have already tasted the bread of servitude. I will not go in my last years to hold out my hand and bow down before young fools who would laugh at me,--not for any amount. I will remain in Popielnia; as for Radionek, if he wishes, he can go play the lord at Malyczki." "And how will you be able to live without him, poor old man?" "And you, how have you managed to live without Horpyna, without your grandchildren? Unless, indeed, you can see them by stealth." "Ah! that is true, that is true," sighed the widow. "With pain and tears we rear our children, to see them, as soon as they have wings, fly out of the nest; as for us, we are left behind with broken wings to look at them far off." "It is not for long, however," added Iermola, with a sad smile; "our days are numbered. A few more will pass, and then death will come knocking gently at our window; our eyes will close, and all will be over. We shall then have only to render our account to the Lord God." "Ah, you speak sad words, neighbour." "Because, as you see, my heart is not merry." While this conversation was taking place in the widow's house, Radionek, who had not the heart to go to work, sat in the door-sill, thinking and dreaming. At one time his heart inclined him toward that unknown world; at another his tenderness for the old man called him back and held him. Parents! a mother!--these are sweet words, which bring sweet thoughts and have great power over an orphan's heart; for no one can take the place of a father, no one can take the place of a mother. The idea of living at the _dwor_, of being rich, of being a master, seemed very pleasant to the boy; but as he knew nothing of any other life than the one he had lived until that moment, he did not know what awaited him in that higher position. His ardent childish curiosity alone painted the unknown future for him. Then he said to himself that it would be very sad for the old man to be separated from him; he recalled all that he had done for him, how much he had loved him. He did not know whether even maternal tenderness, so powerful and God-inspired, could equal that love. While he was thus reflecting, the carriage he had seen the day before drew near, arrived, and stopped. Radionek might have run away and hidden himself, but he had not the strength; his mother saw him from a distance, waved her hand to him, and he remained motionless. His parents hastened to him, embraced him, and wept. "It is true,--it is true, is it not, that you are coming with us?" cried Marie Druzyna, gazing in agitation upon the handsome young fellow, whom it distressed her to see dressed in peasant's clothes and a coarse cloak. "You will see," said she, "how happy you will be with us; you have suffered, but all that will soon be forgotten." "But I have not suffered," cried Radionek, who began to grow bold, "and I shall never forget my old father. I shall be very, very much grieved to leave him." "I am your father," said Jan Druzyna, in a grieved and irritated tone; "call the old man what you will, but do not give him the name which belongs to me." "Oh, he has been a father to me for a long time, and will be as long as he lives. He has loved me so dearly." "And we? Shall not we love you also? Do you not know that you have cost us many tears?" "I did not see you shed them; but I know that the old man has wept over me, and more than once I have seen his tears fall." "We will take him away with us." "He would not want to go," murmured Radionek. At that moment, as though moved by some sad presentiment, Iermola arrived, having seen the carriage, and run till he was almost out of breath, trembling, half suffocated, fearing lest he should not find the child. The husband and wife greeted him kindly, but with coldness and reserve; he returned them a glance of indifference. "To-day," said Jan Druzyna, "you must make up your mind to give the child up to us. We cannot do without him; and he must be present at his grandfather's funeral." "He can do as he pleases," answered the old man; "if he wishes to go with you, I shall not prevent him." "You will come,--you will come!" cried the mother, rushing up to Radionek. The child hesitated, turned pale, and burst into tears. "No, no, I cannot," he murmured; "I cannot leave you, my father." "You may come to see him as often as you wish," said Jan, restraining himself and speaking gently. There was a moment's silence; the child, beside himself, turned first toward the thoughtful, sad old man, then toward his mother, who seemed to implore him with her eyes not to send her away. "Do with me what you choose," said Radionek, at last. "I do not know what to do, I can't think; I am weak and sad. I do not want to leave you two; but at the same time I wish to stay here always. Why will you not live here with us?" Thus pleadings, prayers, and promises continued to be exchanged till half the day had passed; and at last when the carriage drove away from the old inn, it bore in it poor Radionek, who was weeping and holding out his hands to Iermola and promising him to come back the next day and kiss him. XVI. ALONE! He who rests and builds on the human heart should first look well into it and lay his foundations deep, lest the edifice of his hopes should tumble and fall for want of solid support. The human heart in its depths is only mire and mud; at moments this bottom thickens up and is condensed, but soon it becomes damp and dissolves under the flow of a thousand hidden brooks. There are, however, some rare hearts formed of more lasting material, in which a furrow once ploughed is never effaced. Old Iermola, who had loved only once in his life, having found only one being upon whom he could lavish all the strength of his love, and to whom he had attached all the fibres of his soul, felt that nothing could replace to him this child whom he had loved, and whose loss he could not endure. The grief he felt as he saw the carriage which contained Radionek drive away, it is impossible to describe. It was not a violent and passionate despair, nor a tempest of regrets, desires, and bitterness; but it was a feeling vast, deep, bitter, deadly as poison, slow and cold as the mountain ices. His weeping eyes dried suddenly, and became haggard, strange, constantly fixed in the same direction. He heard nothing, thought nothing. An indescribable confusion filled his brain, which seemed enveloped in the mazes of a black and tangled thread. He had lost all consciousness of self, all strength and will to act; he stood there petrified, half frozen, on the threshold, his hand extended, his lips parted, and remained there thus a long, very long time, without taking any account of the moments or the hours, letting the time go by without feeling it. Huluk, who was a good boy, finding that he could not rouse Iermola from this stunned condition either by taking hold of his hand or calling him in a loud voice,--for the old man did not hear, and would not have understood him if he had heard,--ran to the widow's house for help. The good woman came immediately, somewhat agitated, and severely blaming the old man for what she called his want of sense. "You act like a child," she said. "How can you be so silly at your age? You ought to rejoice at Radionek's good fortune." She began to lecture him in this way from a distance as soon as she could see him; but as she drew nearer, she perceived with fright that he could not hear her; he did not move his head, and gave no sign of life. His eyes were turned toward the oak-trees, his mouth hanging open, his head bent down, his hands extended, stiff, and already almost benumbed. The cossack's widow ran to him, began to rub him hard, and at the same time to talk to him, sparing him neither hard words nor reproaches, for she did not know what else to do. "Have you really gone crazy, old idiot? Do you think they have taken him away to butcher him? For shame! for shame! Ask God's pardon; it is a real sin." But she was obliged to scold and shake him a long time before she saw life or consciousness return. At last he burst into tears, began to sob, to murmur indistinct words, and finally his reason revived. "It is all over," he said; "all my happiness is over. I no longer have my darling, my treasure, my Radionek. He is now a rich and powerful lord at Malyczki; but at my house there is no child, and there will never again be one there." Then he began to break up his pitchers and porringers and his working implements, and threw them out of the door. "What good will all this be to me? I want to return to my former life, to forget that the child was mine, that I had a son. I know what they will do with him; they will spoil him and turn his head. Radionek will be lost to me. The sweet child will never more speak to me and give me loving smiles as he used to do; he will always sigh for their handsome house, their plastered house. He will be cold in my hut; the fresh water and hard bread will not seem good to him; Iermola will be to him only a garrulous, insupportable old grumbler. Oh, I have been weak and mean-spirited! I have been crazy. I should have run away,--run far away with him to some place where they would not have been able to find us, and where they could not have taken him from me." The cossack's widow listened and shrugged her shoulders; from time to time she tried to say a kind word to him, but she knew that it is necessary always to allow a great grief to vent and exhaust itself, so she let Iermola cry and groan. At every step the old man came upon something to remind him of the child, in the room which was still so full of mementos of him. Here was his drugget cloak; there a little painted pitcher which he had made himself, the first vase, glazed and ornamented with flowers, which he had so lovingly made, his square cap with a red border, of the Polesian fashion, and in a corner, the little bench upon which he loved to sit, the porringer from which he ate his meals, the goat he played with, and which was bleating because it did not see him. "Oh, I must end it all by bursting my head against the wall!" cried Iermola. "How can I live without him? I feel as if my child were dead." The widow, who now began to be frightened because she thought that Iermola's grief was not of the kind which would soon subside, sent Huluk to beg Chwedko to come immediately to the old inn. Chwedko, being warned of what was going on, and considering brandy as the greatest possible comforter, took care to take with him a bottle full of it. He began by talking pleasantly and even congratulating his old friend, then he compared in a melancholy way the old man's attachment for Radionek to that he bore his gray mare; then having exhausted all his eloquence, and not knowing what else to do, he drew the bottle from his pouch and set it on the table. At the sight of it Iermola's eyes sparkled; he seized the bottle and emptied it at one draught. But man has moments of internal upheaval, so deep and so intense that the effect of things with which he comes in contact is no longer manifested according to the general laws of nature. The human being who has reached such a state of excessive excitement and agony no longer feels either hunger or cold, and will even be proof against poison; as, for instance, in the heat of battle, a soldier will take, without becoming intoxicated, an enormous quantity of liquor, which ordinarily would certainly have laid him on the ground. Just so it was with Iermola, who wished to get drunk and could not succeed, for he felt no inconvenience or stupefaction, in spite of the large quantity of brandy he had swallowed. "What a head he must have to stand a pint of strong gin!" murmured Chwedko, with a sort of respect. "It is not his head which is strong; it is his grief," said the widow, in a low voice. "Give him a bucketful of it now, and you would not make him tipsy; grief keeps him awake." As the evening came on, they made every effort to induce him to spend the night at the widow's cottage, but they could not persuade him to do so. The old man seated himself again on the door-sill, and began to muse and sigh with his eyes fixed on the oaks. The two neighbours were compelled by urgent business to return home, Chwedko remembering that it was time to water his mare, and the widow having to prepare her supper and milk her cow. They were both obliged to leave him; and Huluk, the poor orphan, was left alone with him, weeping. The evening advanced; night came on, and still Iermola did not move from the spot. He slept there a few moments, for sorrow had overcome him. Then he wakened suddenly and remained so, still motionless. Huluk, suffering for the want of sleep, watched over him and kept up a low wailing. It was about the first cock-crowing when a shadow of some one moving fell suddenly upon the threshold of the cabin. Huluk, who had the eyes of a lynx, immediately recognized Radionek, who was running along the road leading from Malyczki. The old man had not seen him, but he had felt his coming; he trembled, looked around, and cried, "Radionek!" "Yes, it is I, my father." "It is you, my good child; ah, the Lord be praised! I was dying without you, do you see, and you have come to bring me back to life. But how did you come? On foot?" "On foot, father. Did I not know the road? And why should I be afraid to walk at night?" "Did you come alone?" "With my stick." "And did they give you permission to come?" "Bah! I did not ask it. They put me to bed, but I was so troubled I could not close my eyes. I cannot tell you how anxious I was; I felt obliged to come back to you. And when the morning comes and they do not find me, they will know well enough where to look for me." Iermola, as he embraced him, felt his strength and presence of mind return, and he quickly revived. "Huluk," he cried in a glad, strong voice, "the poor child is doubtless cold; he is hungry too. Surely they could not have given him anything to eat. Light the fire. Is there anything to eat? I also feel as if my stomach was empty." "How astonishing!" murmured the boy; "yesterday neither of them ate one mouthful." "Ah, that is true, upon my word." "I will light the fire myself, father, and get your breakfast ready," said Radionek. "Let me wait upon you as I used to do." "Ah, no, no, my child! sit down beside me; tomorrow they will take you away again. Do not leave me, I beg you. But you are cold out here; the dew is falling. Come inside, my child." When the fire kindled by Huluk began to light up the room with its bright red flames, the old man, as he looked at Radionek, perceived that his parents, although they had not had time to change his dress entirely, had nevertheless considerably altered his costume. His mother had found for him in her closet a fine white shirt, had tied a pretty cravat around his neck, had washed, combed, and curled his beautiful golden hair, had fastened a girdle round his waist, put one of his father's caps on his head, and poured over his clothing a perfumed essence. These changes in the child's dress seemed to Iermola so many signs of abjuration, of bondage, so many new fetters belonging to his new position; he sighed as he examined them, though the child was charming to look at in this half-altered costume. They were silent for a moment, for the old man had grown sad again; he gazed at the child, and was troubled as he thought of the future. "To-morrow," said he to himself, "they will come for him, and take him away again; the poor child will not be able to come back to me any more,--they will keep a strict watch over him. Who knows, perhaps they may punish him for having returned to comfort his old father.--Are you happier with them?" he asked after a moment. "Give me at least the comfort of knowing that you are happy." "I was comfortable; but I was sad," answered the boy. "My grandfather's body is laid out on a bed; the priests are chanting in the great hall. My mother kept me by her side all day and asked me all about what I did here. She made me tell her all about our life; she clasped her hands and cried, and every moment she thanked you and thanked God. They gave me something to eat, petted me, and kissed me. They wanted to change my clothes entirely, but I begged them so hard not to do it that at last they let me alone; but they have sent for a tailor to make me some new clothes. My father said"--that name, given by Radionek to the lord Jan Druzyna, struck sadly on the poor man's ears--"my father said that he should get a tutor to instruct me; and he has given me a pretty horse." "God grant that you may always be happy there!" sighed the old man. "I am sure they will love you; but I am also sure that you will more than once long for our cabin and the peaceful days you spent in it." They would thus have passed the rest of the night, talking and without sleeping, if Iermola, fearing Radionek might be sick, had not made him go to bed; he then sat down beside him to watch over him and see him sleep. In the morning the anxious father came; and though he did not scold the child, he told him in a gentle voice of the dreadful fright his imprudence had caused his mother. This made Radionek sad; he looked down and made no reply. "To prevent the recurrence of such an adventure," said Druzyna, "we will take Iermola to Malyczki; there is a vacant room in the house, and we will care for him as he has cared for you." "No, no!" answered the old man, shaking his head, "I will not go to live with you; I love my child dearly, but I will not go. I am now accustomed to being my own master; it would be hard for me to eat the bread of dependence in my old age. I should soon repent of the change and get tired of it. Some one or other would laugh at me, would say something to wound me; that would cause me suffering, and trouble the child too. Your servants have no respect for strangers; they would think they were doing me a favour. No, a thousand times no! I will stay here." It was in vain that Radionek's father begged, supplicated, and endeavoured to persuade the old man. Iermola kissed his child and pressed him in his arms, kept him by his side, wept over him, blessed him, and at last sat down on the door-sill as though awaiting death. Very strange indeed are often the destinies of men and the decrees of God. In some cases the thread of life breaks, though spun of pure gold and shining silk; in others, neither pain nor sorrow can succeed in breaking the black, shadowy thread which they shake with their cruel hands. Iermola survived the separation, and could not die. He was sick; he grew old again; he stooped, and became gloomy and taciturn; he entered upon another phase of life; but his vital forces, which he had not squandered, still sustained him. Fate had deprived him of everything but seeing the child at a distance, the power of tormenting himself, of longing, and of comforting himself with memories. After Radionek was gone, he gave up his trade of potter, giving up all his implements and materials to Huluk, who had learned something from watching him work. For his part, he contented himself henceforth in his garden and in the little home he had made for himself, spending his days sometimes dreaming and musing in the room where he had reared his child, sometimes in making long visits and holding long talks with his friend, the widow. She was the only person, in fact, who really understood him and would listen to him patiently. The similarity of their positions had established a real sympathy between them. He was filled with compassion for her, because she was deprived of the presence of Horpyna, who since she had become a great lady no longer came to see her mother; and she mourned and longed for Radionek almost as much as he did himself. They spent long hours talking together before the fire, recalling happy times, and though they had a hundred times repeated the same story, each of them knew how to listen patiently when the same chain of remembrances fell again from their lips. "Do you remember how pretty my Horpyna was when she dressed herself on Sunday to go to the _cerkiew?_ You would not recognize her now, since she has nursed her five children, she is so thin and changed, though she eats fine white bread and leads the life of a great lady. Oh, it is not a healthy life; the body and the soul perish together." "And my Radionek," answered the old man, "wasn't he much prettier with his little _sukmane_ and his shaved head, than in the fine clothes they make him wear now?" At first Radionek came every day to see his foster-father, sometimes alone, sometimes with a servant, or with either his father or mother; after a while he only came to Popielnia in a carriage on Sunday. At last he came no longer; and the old man about once a month, when his desire to see his child became insupportable, would drag himself along with the aid of his stick to the places frequented by his beloved charge, hoping to see him, if only for a moment at a distance. At first also, Radionek would rush to the old man as soon as he saw him; no one could stop him, so intense was his feeling and so swift his motion. Then when Iermola would send in his name, he would be obliged to wait a moment; gradually he would have to wait sometimes an hour; and it happened once that after having waited all day long at the door, he did not see his child, and went away in tears. They took him to the farm and gave him something to eat; but it was not bodily nourishment which the old man needed, it was the pleasure of seeing and having his child once more, of feasting and living in his presence, which alone could satisfy him and restore peace and comfort to his home. Iermola did not complain; he knew very well that his child, his dear child, was not to blame for this neglect and desertion; that Radionek's parents and tutors endeavoured by every means in their power to make him forget the existence of his adoptive father; and that the child, whenever he could see him, would whisper to him with tears that he would like to run away and go back to Popielnia. XVII. IN BONDAGE. Iermola's pupil was soon scarcely to be recognized; the hearty village child when dressed in the costume of the nobility, fed on choice and delicate food, and shut up between four walls quickly began to grow pale and dwindle away. And although he had grown rapidly tall and slender, he was like a tall frail plant which the least breath of wind could overturn. His mother mourned over him; even his father became anxious. They redoubled their care and attention to him and endeavoured to amuse him; but the more they surrounded him with care and assiduous precautions, the sadder and weaker the boy became. Often during his lesson hours, or when receiving the tenderest caresses, he would seem dreamy and absent; tears would fill his eyes, and when asked what he wanted, he would only smile to hide his tears. The memory of his former life, of the early years of his childhood spent in the sweet freedom of the fields, in independent work and careless pleasure, now weighed upon the child's heart like a mountain of stone; the change in his existence, so violent and grievous, crushed this frail child as a plant which is roughly transplanted. At night, in his dreams, he saw again the hut, the happy mornings he spent turning his pottery, the walks on the river shore and in the woods, those bold excursions, those paths and avenues so constantly frequented in the vicinity and in other villages, in that small world where he felt strong, independent, active, and living his own life. At his father's house he was bound by ties sweet, it is true, but strict and tenacious; he had been, as it were, carried back to his infancy, surrounded by minute recommendations and useless cares. Fears and anxiety were entertained for him; he was not allowed to develop his powers or exercise his will. Deprived as he was of Nature, of the open air and the sunshine to which he had been accustomed, he longed for all of these things as he longed for his old Iermola. He was doubtless comfortable with his father and mother, but he sighed for his old life, his sweet orphan life; and at last these longings and continual struggles affected him seriously, and he fell ill. His parents, not understanding the child's real state of mind, irritated the wound, instead of healing it; attributing his sad, languid condition to the old man's influence, they endeavoured to keep him away from Radionek, thus making a great mistake and doing a great injustice. But the more they sought to detach the child from old Iermola, the more he clung to him with all the strength of his affection; indignation at the injustice which was done him, the ingratitude which was shown him, was added to his feelings of pity and affection, and oppressed his heart. He dared not say anything in the presence of his father, whose severity resembled that of the grandfather; and he saw plainly that his love for the old man grieved his mother, who was jealous of it, reproaching her son on this account as though it were a weakness and a sin. A very important event soon made a change in Radionek's life; a little brother was added to the family, who was named Wladzio, on whom the father and mother lavished most of the tenderness they had formerly bestowed upon their first-born, soon allowing him to see their changed feelings toward him, and frequently rallying him about Iermola. All these influences united quickly sufficed to break down the strength of this child, who had once developed so freely and so happily, and who was now oppressed by his dependent and miserable position. Radionek, formerly so frank, jovial, and gay, had become dreamy, timid, and sad; he passed whole nights weeping over his lost happiness,--the happiness of the days spent with the old man he so dearly loved. His heart felt like breaking when he would see Iermola come dragging himself along on foot, leaning on his stick, all the way from Popielnia to Malyczki, then stop at the stairway, and wait like a beggar for the favour of seeing his child. If he was allowed to come in, servants were there to see that Radionek was not moved to pity, did not talk too much, did not stay too long, and did not complain of any one; and often, very often, the poor child was forced to content himself with seeing the old man through the window. The old man spent long hours leaning against the columns of the stairway. The servants pushed him away or teased him, then sent him off without pity; and finally at twilight he would go away toward his own house, his head bowed, and looking behind him every moment. Then Radionek would weep, tremble, and become feverish; and the increase of his ailments was attributed to Iermola's importunate conduct, since even without communicating with him, he agitated and grieved him by his presence. Humiliating and bitter as it was to have been tutor and father, and now to be only a wretched and famished beggar, waiting at the door for a little pity and tenderness, the old man complained of nothing. He uttered no bitter reproaches, no abuse, though well-merited; he kept silence and concealed his grief so as to avoid, if possible, being sent away entirely. But when they had driven him away two or three times in succession without allowing him to see his child, he returned oftener, was obstinate in his purpose and in his sad patience, until he would finally succeed in catching Radionek as he passed by. And when he saw the pretty face grow paler and paler, the beautiful eyes more and more weary, when he heard the languid, plaintive voice,--he felt his indignation boil over and rage like a tempest. But the knowledge of his feeble old age, his weakness, and the poverty and contempt which were crushing him, did not allow him even to dream of making any resistance. And so things went from bad to worse. The young mother, delighted with her little Wladzio, grew more and more weary of the faults and weaknesses of his brother; the father threatened and scolded in vain. Then they tried a change of treatment; cares and caresses were doubled, and physicians were sent for. One of them had the wisdom to recommend for the child frequent exercise in the sun and open air; the other, perceiving traces of grief, counselled them to try moral influences. And every time Radionek's ailments were enumerated, Iermola was always blamed for them. At last, Jan Druzyna, anxious and unhappy, having had a long struggle with himself, resolved to get rid of the importunate old man once for all. One morning, according to his custom, Iermola, who for three weeks had seen his dear child only on rare occasions, through the window, though he had dragged himself every day to Malyczki, had gained entrance to the door, and driven away with his stick the dogs which the grooms of the pack had set upon him. The servants, previously instructed to worry him and rid the house of him, tried to drive him away; but the old man refused to allow them to do so. He remained there till toward noon, silent, gloomy, always expectant, like Lazarus at the rich man's gate. Then Jan Druzyna, weary and irritated by the sight of this sad-looking apparition, which seemed a living reproach to him, came out of the house and went himself to encounter Iermola. "My dear fellow," said he to him in a short, dry tone, and seating himself on a bench midway of the stairway, "for several days now I have seen you here constantly; why are you so obstinate about staying here? Why do you wish to torment our child every moment for nothing? Tell me, what do you want? We will give you anything in our power, only do not disturb our peace. You say you love our child; then do not torment him. The sight of you agitates him, grieves him, and prevents his becoming attached to us; do you not think you ought to understand this, and be more reasonable? If you think by acting in this way that you will get the better of us, you are mistaken. Tell me now what you want, and put an end to this." "But, my lord, I want nothing,--nothing but to see my child, to kiss him and bless him," answered Iermola, with still more humility and gentleness. "You see, it is high time that you should give up these ideas, which are only follies. You brought him up; we have been willing to repay you for that. Now that is all over; the child has returned to us. Let him remain in peace. You love him, so you say, yet you make him unhappy." "Who? I, my lord?" "Yes, you, certainly. See how he is changed; he is withering away and consumed with fever." "And it is I,--I,--who am the cause of it, my lord?" "Assuredly it is not us." "It is you,--it is you who are killing him," then cried the old man, his patience all exhausted. "I gave him back to you happy, vigorous, in good health; you have shut him up, destroyed his strength, and made him miserable and sad. The child loves me, and he has reason to love me. If he did not, he would be heartless; and you,--you do all you can to teach him ingratitude." "Are you beside yourself, old man?" cried Jan Druzyna, in a rage. "What do you mean? How dare you answer? Go off; go off immediately, and never think of stepping your foot in this house again, for you will be driven out of it." At these words Iermola turned pale, trembled, was seized with fright, and tried to speak; but words failed him. "You drive me away," said he at last. "I shall go away, since you order me to do so; and my feet will never again cross your door-sill. Remember, remember, unjust man, that as you have taken the child from me, God, who judges and punishes, will take him away from you." Having uttered this terrible imprecation, which the mother heard just as she was hastening to restrain her husband, and which caused her to recoil, frightened and fainting, Iermola, desperate and beside himself, making use of the remnant of his strength, fled down the stairway and crossed the great courtyard without turning his head to look behind him. After a few moments Jan Druzyna recovered himself. He realized his wrong-doing; and the prophetic words of the old man began to weigh upon his heart. The sight of the old man, who was rapidly disappearing from sight in the distance, was a cruel reproach to him. Not knowing what to do, he rushed into the house and entered just in time to receive his fainting wife in his arms. She wished to go for Radionek and send him after Iermola, to soothe his anger, and bring him back to her family, but when she entered the child's room she found him on the floor, cold and pale as marble, and before any one could revive him, Iermola was already far away. When night came, the poor man dragged himself wearily to the house of his old friend the widow, to whom he wished to make his lament and tell everything. He had not seen her for a week, for every morning early he had started for Malyczki; he therefore did not know that the poor woman had been very ill for three days. He had scarcely put his foot inside the door when he saw that according to custom the glass had been taken out of the windows, a coffin placed in the middle of the room, and a little way off the brotherhood with their banners, the cross, and the priest with the book, were coming to the burial. Then Iermola, like one waking from a dream, gazed a long, long time upon the coffin, knelt down, and began to pray. "She too! she too!" he murmured. "Come, it is time for me to die." He felt the chill of evil foreboding run through his veins. "But first," said he, "we must go with her to the cemetery and throw a handful of dust on her coffin." Silent and sad, he stood a moment near the door, leaning on his stick; then he joined the funeral procession, in which there was neither daughter nor son-in-law nor grandson, only the servants, the neighbours, and distant relatives of the deceased. The cemetery was situated about halfway between the _dwor_ and Iermola's dwelling; toward this spot, therefore, the funeral procession moved. In the dim twilight the long line of tapers borne in the hands of the brotherhood were reflected above on the moving folds of the banners. Chwedor had already dug the grave; a great heap of yellow clay was piled up on the edge of it. The priest blessed it and made a sign to lay the body of the widow within it; then each of those present threw in a handful of sand and murmured a last farewell. Iermola paid this last duty with much feeling; then, half beside himself, he slowly took the road back to his hut. There was no longer any reason why he should hasten there now. Huluk, who considered himself already quite the master of the house and the little business, and who, although good-hearted, really began to find Iermola somewhat in his way, was at this moment leaning against the doorway, dreaming of a future full of glad, ambitious hopes. It seemed to him that if Iermola were no longer there, he could so easily take possession of the pottery kiln and the little garden, marry little Pryska, and become a master-workman in every sense of the word. His old master at first seemed useless to him, then troublesome and in the way. "What news have you for me? Did not the cossack's widow send for me when she was taken sick?" said the old man as he came near. "Yes, certainly, Chwedor came three times of his own accord; she had something to say to you, but you were not here." "Ah, now she can speak no more," replied Iermola, in a mournful, almost indifferent voice, as he entered the house. "What is the use of talking about it? It is all over now. Everything in this world must come to an end." He repeated these words as he walked up and down the room; then he seated himself on one of the benches and began to doze. Huluk then went out, shrugging his shoulders. "What is the old man thinking of?" said he. "Wouldn't it be better for him to go off with a sack and beg? Then I could marry Pryska, and all would go well; but so long as he stays here, how can I think of it? Oh, what a bother!" Confusion and discord now reigned in the chamber which formerly was so clean and well kept; it was easy to see that no one cared for it any longer. Huluk had taken some of the furniture into the next room; the old man had distributed some among his old friends; the rest was scattered here and there and covered with dust. There had been no fire in the stove for a long time; there was no pile of wood in the woodshed, no provisions in the house; a few cooking utensils lay in the corners, dusty and half broken. The old man had no longer any heart to notice all this. When he woke in the morning, he felt as if he could take courage and do something; but after a little while everything seemed so sad, so bitter, so grievous, the hut itself, with all its memories, became so hateful to him, that for the first time he thought of leaving it forever. He could not sit on the door-sill without looking at the clump of oaks under which he had seen, wrapped in his long white clothes, the child who had been the hope and comfort of his old age. These memories were still so fresh and heart-breaking that the old man could not endure them while surrounded by them, and, as it were, fed upon them. "I will go away,--yes, I will; may God pardon them! I will go and wander about the world, grieving and praying," said he; "I will go from church to church praying for my child. What else can I do here? Here there is no longer any place for me; there are no friends for me. With a sack on my back and a stick in my hand I will start out. I can do no good by staying here." He took from his usual hiding-place some silver and copper money, so that in case death should come suddenly on the road or among strangers, enough would be found on his person to bury him decently and pay for a Mass for the repose of his soul; he made up a bundle of clothing and put it on his shoulder, put some linen in two bags which he tied together with cords and threw over his back after the fashion of a beggar's sack, and when thus ready to start, he called Huluk. The latter, as he came out of his room and saw his old master dressed as a beggar, trembled and felt confused, as though his thought had been divined. His heart beat violently; he began to pity Iermola sincerely, to be disgusted with his favourite project for the future and the business. "You see I am going to wander about the world, my child," said the old man, gently. "I leave you all I have; live for God and according to God's command. May God grant you happiness here, a longer happiness than mine! Everything here is yours; if some day I should return, you will not refuse me shelter and a piece of bread. But no one need fear; I shall not trouble any one long." Huluk then burst into tears, and fell at the old man's feet, for this generous gift was a great thing for the poor orphan; and Iermola felt touched when he saw him weeping. "Are you going now?" cried the young man. "What should I do here?" sighed the old man. "They have just buried the widow; Chwedko is ill, and perhaps may never get up again. I have not a single friend now in the whole village, and worse than all, I no longer have my child, my child!" As he spoke, he wiped away his tears, which filled his eyes and flowed over his cheeks; he went forward, stepped over the threshold, and started off, feeling as though he saw everything moving around him,--the fields, the cottages, the hedges, the trees. Huluk watched him go slowly through the village; the dogs that knew him barked around him; then he plunged into the forest and disappeared, taking the road leading to the town. Three days later, when the child, ill in bed, was found to be in real danger; when a physician, wiser than the others and better acquainted with his past life, told his parents plainly that old Iermola must be sent for, that the child must be sent back to his old life, to the work and food to which he had been accustomed,--then the father and mother hastened with him to Popielnia. But what was their astonishment and Radionek's despair when they found that the old man was no longer there, and learned that he had gone away, begging his bread and seeking to forget the past and his sad memories. The terrible and touching grief of the poor foster-father at last moved the hearts of the parents, who had been too slow to recognize their error, and were beyond measure frightened by the tears and regrets of the child, thunder-struck and desperate at the disappearance of his father. Messengers were sent in every direction to bring Iermola back, but they returned disappointed; all their efforts had been fruitless. The parents, then going back to their first opinion, were not really sorry; they said to themselves that in the end Radionek would forget. But Radionek, who had been called Jules since his return to his parents' house, continued to grow weaker, and faded away in spite of the tenderest care; nothing interested or amused him. He did not complain, he even tried to smile; but he was silent and sad. It was evident that he was longing for something; an indefinable and unknown malady wore him away by degrees. He seemed to find a little pleasure only when allowed to wander alone in the garden or the woods, or when permitted to ride on horseback; but his parents, being anxious lest these airings were too lonely and tiresome for the child, kept him always near them. XVIII. THE LAST JOURNEY. Iermola, after leaving the dwelling where he had lived so long, wandered from church to church, from village to village; he went, came, moved constantly from place to place, exposed to a thousand new privations, endeavouring to accustom himself to this wandering life, which nevertheless had its charm for the bereaved man, who had conceived a hatred and disgust for his little paternal corner. But the sorrow followed him,--a slow, ineradicable sorrow, the result of the remembrance of his joy, of his broken hopes and the sweet and bitter memory of Radionek, his dear child. If only Radionek at least could be happy! But in the few moments when the old man had been permitted to be near him, the poor old fellow had not only caught sight of traces of grief and heart-heaviness on his child's face, but he also perceived his weariness and sorrow in the least word he spoke, referring to the dreams and memories of the past. Radionek's eyes always filled with tears whenever he spoke of Popielnia and the happy days spent in the old inn, around the kiln making pottery; more than once significant words such as, "Oh, if those times could only return!" escaped him. A more intense agitation always disturbed the old man, whenever he thought of Radionek. He felt that his parents, while accustoming him to his new life, would weaken him by excess of care and tenderness or chill him by severity and coldness. His father and mother loved him doubtless, but their affection was very different from that of poor Iermola; accustomed as they were to the severe manner of their old father, they treated the child coldly and sternly, though loving him tenderly in the bottom of their hearts. Moreover, they did not know how to treat him, how to approach him, even what to say to him; for they had never been petted and cared for since they were born. Radionek did not understand them well, and feared them very much. In a word, his adoptive father was a real father to him; his own father seemed to him more like an adoptive one. The farther the old man went from Popielnia and Malyczki, the more terrible became his sad forebodings and anxiety; so one day he turned aside from his route and went back nearer to his dear child, and resolved firmly to see him once more, if only at a distance, or at least to learn what he was doing and hear something about him. It seemed that his old limbs renewed their strength in order to make this journey; he had never felt so well, and though he had to go at least three leagues, he made them in one day, and at night reached the domain of Malyczki. In order to reach the inn where he had to find lodging, even at the risk of being recognized he was obliged to go through the village. Doing so, he passed by Procope's cabin, and to his astonishment he found it ruined and deserted, the garden overgrown with wild grasses and brushwood, the old pear-tree which shaded the kiln, withered and broken, and the kiln itself fallen in and covered with briers, and looking like ruins after a fire. It was evident that no one lived any longer in the cabin, for the window had been taken out of it; a part of the roof was gone; but the door, still shut and bolted, prevented any one's entering. It was easy to understand this desertion; Procope's daughter lived in a larger and better furnished cabin near by. His son-in-law, though he cultivated the old man's land, had not needed this dwelling; he had found no tenant to keep it up, and consequently the old house, abandoned by the servant shortly after the old man's death, soon went to ruin. A strange, new thought then came into Iermola's mind. "Suppose I rent this house; suppose I settle myself here," said he to himself. "In this way I might succeed in seeing my child. Who would know I was here? Perhaps they would not recognize me; perhaps they might not even see me; and if I did not see my Radionek often, I could at least go under his window at night." As he thus spoke, his eyes filled with tears; he stopped and was thinking of and regretting Procope, when a female voice, coming from a neighbouring garden where they were gathering hemp, called out to him,-- "See here, old father, why do you stop there in the road? You will be run over; look, the wagons are coming down the mountain." Iermola raised his eyes and recognized the village woman who was speaking to him; she was Nascia herself, Procope's daughter, who, with some young girls, was working in her garden. Evidently she had not recognized him; and judging by her kindly warning that she must be pleasant and good-natured, Iermola, after reflecting a few moments, approached her. Nascia was a woman in the prime of life, pink, smiling, large, healthy, and well-built, having a handsome, regular face, somewhat too round perhaps, but even with this defect a perfect type of village beauty. Her colour was bright, her eyes black; her coral lips spoke of happiness, light-heartedness, and strength; and her white teeth, which showed plainly when she smiled, gleamed like mother-of-pearl beside her slightly brown cheeks. She was really good, energetic, charitable, and compassionate, though a little coquettish; a faithful wife and tender mother, though she was very fond of laughing and joking. Her husband, the son of Kolenick, the richest labouring-man in the village,--a short man, pale, slim, sickly, and languid,--respected her as he did his patron saint and feared her as he did the fire; yet he loved her dearly, and would have been ready to die for her always. "You do not recognize me, Nascia Kolesnikowa," said the old man, in a low voice, as he approached her. "I am Iermola, whom you know very well; you remember the man who learned to make pottery under Procope, your father." "What? Is this you carrying a beggar's sack? What can have happened to you? You had a trade and something laid by. But then old age--" "Oh, there is a long story to tell you. You remember, of course, that I brought up your master's son?" "I know all about it; people did nothing but talk about it." "Well, they have taken him away from me." "Bless me! what would you have them do? He was their child, not yours." "But my good Nascia, wasn't he a little mine too? And now they will not even allow me to see him, as if I went there, God help me! to cast a spell over my poor dear boy. So I am tired of living. No one will receive me here; at Popielnia I am all alone,--no one is left to me; even my neighbour, the cossack's widow, has lately died. Now I have left, and I go wandering about the world." "Poor old man, are you then so grieved at having lost your child?" "Oh, Nascia, he was my all, my joy, my life; and they had no pity on me, they took him away from me. Then he began to droop and dwindle away; God only knows what will become of him. They will not let me go near him. Tell me, have those people the fear of God in their hearts? The lord drove me away himself, and forbade my putting foot on his estate." "Is it possible?" "I swear it to you by the wounds of Christ; he drove me away without pity." "He has the blood of the old chief of squadron. He will be like his beloved father," said Nascia, in a low voice, looking behind her to be sure that no one heard her. "How could they be so unjust thus to drive away their friend, their benefactor!" "Therefore as I have said to you, there was nothing left for me but to drag myself about from place to place. But when I began my wanderings, I was again seized with such an intense desire to see my child that I could not stand it, and I came back to get one more look at him." "And have you seen him?" "No, I have just gotten here; I do not know even where to find shelter." "Come, come into our house!" "God bless you, Nascia, and reward you by blessing your children! But I cannot accept your offer; some one would see me at your house and go and tell them. I do not want them to know at the _dwor_ that I am here; I will go away after I have seen the child, even if I only see him at a distance. But tell me, is Procope's cabin vacant?" "Certainly it is; we have not repaired it, because after the servant went away, we could not find a tenant. When it falls down entirely, the garden will be much larger." "But until it tumbles down?" "Oh, well, it will remain as it is." "If you will allow me to stay there only one week, I will pay you rent for it." Nascia burst into a laugh. "Why should you pay," said she, "for the pleasure of lodging in a hole, in a ruin? Why, you will on the contrary do my Sydor a service, for he has an idea of repairing the cabin. If he could have found some one to stay there and keep it up, it would have lasted much longer. If you think of staying in it, I will send you the window which we had taken out of the frame and laid aside for fear some one should steal it. Will that suit you?" "Do you really mean it? You are not joking?" said Iermola, in a tone of glad surprise. "Quite the contrary. I have not the slightest desire to joke." "Then may God protect and bless you!" cried the old man, clasping his hands. "You will see that I shall take good care of the old house; I will clean it up and repair it, and in return I will wait upon you whenever you wish me to do so. Oh, I shall be much happier here! I shall at least be near my child; I shall hear from him." "Come, then, it is all settled. Sydor will be pleased too; there is nothing more to be said. As for me, I shall be pleased if you will only look after the garden a little." "I will not only look after it, I will take care of it myself; you will see, I will put a beautiful, strong enclosure round it, provided I can find enough small boughs near by." "That will be nice, very nice," said Nascia, with a joyous smile; "now come, take supper with us. You can have a talk with my husband and bring back the window, and as I will give you a little dry wood to light a fire in the old fireplace and drive away the dampness, you can sleep to-night in your cabin." As she spoke, Nascia began to gather up her bundles of hemp, then called a servant, and singing a village song in a loud clear voice, she walked slowly along toward her cabin, not taking the narrow path over the foot-bridge which led from one garden to the other, but the public road, because she was so loaded down with her hemp. Sydor Kolenick's cabin was situated just on the edge of the public road, at the entrance of the second lane, so that the farther ends of the two gardens touched; it was spacious, solid, and quite new. At a glance one could see that the household was comfortable and flourishing. The principal room was large and handsome; great gilded images were hung in one corner; the table, large and clean, was covered with a perfectly white cloth, and there was on it a large golden loaf, well baked, and covered with a fine napkin. The pewter and earthen pitchers, pails, and tubs were whole, shining, and new as if they had just come from the market; everything, indeed, was clean, dainty, substantial, cheerful, and comfortable. The master of the house alone was unlike his wife and his surroundings; small, thin, withered, stunted, wretched-looking, with a red eye, a cloth tied round his jaws, and a beard unshaven for three weeks, he looked forty years old, though he had not yet reached thirty. "Here is old Iermola from Popielnia," said Nascia to her husband, who, seated near the fire, was smoking his pipe to cure his toothache; "he offers to rent Procope's hut, and in addition to work the garden, if you will kindly agree to take him as a tenant." "Iermola, ah, yes! I remember him. How do you do, old father, and what are you doing here?" said Sydor, his mouth full of saliva and speaking with difficulty. Nascia did not allow the old man time to reply, for to all her other good qualities she added the gift of extraordinarily earnest and fluent eloquence. She began at once to relate Iermola's history; and as Sydor had a compassionate heart and was easily influenced by his wife's impressions, he was immediately filled with pity for the old man's forlorn situation, and sitting down beside him on the bench, began to chat with him. "And what ails you?" said Iermola, suddenly, remembering that he had formerly dispensed remedies in the village. "Perhaps I could cure you." "I do not know whether it is my teeth or my jawbone which gives me so much pain. At first one of my decayed teeth began to hurt me; and now my whole head and face burns and seems ready to burst, I suffer so." "Have you never tried the remedy, rather disagreeable, but sometimes very good, of smoking a pipe of moss from the oak-trees instead of tobacco?" "No, really." "The only thing is to be careful about choosing the moss," said Iermola. "Are there any oak-trees near you?" "Yes, indeed; the courtyard is full of them." Iermola went out immediately to look for some; he had no trouble in finding a good handful, dried it, picked out the straws and fragments of bark, then filled a pipe with it, and presented it to the suffering Sydor. The pipe was scarcely lighted before a strong disagreeable odour filled the room and made Nascia sneeze violently; but either from this effect of the remedy or because the pain was coming to an end, Sydor soon ceased to suffer and moan, and the couple could not thank the old man sufficiently. Then the patient's face began to swell, but this was the natural consequence of the disease. "Let it swell," said Sydor, "provided I have no more pain. A while ago I was ready to burst my head open against the wall." Thus, thanks to a handful of moss, Iermola had been able to make a friend. Nascia gave him the window which had been taken out, some kindling-wood to light the fire in his stove, and bits of pine to burn instead of a torch. Then she made him eat his supper; and remembering that he would need something the next day, she filled a pot for him, after which Iermola went away, happy and well pleased, to occupy his new dwelling. There is nothing so sad as an empty, solitary house after the dead owner has passed away; one seems to feel the presence of the corpse everywhere. Procope's cottage had been deserted for several months. Dampness and mildew had begun to invade it; small mushrooms had sprung up in the corners; a few grains of grass-seed and wheat, thrown by the wind into the cracks and crevices, sent up their frail stalks, yellow and pale for want of air and light; the moisture stood in drops upon the walls; the ground-floor was covered with gray mosses; and numberless insects had made their nests among the rubbish. But it all seemed endurable and comfortable to Iermola; and he was ready to remedy everything, to find compensations and resources for himself, happy and comforted as he was by the fact of being near his child and the hope of seeing him again. He put in the window, lighted the fire, swept and cleared the floor, opened the door, repaired and set up as well as he could two old benches, then having spread his bags on the floor, he laid down upon them, impatient to rest after the long tramp he had taken over an uneven, woody, and sandy road. He spent the whole of the next day in repairing and cleaning up his room; he helped Nascia to work her garden; and in the evening he went in the direction of the _dwor_, the situation and extent of which he knew perfectly well. He had waited till the twilight came on, so that no one would recognize him, and he avoided going on the side next the great courtyard, where so often he had been so inhospitably received; but he took a foot-path winding round the orchard, and also took the further precaution to wear his beggar's costume and sack. From this narrow path, which separated the garden from the farm buildings, he could plainly see the broad garden walk, the _dwor_, and the lawn where Radionek walked oftenest. He was allowed to play here alone, because the orchard, not very large, was surrounded by a strong, high hedge, and consequently the child could not go out. But at this moment the garden was empty; and Iermola, looking anxiously through the openings in the hedges, could see no one but the gardener. There was a light, however, in Radionek's room; the old man gazed at the light, sighed, and went away. His heart, however, felt much lighter since he had been near his child, and by consequence able to be of aid to him. He found he had regained sufficient strength to take an interest in his small household; and he now felt refreshed and went back to bed almost joyfully. On his return he saw that Nascia had not forgotten his supper, for he found on the stove a small pot, well covered up, full of oatmeal gruel, enough to last him two days. The next day was passed in the same way; and Iermola took care to go to the _dwor_ every day, and at last had the happiness to see Radionek walking all alone in the garden just on the other side of the hedge. "Radionek," he cried, "for the love of God, come and speak to me; say something, if only one word!" At the sound of the well-known voice, though so low and stifled the tone, the boy trembled, stopped, and then with one bound leaped to the top of the hedge. "My father," he cried, "is it you? What are you doing here?" "Be still, be still; do not betray me! I came to see you." "How long since you came?" "A few days ago." "Where are you staying?" "In Procope's old hut. Oh, do not betray me! Be careful, my son; we shall see each other every evening." Radionek trembled and flushed with pleasure; but at that moment some one approached, a voice sounded in the garden. The old man disappeared; and Jules pretended to his parents that he had wandered there to look for birds' nests. They reproved him gently for having, by jumping, exposed himself to falling, and then took him back to the house, fearing for him the freshness of the evening air and the dew. No one, however, remarked the change which had come over the child; Radionek, extremely agitated, did not sleep the whole night. The next day he would not play anywhere but in the walks of the garden. Iermola did not fail to come in the evening. They found a place where the hedge was not so thick, and they could talk more conveniently. But they could not talk long; and the old man went away discontented and troubled. His heart, full of a great joy, was having a struggle with his conscience; Radionek was begging and pleading with him to take him away with him, to fly with him far away from Malyczki, for the life he was leading had become insupportable to him. His parents' affection was becoming more and more weaned from him every day, and was bestowed instead upon his brother. He had ceased to be their pet, their darling; he was becoming almost a burden and a nuisance to them. They scolded him for his wild ways, his sadness, his weakness, and his ill health; they called him teasingly the peasant of the family. He possessed everything, it is true, except sympathy, affection, and tenderness; but accustomed as he was to the deep love of his old father, it was this heart-penury which caused him so much suffering. "But how can I take you away?" replied the old man. "They are your parents, after all; they will say I have stolen you away. You have been accustomed with them to have all sorts of dainties; how can I give them to you? Where shall we hide ourselves? They will follow us, and at last they will find us; then we shall both be more wretched than ever." But the child had his answer for all these questions; and Iermola began to give way. His parents did not love him as his adoptive father had loved him; how could he live with them? He did not need dainties or choice and delicate food, for he would steal the servants' coarse, black bread, which reminded him of the simple meals of his early years; and several times he had been mocked at and punished because he preferred that coarse, common food. It would be easy to hide themselves, he added, by going far, far away into some unknown country. Who would recognize him if he wore the dress of a peasant,--a coarse drugget stable coat, for instance? At the thought of this bold plan, this sudden deliverance, Iermola's soul was filled with hope and happiness; but he soon grew sad again as he thought of the impossibility of putting it into execution, and felt honest, conscientious scruples arise within him. Suppose he should happen to die on the way, to whose care should he leave the child? Was it wise or just to snatch him from his family and from a sure and peaceful future? The old man began to reproach himself for having come, for having disturbed poor Radionek; he thought of running away from the village, so as not to expose the child to further trial. He meant to go away at once. He felt that Radionek exercised over him an influence more and more powerful; but that evening when they were talking together near the garden hedge, he must have betrayed himself entirely by some imprudent word or the trembling and tearful tone of his voice, for the boy took leave of him sadly and silently, and the old man did not suspect then that Radionek had taken a firm and definite resolve. The old vagabond had scarcely returned to his cabin when he began by the light of his pine torch to collect his clothes and bundle them into his sack. He was still occupied with this task when the door suddenly opened, and a young peasant of slight figure rushed into the room. The old man did not at first recognize him who had concealed himself under this humble garb; but his heart beat violently, and then he uttered a cry. It was Radionek, dressed in the clothes he had taken from one of the valets at the _dwor_. The poor old frightened father clasped his hands in terror and trembled all over as he saw his child. "Do not be frightened, father, it is I; I have come back to you," cried Radionek, throwing himself on his neck. "Be quick, be quick! let us go before they find I have run away. Put some bread in your sack; we will plunge into the forest, and by to-morrow morning they will not be able to overtake us. Somewhere we will find a cottage, some kind people, a river shore, a bank of clay; and we will work and sing and turn pots once more, good father." The old man's speech and breath failed him. "Oh, my child, my child! what have you done?" he answered. "What have I done? Yesterday my father and mother told me that I was not worthy of their care and love. Go, they said to me a hundred times; go back to your old potter whom you love so much, since you sigh so for your old life! We can easily do without you; we are satisfied with Wladzio. You see, they themselves have advised me to do it." It must have been through strong love on the one hand and great weakness on the other that Iermola at last consented to an act which he considered only as a theft; but he had not the strength to resist his child's entreaties. Radionek begged him, kissed him, hugged him, fell on his knees to him. At last the old man lost all power over himself, and taking the child by the hand, rushed from the cabin. XIX. THE DRAMA IN THE FOREST. The night, so dark that one could not see a step before him, was fortunately very mild and perfectly still; there was not a breath of wind. The inhabitants of the village had been asleep a long time; now and then there was the noise of the barking of a dog tied to the door-sill of some cabin, the hoarse song of the cocks who kept watch over the village, and in the distance the cry of the night birds,--owls and screech-owls,--as they answered each other like vigilant guards on sentry duty. The old man and the child passed through the village in silence; they reached the crossroads, crossed themselves before the great crucifix set up on the spot, and took by chance the road which crossed a vast region of marshes and bare brush-wood, beyond which one entered the wood leading to Lithuania. Prudence obliged them to avoid open roads; nevertheless, it was important to go in some certain direction. Iermola, who formerly had been an excellent hunter, easily succeeded in finding his way in the midst of a forest, guiding himself now by the light of the sky and now by the mosses on the trees. In the daytime he knew that he could easily succeed in not getting lost; but he scarcely thought it possible during the night, and not on the beaten road,--to keep the same direction. He therefore turned into a narrow pathway leading to a pitch-kiln situated about a mile off, in a clearing called Smolna, and resolved to follow it until daylight, when he would leave it and turn to the north through the coppices and bogs. The two walked on in silence, each praying in a low voice. Radionek seemed born again. He held his head up joyfully; he supported Iermola; and when they reached the protecting forest which surrounded them with its undergrowth and concealed them with its shadows, they both began to breathe more freely. "Oh, good father," said the young refugee, "two, three, five days more perhaps, of patience, fatigue, and effort, and we shall come to some place in the open fields where we can settle down and be quiet. No one will know us; no one will hunt for us. We shall have enough bread; I saw that you put it in your sack. We shall not be obliged to go into the villages; there is water in the woods, and we shall not die of thirst even if we have to suck the leaves on the trees. During the day we will rest, we will sleep on the thick brakes; and we will walk all night and early in the morning." The old man sighed as he listened to him, for he knew very well that all this was neither so simple nor so easy; he did not wish to frighten the child, but he said to himself that the strength of both of them would doubtless give out, and that in the woods they were exposed to face a thousand dangers, and meet with a thousand obstacles. Some one passing, meeting the two fugitives, might arrest them and turn them over to justice. Thoughts like this, and others still more sad, crushed the old man's spirit; but he forced himself to smile and say nothing, and listened to the joyous babble and tender outpourings of the child, who had been so long deprived of such enjoyment that now he could not be satisfied, and his old father had not the strength to undeceive him or tell him to be silent. The fear of being surprised had doubtless quickened their pace, for long before daylight they reached the clearing of Smolna, where the path stopped. From there no beaten road could be seen through the undergrowth, which was literally ploughed down in every direction by the wheels of the wagons of the peasants who came there for wood and resin torches. Day had scarcely dawned; the road became more and more rugged and difficult. The old man determined to make a halt, knowing very well that no one would come to look for them in that place. They lighted a fire with boughs and some coal picked up near the kiln; and Radionek, full of joy, stretched himself at the old man's feet. "No, no," said he, "they will not look for me; they are not even sorry I am gone. Do you suppose I am at all necessary to them? They never have understood me; and I never have been able to comprehend them. My mother has Wladzio; my father has Wladzio. They will be happier without me in the house." Here, however, he could not help sighing. "However, some day," he continued, "after a while,--after a long while,--I shall go to see my mother again. But now I should suffer too much, living with them; I do not like to think of it even. I should surely die of grief. There I was shut up all alone; no one ever talked to me as you used to talk to me, father. They were always telling me, whatever I did, that I had the manners of a peasant; that peasants did so and so. Yes, it is true, I am a peasant; they,--they are masters and lords. My little brother Wladzio is the only one I regret; he already began to know me, and smiled so sweetly on me as he would hold out his arms for me." "My dear child," said Iermola, "do not talk in that way. Perhaps at this moment they are weeping over there and cursing me. You break my heart; you make me remember that I have betrayed them." "Ah, well! let us talk about our happy life in Popielnia, father. Do you remember the time when we used to make our porringers, our little dishes, and when we went with Chwedko to the fair, and how astonished and pleased you were when we succeeded with our first glazed pitchers?" "Ah, those days will never come again," sighed the old man. "Why should they never return? I have forgotten nothing,--nothing at all. It was useless for them to forbid me over there; I used, in secret, to make little pots and porringers of the clay Iwaneck would bring me, and I know still how to glaze dishes and other things. We will build a kiln; you will see how we will work." Talking thus, they both fell asleep; and when the song of the oriole which was warbling above their heads aroused them from their slumber, it was broad day, but under the trees hung a thick, damp fog. The old man rose quickly; the child followed him; and they began to travel northward, guiding themselves by the thick mosses which grew on the trunks of the trees. Although our great forests have been in some places greatly diminished, frequently cleared, and often half cut down and partly destroyed, the heart of them still recalls the majesty of the early ages of the world; here the coppices are so thick and the brakes so impenetrable that one finds the greatest difficulty in going through them. Here the wild beast has his lair, where he hears no murmur but that of the giant trees which shelter him at their feet. The great waving branches, broken down by the winds, are thrown up in heaps and rot in great mounds, overgrown with mosses and pale grasses; the wild hop-vine crowns them, and running plants cover them with their interlacing tendrils. Here and there, under a thick bed of dry, half-rotten leaves, flows a black-looking brook, bearing with it dead grasses and the remains of other plants. Sometimes it spreads itself and forms a large pond of stagnant water and moving mud, in the midst of which grow water-lilies and rushes; farther on, it again contracts and runs in a narrow, miry bed, interrupted by unevenness of the land, hummocks of turf, and trunks of trees. These gloomy coppices are succeeded by rude clearings and fields of small extent. Here, the opening seems wider and less savage; there young shrubs grow thickly; farther on, marshes and thickets appear; and at last you see the open fields. The gloomiest places in these wild forests are those where fire has devastated them, leaving deep traces of its ravages. Great trunks still stand, dry and blackened; the branches of the pine-trees put out sad, yellow-looking leaves; scanty, miserable grass begins to cover the ground. Sometimes the flight of a bird breaks this awful silence; a squirrel leaps and makes the boughs of an oak-tree bend; a hungry raven goes by cawing; a black swan darts into the thickest part of the forest, or a startled deer bounds over the tall grasses. Then the woods fall again into their majestic, eternal sleep. The deeper you penetrate, the fewer traces you find of man's passage. At first there is a road, then a path, and farther on broken bushes, trodden grass, a tree cut down, trails of yellow chips in places where beams have been hewn, a hut where hunters have been on the watch, the cabin of a sentinel, the trench of a charcoal-burner, the ashes of a shepherd's fire; then one sees only the traces of animals, then no traces of anything, for the wild animal leaves few traces behind him when he has passed by. On the second day of their journey, when they began to go deeper into the heart of the forest, which stretched toward the north like a great green sea, they only at rare intervals came upon any indications of the passage of man. The silence was universal and profound; and it was rare that the noise of the woodman's axe, resounding in the distance, obliged them to withdraw rapidly from the direction whence the sound came. The old man, guiding himself by inspecting the mosses and the part of the sky whence the light came, continued to go northward. They neither saw nor encountered any one; and toward evening they stopped on a little rising ground, shadowed by such thickly growing pine-trees and hazel-nut bushes that they could allow themselves boldly to light a fire without fear of being betrayed by the smoke or by the crackling of the flames. Iermola then declared that they were too far from Malyczki for any one to discover any trace of them. Their feet, in fact, had left no impression upon the slippery, moss-covered ground under the sombre dome of the pines; chance alone could put the pursuers on their track. The two travellers were extremely tired; so after having eaten a bit of dry bread and drank out of the hollow of their hands some water from the brook in the forest, they stretched themselves on the ground near their fire, which sent up a clear red flame. Iermola roasted a few potatoes which he had brought with him; and this was their evening meal. Radionek appeared happy all the time, but now he scarcely talked at all. His breath seemed to fail him sometimes; for having been a long time accustomed to an indoor life, he could with difficulty endure such a rapid march. A wandering blackbird, roused by the crackling of the flames, wished them good-evening; a light breeze, passing over the summits of the pines, awoke vague murmurs in the depths of the forest. Then all was hushed; and a solemn silence began to reign again over the immense and gloomy forest. The third day they came to woods less thick, where the trees grew smaller; low, tangled brush-wood took the place of the old trees of pine and oak; the earth was damper, softer, and more thickly covered with verdure. They comprehended that they were coming to the low and often inundated regions; they would have to go along the edge of some vast marshes, for here and there they perceived at a distance large tracts covered with mud, interspersed with salt-water ponds. It became impossible to follow the direction they had at first chosen; but as they had still some bread, and as their strength seemed not yet in danger of giving out, Iermola determined to turn a little to the left so as to avoid encountering the marshes. Radionek, quite restored, proposed to seek a frequented road, follow it, stop in the nearest village, and afterward go on fearlessly into the interior of the country; but Iermola did not yet dare thus to tempt fortune. Choosing, therefore, the more elevated land, across the clearings of brakes and brush-wood, they walked on in the solitude three more days, when at the end of the last day the old man, as they stopped for rest, remarked such a change in the child's face that he was seriously alarmed, and resolved to run the risk and look for the public road himself. In fact, poor Radionek could hardly walk any longer; his courage alone kept him on his feet and supplied his strength. Unaccustomed to fatigue and labour, exposed thus to constant exertion just after a long illness, he was every moment in danger of fainting away and never rising again. He was pale and oppressed, and complained of a great heaviness in his head. Soon he fell into a deep, heavy sleep, from which Iermola could scarcely rouse him. It was then necessary to seek for help, to find men, a shelter, a village; and in the mean time, as our travellers had just come across a wood-cutter's hut on the road, Iermola pretended to be weary, and proposed to stop, although the day was not nearly ended. The portion of the forest where they then were was much less wild than that which they had crossed some days before, when they plunged through the brakes. Here and there was an old forgotten beam, bits of wood chips, a trunk recently deprived of its branches, attesting that some villages must be quite near; the air, moreover, impregnated with the odour of smoke and fragrance of the fields, gave evidence of the existence of some inhabited place in the vicinity. These various indications contributed to restore the old man somewhat; but on the other hand, seeing the child so sadly weakened, he did not know what to do, how to be able to go, or where to look for help for Radionek. Their terrible and threatening position rose before him in all its horrors. Nevertheless the poor old man, recommending himself to the all-powerful mercy of God, employed his remaining strength in preparing a bed of leaves in one corner of the hut, and determined to go in search of a village as soon as poor Radionek should go to sleep. The fainting child, having taken a few swallows of water, had scarcely stretched himself on his bed before he was sleeping like a rock. The old man's limbs also trembled under him, and his head swam; he was greatly in need of rest and sleep, but he could not think of either one or the other. Leaning on his stick, he plunged into the forest in search of the village, which from all indications could not be far away. Sure enough, in the distance, behind a long stretch of bushes and brush-wood he soon perceived quite a large village, whose blackened houses were ranged in a half-circle along the edge of the lake. It was surrounded by gardens full of large pear-trees; wells with sweeps and with cranks could be seen in the distance; two old _cerkiews_ with cupolas rose at the two extremities, but there was no _dwor_ to be seen; in the centre, however, on a little hill surrounded by the rains of ramparts and old fallen walls, there was a small plank house, which could not be the residence of the lord, but must be that of the steward. The old man, after making these observations, concluded that the village he saw before him was not one of the little towns of Wolhynian Polesia. The country around him, though somewhat resembling his native land, was more marshy, flatter, and more dreary-looking. He was convinced, upon examining the different style of the dwellings, the sandy hills, the clear water of the lake, and the larch-trees growing near the Russian church, that according to appearances he must be in a corner of Dobrynian Russia, or else in the vicinity of Pinsk. But the village was too far off for him to go there for assistance, to leave the child all alone in that hut just at nightfall. Accordingly the old man after a moment retraced his steps; he sat down on the sill of the door, leaned against the doorway, and fell into an anxious and disturbed sleep, with his eyes always fixed on Radionek, whose face in the half-light was pale and motionless as that of a marble statue. For some moments he listened to his breathing; he watched his sleep. Then again, broken down by fatigue, he returned and sat down; and in this position, thoroughly overcome by sleep and weariness, he at last unwillingly closed his tired eyes. Near them a bright fire, built of branches and dry leaves, burned and sparkled until daylight; and in the morning, the old man, feeling a little more quiet, slept two or three hours much more peaceably. When he woke, he saw with astonishment the great bright, glad sun shining above his head, the sweet morning light smiling at him through the trees, and a woman, still young and beautiful, though very pale, regarding him in silence mingled with surprise, doubt, and sorrow. This new-comer, who had very black eyes and hair, was tall and slender; she was dressed in a gown of coloured calico and wore on her head a handkerchief arranged after the fashion of the women belonging to the lesser nobility. She held in her hand a closed knife, a basket in which to put mushrooms, and some provisions wrapped in a white linen bag. Iermola, when he saw her, was as much surprised as she was; he opened his mouth, was about to exclaim, to pronounce a name, then stopped, hesitated in doubt, and looked again. But the stranger, starting back a few steps, cried at the same time,-- "Are you old Iermola?" "Is it you, Horpyna? Is it you, my dear lady?" answered the old man, correcting himself quickly. "What are you doing here?" The unhappy creature, full of trouble, was silent, not knowing what to reply. "You are here alone?" "No, madame, with Radionek." "You have run away from Popielnia? Tell me, then, what has happened to you?" Iermola had no need of dissimulation in the presence of one whom he knew so well, and whom he esteemed so highly; he therefore in a few words told her his whole story. She listened attentively, grieved, and somewhat indignant, but above all filled with astonishment, and in the bottom of her heart a little displeased at the coming of this old friend who could reveal to every one her real origin (for since she had lived in that country, she had pretended to belong to the lesser nobility). But she did not wish to refuse the unfortunate man either her assistance or her advice, for she had been very fond of the child, and besides, she was really sympathetic and charitable. "It is useless to think of mushrooms to-day," said she, shutting up her knife; "come to the village. My husband is the steward there; there is a vacant cabin,--one formerly occupied by the blacksmith. We will put you in it for the present." At this Iermola threw himself at her feet and embraced them, then went to rouse the child. But all night Radionek had been in a burning fever; he had talked in his sleep of things the old man could not understand. He seemed disturbed and in pain; and when it was necessary to waken him, it was impossible to do so. He sat up on his bed, trembled, looked round bewildered, did not recognize Iermola, and fell back upon his bed, complaining first of being very cold and then of a burning heat. It was impossible to be mistaken any longer; the child was in the early stage of some terrible illness. Iermola, exhausted and in despair, wrung his hands and sobbed aloud. "He is cold and tired; he must have drunk some bad water when he was in a perspiration," cried Horpyna. "Do not be so anxious; that is not so bad, only the poor child may be sick for a few days." "But how can I carry him to the village? Perhaps it would be better to let him be quiet here." "Certainly, do not rouse him; the fever will soon pass off," said the steward's wife. "I will go back home and send you something to eat, for hunger alone is enough to cause illness. Light a fire in the fireplace; stop up the cracks in the door as well as you can; cover the child up well, and do not move from here. I will send you some herb tea." Iermola took off all of his own clothes except his shirt, to cover his child, then sat down weeping beside his bed. Horpyna hastened to return, for she loved Radionek, whom she had cared for when he was a baby; and she felt a sincere pity for him. After a few hours, the messenger whom she sent from her house arrived, bringing some fresh bread, some water, some herbs good in sickness, and some brandy for Iermola; a boy also accompanied him, who was to remain at the hut to assist the old man. But it was still impossible to rouse Radionek sufficiently to make him take the refreshing tea which Horpyna had prepared. His face burned like fire; his eyes, half open, shone with a strange light. The fever and delirium were evidently increasing. In the silent forest, under the sombre branches of the old pine-trees, was about to be enacted the last scene of this drama of love,--this rustic drama, which would perhaps be improbable, if it were not strictly true in every detail, true in its sad simplicity. The day after the one on which he had gone to sleep in the forester's hut, Radionek opened his eyes for a moment, recognized and smiled upon the old man, who rejoiced and began to hope; but this smile was like the last flicker of a dying lamp. The child began to amuse himself, to talk in a low voice, telling of all he meant to do when he should get rested and well again; he proposed to go to work immediately, spoke in turn of Popielnia, Huluk, the widow, the happy days of the past, Malyczki, and the sorrowful days of trial. He tried especially to reassure and cheer the old man, who wept bitterly; but while he was speaking, he grew weaker and fell again into a doze, then a violent fever came on, during which he threw himself about, cried, trembled, as though he thought himself pursued by some invisible enemy, and so he died in the arms of Iermola, upon whose breast he sought shelter, and who held him tightly in his embrace. The old man strained to his bosom a long while the beautiful, pure young form, now still and cold, which he could not make up his mind to surrender to the grave; he did not utter a word, but the big tears fell from her eyes,--silent, bitter tears. At last his breast heaved, and a great sorrowful cry escaped him. "My child! my child!" Then he buried his hands in his gray hair, and fled like a madman into the depths of the forest. In the cemetery of Horodyszcz may still be seen the tomb of Radionek, whose history the people relate, embellishing it with a thousand wonderful, almost superhuman circumstances. Not even a poor cross of black wood marks this neglected tomb; but the white and pink thorn gives it the fragrance of its flowers and the velvety verdure of its leaves. At the door of a neighbouring church there has stood for a long time a little old man, bent, decrepit, called by the people of the vicinity old Father Skin-and-Bones, because it seems that his skin, yellow, wrinkled, and sadly withered, alone holds his bones together. On Sundays the villagers gather round him to laugh at and tease him; for who would not laugh to see him constantly hugging in his arms an old doll, wrapped in rags like a baby swaddled in its long clothes? He rocks it on his heart, and sings it to sleep, now and then kissing it, talking to it in a low voice, and often weeping over it. He thinks he is still caring for, rocking and petting his darling child, the poor old beggar, skin and bones, Iermola, the poor old father. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: The name given to the dwellings of the nobility.] [Footnote 2: A disease of the hair peculiar to Poland.] [Footnote 3: A sort of boat or raft.] [Footnote 4: Presents usually made by a young peasant of these countries to a young girl whom he asks in marriage.] [Footnote 5: Popular proverb, signifying that nothing is impossible.] [Footnote 6: A sort of cake thrown into warm water and then baked in the oven.] [Footnote 7: God has pity on the orphan.] THE END. 
37624	----	Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/countbrhl00krasrich 2. Alternate spelling of author's name: Józef Ignacy Kraszewski. COUNT BRUHL THE LOTUS LIBRARY Foolscap 8vo, top edge gilt, with bookmark. Leather, $1.00 net. * * * * * Zyte. By Hector Malot. _In Preparation_. The Dream. By Emile Zola. Sidonie's Revenge. By A. Daudet. The Poison Dealer. By G. Ohnet. Sevastopol. By Leo Tolstoy. The Woman of Mystery. By Georges Ohnet. The Disaster. By Paul and Victor Margueritte. The Diamond Necklace. By F. Funck-Brentano. Cagliostro & Co. By Franz Funck-Brentano. Count Brühl. By Joseph Kraszewski. The Latin Quarter. By Henry Merger. Salammbo. By Gustave Flaubert. Thais. By Anatole France. The Nabob. By Alphonse Daudet. Drink. By Zola. Madame Bovary. By Gustave Flaubert. The Black Tulip. By Alexandre Dumas. Sapho. By Alphonse Daudet. A Woman's Soul. By Guy de Maupassant. La Faustin. By Edmond de Goncourt. A Modern Man's Confession. By Alfred de Musset. The Matapan Jewels. By Fortune du Boisgobey. Vathek. By William Beckford. Romance of a Harem. Translated from the French by C. Forestier-Walker. Woman and Puppet. By Pierre Louys. The Blackmailers. By Emile Gaboriau. The Mummy's Romance. By Theophile Gautier. The Blue Duchess. By Paul Bourget. A Woman's Heart. By Paul Bourget. A Good-natured Fellow. By Paul de Koch. Andre Cornells. By Paul Bourget. The Rival Actresses. By Georges Ohnet. Our Lady of Lies. By Paul Bourget. Their Majesties the Kings. By Jules Lemaitre. Mademoiselle de Maupin. By Theophile Gautier. In Deep Abyss. By Georges Ohnet. The Popinjay. By Alphonse Daudet. The Temptation of Saint Anthony. By G. Flaubert. Captain Fracasse. By Theophile Gautier. He and She. By Paul de Musset. A Passion of the South. By Alphonse Daudet. The Kreutzer Sonata. By Leo Tolstoy. The Outlaw of Iceland. By Victor Hugo. [Illustration: "They pushed on at a smart trot."] _COUNT BRÜHL_. _Frontispiece, see p. 268_. COUNT BRÜHL By JOSEPH KRASZEWSKI Translated by COUNT DE SOISSONS BRENTANO'S NEW YORK 1922 CONTENTS CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIV CHAPTER XV CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER XVII CHAPTER XVIII CHAPTER XIX CHAPTER XX CHAPTER XXI CHAPTER XXII COUNT BRÜHL CHAPTER I One beautiful autumn day, towards sunset, the last flourishes of a trumpet calling the huntsmen together, resounded through a forest of beech trees. The group of court huntsmen passed along the wide highway that divided this ancient wilderness, accompanied by men armed with boar-spears and carrying nets; the horsemen wore green dresses with gold braid, and hats ornamented with black feathers: in the centre of the party were waggons laden with venison and adorned with green boughs. The hunt must have been successful, for the huntsmen were in high spirits, and from the waggons protruded the horns of deer, and the heads of boars with bloody tusks. The retinue of the lord came first; there were beautiful horses, and several lady riders with lovely faces. All were dressed as for a festival, for hunting was a favourite amusement with Augustus II, who at that time ruled more or less happily over Saxony and Poland. The King himself led the hunt, and at his side rode his eldest son, the prince then dearest to Saxony, and the one towards whom the eyes of the nation were directed with expectation. The King looked well, despite his advanced age, and rode his horse like a knight; whilst his son, who also looked well but whose face wore a sweeter expression, looked rather like his younger brother. A numerous and brilliant court surrounded the two lords. They were to pass the night at Hubertsburg, where the Prince would offer hospitality to his father, for the hunting castle belonged to him. The Princess Josepha, daughter-in-law to the King, and daughter of the Imperial house of Hapsburg, recently married to Frederick, awaited them at Hubertsburg. The King's court was so numerous that it was impossible to lodge it in the castle, and for this reason tents had been pitched in the grove for the greater part of the retinue. The tables were already laid for supper, and the moment the King entered the castle, the huntsmen dispersed to find the lodgings assigned to them. Dusk began to fall; the tents were full of bustle and animation, the young men's laughter, hitherto restrained by the presence of the King, now resounded more freely. They were thirsty, and drinking commenced although the signal for supper had not been given. Soon they began disputing as to which was the prettiest lady, who was the best marksman, and to whom the King had shown most favour. The Prince was the hero of the day; a boar was rushing on him, and he had shot it in the forehead. Everyone admired his presence of mind as with steady arm he aimed and fired. When the huntsmen rushed forward to dispatch the wild beast with their hunting knives, it already lay on the ground bathed in its own blood. On this, King Augustus had kissed his son on the forehead approvingly, and the Prince had pressed his father's hand to his lips, but he remained as calm and composed after the victory as he had been before. The only sign of good humour he had shown was, that he ordered a pipe to be brought him, and blew forth a larger cloud than usual. In those times men had begun to use that now universal plant--tobacco. Augustus the Strong smoked a great deal, his son, Prince Frederick, was a passionate smoker. During a feast the men could not forego their pipes. At the court of the Prussian King, pipes were served out to everyone, and the man who felt sick from smoking was the laughingstock of the others. It was the height of fashion to suck at a pipe from morning till night. The women despised the habit, but their aversion did not prevent the men from indulging to excess in the fragrant weed. Only the youngsters were forbidden to smoke, the habit being coupled with such vices as gambling and drinking. Therefore there were no pipes under the tents. The weary horsemen dismounted, and seated themselves wherever they could, some on the ground, some on benches, and others on rugs. Arrangements had been made for another hunt on the following day, in another part of the forest, and orders had been given for everyone to be in readiness. Not very far from the groups of elderly gentlemen, a very handsome youth walked to and fro from the road leading to the castle. He might have been recognised by his dress as a page in the service of the King. His noble carriage, and slightly effeminate figure, attracted the attention even of the most indifferent. His dress was elegant, his wig carefully arranged; his pink and white face beneath was almost as beautiful as that of a girl about to smile; he had intelligent eyes that could be merry or sad, brilliant or dull; they could even express that which was not in the soul. This beautiful youth attracted like an enigma. Almost everyone, the King not excepted, loved him, yet, while both polite and useful, there was not a more retiring person in the court. He never boasted, never attempted to show his superiority, but if asked to do anything he did it easily, quickly, and with exceeding intelligence. He was a petty noble from Thuringia, the youngest of four brothers, the Brühls von Gangloffs-Sammern. Having sold his small mortgaged estate, his father became a councillor at the little court of Weissenfelds; and as he did not know what to do with his son he placed him in the service of the Princess Frederick Elizabeth, who generally resided at Leipzig. The Princess at that time came constantly to Weissenfelds for market days; Augustus the Strong was also very fond of these markets, and it is said that on one occasion the young page attracted the attention of the King by his beautiful face. The Princess willingly gave him to the monarch. It was wonderful that a boy who had never seen so magnificent a court, so much etiquette, should understand his duties so well from the first day, that he surpassed the older pages in his zeal and ability. The King smiled kindly on him; he was pleased with the humility of the boy, who looked into his eyes, guessed his thoughts and worshipped the majesty of the Roi-Soleil. Those who served with him, envied him, but were soon captivated by his sweetness, modesty, and readiness to serve them too. They had no fears; such a modest boy could never rise very high. He was poor, and the Brühl family, although, of ancient lineage, had so fallen, that its rich relations had forgotten it. The youth therefore had neither influence nor wealth to advance him, merely a sweet and smiling face. And indeed, he was very beautiful. The women, especially the older ones, looked at him coquettishly, and he lowered his eyes bashfully. Malicious words, the wit of pages, characteristics these of the young men of the court, never escaped his lips. Brühl admired the lords, the dignitaries, the ladies, his equals, and even the King's lackeys, to whom he was invariably courteous, as though already aware of the great secret that the greatest things are often accomplished through the meanest persons, that lackeys have quietly overthrown ministers, whilst the ministers could do nothing against them. All this the lucky youth guessed through the instinct with which Mother Nature had endowed him. At that moment, as Henry Brühl walked alone up and down the path leading from the castle to the tent, those who knew him might have said that he indulged in this solitary stroll to avoid being in the way of others, while, being seen of everyone, he would be in readiness for any service. Such persons are favoured by good fortune. As he thus walked aimlessly to and fro there came from the castle a young good-looking boy, about the same age, but different in dress and mien to modest Brühl. It was evident that the new-comer was well satisfied with himself. He was tall and strong, his black eyes looked forth sharply. He walked swiftly with lordly gait, having one hand placed in his richly embroidered vest and the other hidden in the shirt of his green braided hunting dress. His features also were quite different to those of Brühl; the latter looked more like a courtier, the former like a soldier. Everyone he met on his way bowed to him, and greeted him kindly, for from early youth he had been the Prince's companion. His name was Count Alexandre Sulkowski, he had been brought to the court of Frederick as a page, and was already a prominent huntsman. And this meant a great deal, for the Prince, to whom hunting was rather a serious occupation than a distraction, entrusted him with what he cherished most in the world. Sulkowski was respected and dreaded, for although Augustus II with his health and strength seemed to be immortal, yet sooner or later the god was bound to die like any other mortal. Thus Sulkowski, in his relation to the new rising sun, was regarded as a star shining on the horizon of Saxony. On seeing Sulkowski, the page assumed his modest mien, bowed slightly, smiled sweetly, and seemed as pleased as though he had met the most beautiful woman in the court of the King. Sulkowski received this mute and respectful greeting with dignified benevolence. He slackened his pace, and drawing near to Brühl, addressed him gaily: 'How are you, Henry? What are you thinking about in this solitude? Happy boy, you can rest, whilst I have much to do.' 'If the Count would order me to help him?' 'No thank you. I must fulfil my own duties! Work for such a guest as our gracious lord is agreeable.' He sighed slightly. 'Well,' he continued, 'the hunt was successful.' 'Yes, very successful indeed,' replied Brühl. 'His Majesty has not been in such a good humour for a long time.' Sulkowski bent close to Brühl's ear. 'And who rules now in the chamber?' 'I do not know. At present there is an interregnum.' 'That's impossible!' said Sulkowski laughing. 'Is it not Dieskau?' 'I don't know.' 'Is it possible, that you, the King's page, do not know?' Brühl looked at him, and smiled. 'A faithful page should not know anything.' 'I understand,' said Sulkowski, 'but between ourselves--' Brühl drew near the Count, and whispered some thing in his ear. 'Intermezzo!' said Sulkowski. 'It seems that after so many love affairs, that have cost our dear lord so much money, and caused him so much pain, intermezzo will do.' Sulkowski was no longer in a hurry, either to go to the tents, whither his steps appeared to be bent, or to return to the castle. Taking Brühl's arm, an action which evidently gave the page great satisfaction, he walked with him. 'I must rest awhile,' said he, 'and although we are both too weary to converse, I am glad to be with you.' 'I do not feel tired,' replied Brühl, 'when I am in your company. From the first moment when I was so fortunate as to meet you, I conceived for you, my dear Count, deep respect, and permit me also to add, the most affectionate, friendship. Must I tell you the truth? Well then, I came here with a presentiment--with a hope--that I might have the pleasure of seeing you.' The Count looked into Brühl's face, which was beaming with joy. 'I can assure you,' said he, 'that I am not ungrateful. In the court such disinterested friendship is rare, and if we help each other, we can rise to high appointments.' Their eyes met, Brühl nodded. 'The King is fond of you.' 'Do you think so?' asked Brühl, modestly. 'I can assure you of it; I have heard it from his Majesty's own lips; he praised your zeal and intelligence. As for me, the Prince loves me, and I can say with pride that he calls me his friend. I doubt if he could get along without me.' 'Yes,' said Brühl with animation, 'you were so fortunate as to be the Prince's companion, from the time he was a mere boy, and you have had time to win his heart; and who would not love you if he knew you well? As for me, I am a stranger here, though I am thankful to the Princess for placing me at the King's court. I try to show my gratitude, but the parquetry of a court is very slippery. The more zeal I show for the lord, whom I respect and love, the more jealousy I excite. For every smile bestowed on me by the lord, I am repaid with the venom of envy. So one must tremble when one might be the happiest of mortals.' Sulkowski listened with an air of distraction. 'Yes! That's true,' he rejoined quietly. 'But you have much in your favour and no reason to fear. I observe that you have adopted an excellent method: you are modest and patient. The principal thing at court is to remain passive, then you will advance; he who is restless soon falls.' 'Your advice is most precious,' exclaimed Brühl. 'I am indeed fortunate to have such an adviser.' The Count seemed flattered at the exclamation, he smiled proudly, pleased at the acknowledgment of his own powers of which he was fully persuaded. 'Don't be afraid, Brühl,' he said. 'Go forward boldly and count on me.' Those words seemed to arouse Brühl's enthusiasm, he clasped his hands as though in prayer, and his face was radiant; then he extended a hand to Sulkowski in token of his gratitude. The Count magnanimously took it with the condescending air of a benefactor. At that moment the trumpet resounded from the castle; the sound must have meant something to the young favourite, for signing to his friend that he must hasten, he ran towards the castle. Brühl remained alone, hesitating as to what he should do with himself. The King had granted him leave for the evening, consequently he was entirely free. Supper had begun beneath the tents. At first he had intended to go there and enjoy himself with the others, but after looking on for a moment, he turned into a side path, and walked slowly and thoughtfully to the forest. Probably he wished to be alone with his thoughts, although his youthful eyes were not suggestive of deep speculation. It might be nearer truth to think that in a court full of love intrigues, he too had some love affair; but on his serene face no trace of such trouble could be detected. Brühl did not sigh, his look was cold and calm, he frowned, and appeared rather to be calculating something, than struggling against a particular sentiment. He passed tents, horses, and packs of hounds; he passed the fires, built up by the people assembled for the hunt, who were eating the black bread they had brought with them in their bags, whilst venison was roasting for the nobles. The great majority of these were Slavs, called Wends, and they chatted quietly together in a tongue incomprehensible to the Germans. Several huntsmen kept guard over them, and whilst supper was prepared for the hounds, no one took the least trouble to ask these people if they had had anything to eat. Their supper of bread and water was soon finished, and they lay down on the grass to rest, that they might be in readiness for the work of the morrow. Scarcely glancing at them, Brühl walked quietly forward. It was a lovely evening, peaceful and bright, and had it not been for the yellow leaves falling from the beech-trees, one might have thought it was summer. Beyond the grove in which they were encamped all was still; the noise scarcely penetrated thither; trees concealed the castle; one could have imagined oneself far from the haunts of man. Arrived here Brühl raised his head, and breathed more freely; his face assumed a different expression; it lost its childish charm, and an ironical smile flitted across it. He thought he was alone, and was greatly surprised, almost frightened, at seeing two men lying beneath an enormous beech-tree. He retreated, and looked at them attentively. Those two men, lying beneath a tree not far from the King's camp, appeared to him suspicious characters. Beside them lay their travelling bags and sticks. The dusk prevented him from seeing their faces very clearly, or noticing what clothes they wore, but after awhile Brühl was able to distinguish that they were young men. What could they have been doing so close to the King? Curiosity, fear and suspicion, kept him rooted to the spot. He wondered whether it would not be right to return to the tents and give warning of the presence of two suspicious strangers. He changed his mind however, and drawn more by instinct than reason, moved forward, and approached so near to the strangers that they could see him. His appearance must have astonished them, for one of them rose hastily, and seemed about to ask what he was doing there. Without waiting for this question, Brühl advanced a few steps further, and asked severely: 'What are you doing here?' 'We are resting,' replied the man. 'Is it forbidden here for travellers to rest?' The voice was mild, and the speech indicated an educated man. 'The King's court and his Majesty in person are not far distant,' said Brühl. 'Are we in the way?' asked the stranger, who did not appear to be in the least alarmed. 'No,' answered Brühl with animation, 'but if you were noticed here, you might be suspected of evil designs.' The man who remained seated laughed and rose, and when he came out from beneath the shadow of the trees, Brühl beheld a good-looking man, with long hair and a noble mien. By his dress he was easily to be recognised as a student from one of the German universities. 'What are you doing here?' Brühl repeated. 'We are wandering about that we may thank God by admiring nature and breathing the air of the forest, and that in this quiet we may lull our souls to prayer,' the youth said slowly. 'Night surprised us here; we should not have known of the presence of the King and his court, had it not been for the noise of the huntsmen.' The words as well as the way they were pronounced struck Brühl. The man seemed to be from another world. 'Permit me, sir,' the student continued quietly, 'to introduce myself to you who seem to have some official position. I am Nicolaus Louis, Count and Lord of Zinzendorf and Pottendorf, at present _studiosus_, searching for the source of wisdom and light, a traveller, who has lost his way in the maze of this world.' On hearing the name, Brühl looked at the stranger more attentively. The moon lit up the beautiful face of the student. They both remained silent for a time, as though not knowing what to say. 'I am Henry Brühl, his Majesty's page.' Zinzendorf measured him with his eyes. 'I pity you very much,' he said sighing. 'Why?' asked the astonished page. 'Because to be courtier means to be a slave, to be a page means to be a servant, and although I respect the King, I prefer to serve the King of Heaven, to love Jesus Christ, our Saviour. You found us when we were praying, when we were trying to unite our thoughts with our Lord, who has saved us through His blood.' Brühl was so astonished that he moved away from the youth, who went on pathetically, though sweetly: 'I know that to you, in whose ears the prattle and laughter of the court still ring, this must seem strange and perchance irreverent, but I consider it my duty, every time I have an opportunity, to speak as a Christian should.' Brühl remained silent. Zinzendorf approached him. 'It is the hour of prayer ... listen, the forest rustles, glory to God on high! The brook whispers the prayer, the moon shines forth to light the prayer of nature, why then should not our hearts unite with our Saviour at this solemn moment?' The astonished page listened, and appeared not to understand. 'You behold an odd, whimsical fellow,' said Zinzendorf, 'but you meet many odd, whimsical society men, and you forgive their fancies; can you not then have some indulgence for an enthusiasm arising from the pure source of the soul?' 'Yes,' murmured Brühl. 'I am pious myself, but--' 'But you keep your piety hidden in the secret places of your heart, fearing to show it to profane persons. As for me, I show it forth like a flag, because I am ready to defend it with my life and my blood. Brother in Christ, if the life of the court weigh heavily on you, for I cannot otherwise explain your solitary evening wandering, sit with us, and let us pray together. I feel the need of prayer, and when it is made stronger by two or three praying together, it might reach the throne of Him who gave His blood for us worms.' Brühl moved away, as though afraid the strangers would detain him. 'I am accustomed to pray alone,' he replied, 'besides my duties call me, you must therefore excuse me.' He made a gesture in the direction whence noise could be heard. 'I pity you,' exclaimed Zinzendorf. 'If we could only sing a prayer--' The page interrupted him: 'The grand huntsman, or some chamberlain might hear us, and order us to be put in prison, not here, for there is no prison here, but we should be taken to Dresden, and put in the Frauenkirche guardhouse.' He shrugged his shoulders as he spoke, bowed lightly, and would have departed, had not Zinzendorf barred his way. 'Is it true, that it is forbidden to be here?' he asked. 'Your presence might bring suspicion on you, and cause you some trouble. I advise you to be off. Beyond Hubertsburg there is an inn, where you would be more comfortable than beneath this tree.' 'Which road shall we take, so that we may not be in the way of his Majesty?' asked Zinzendorf. Brühl pointed with his hand, and said: 'It would be difficult for you to find the highway but if you will accept me as your guide, I am at your service.' Zinzendorf and his companion picked up their sticks and bags, and followed Brühl, who seemed by no means pleased at the meeting. Zinzendorf had had time to cool down from the state of enthusiasm in which the page had found him. It was evident that he was a man accustomed to the best society, for he had excellent manners. Having grown more calm, he endeavoured to excuse himself for the speech he had made. 'Do not be surprised,' said he calmly, 'we call ourselves Christians but in reality we are heathens, despite the promise we made at our baptism. I consider it the duty of every Christian to preach. The aim of my life is not only to preach, but also to set a good example. What is the use of preaching, if deeds do not follow our words? Catholics and Protestants, we are all heathens in our way of living. We do not worship gods, but we make sacrifices to them. A few priests quarrel about dogmas, but our Saviour's blood is wasted, for people do not wish to be saved.' He sighed. At that moment they came in sight of the camp, where drinking was at its height. Zinzendorf looked towards it, and exclaimed: 'This is a veritable bacchanalia! It seems to me, that I hear _evoe!_ Let us hasten! I have no desire to hear and see Christians enjoying themselves in so heathenish a way.' Brühl made no reply. They passed by the camp, and soon reached the highway. Having pointed out the road to the student, he ran quickly to the lighted tent. Zinzendorf's words were still resounding in his ears when he perceived a strange sight in the tent. It is true, that in those times it was nothing surprising, but very few people made such an exhibition of themselves in public, as did the military councillor Pauli that evening. He was lying on the ground in the centre of the tent; beside him there stood a large, empty, big-bellied bottle; his face was crimson; his dress unbuttoned and torn; while beside him sat a hound, evidently his favourite, licking his face and whining. Those who stood around were splitting their sides with laughter. It was no unusual thing for the military councillor Pauli, whose duty it was to be near the King ready to write his letters, to be thus overcome with wine, but never was he so drunk or so much laughed at as on that night. As soon as Brühl noticed it, he rushed to the unfortunate man and lifted him from the ground. The others, having come to their senses, helped him, and with a great effort they put the councillor on a heap of hay lying in the corner of the tent. Pauli opened his eyes, looked at the surrounding faces, and mumbled: 'Brühl, thank you--I know everything, I understand, I am not drunk--You are a good boy, Brühl, I thank you.' Then he closed his eyes, sighed and muttered, 'Hard service!' and fell asleep. CHAPTER II The pages of Augustus II had rooms in the King's castle, where they awaited their orders during the time they were on duty. Their horses were always in readiness in case they might be sent on some errand. They relieved each other by turns at the door and attended the King in the antechamber, and often, when no other messenger was at hand, were sent to carry orders and despatches. Brühl always performed this arduous service with great zeal when his turn came, and even willingly took the place of others, so that the King, seeing him frequently, grew accustomed to his face and services. 'Brühl, you are again here,' he would say smiling. 'At your Majesty's command.' 'Are you not tired?' 'My greatest happiness is to look at your Majesty.' And the boy would bow, and the King would clap him on the shoulder. Never was anything either impossible or too difficult for him; he ran immediately and fulfilled his orders at once. They were waiting one day for the courier. In those days the post was often late; a horse would die on the road, or a river overflow, or a postillion become sick, and in consequence there was no fixed hour for the arrival of the post. Ever since the morning the military councillor Pauli, who used to write the King's letters, had been waiting for his orders. Pauli, whom we saw drunk in Hubertsburg, slept during the night, rose in the morning, dressed himself and felt quite well except that he was still very thirsty. He was aware that nature had provided water for him to drink, but he despised the simple beverage and used to say God created it for geese and not for men. Consequently he quenched his thirst with wine; he felt better and more lively. He remembered that Brühl had come to his assistance in that awful moment of drunkenness, and from that moment a friendship sprang up between old Pauli and the young page. Brühl, who did not despise anybody's favour, became attached to the councillor. Pauli was an elderly man, prematurely aged by his intemperate habits: he was very fat and could hardly walk, and, after dinner, would even dose standing up. Pauli's face was red, verging to purple, and his whole body seemed to be swollen. But when he dressed in his best for the court, when he buttoned up, pulled himself together and assumed his official demeanour, one really could take him for a respectable person. He was so accustomed to the King and the King to him, that from one word, or even a look from Augustus, he could spin out whole letters, guessing the thought, grasping the style, and the King never needed to make any corrections. For this reason he was fond of Pauli, and requisitioned his services continually; for this reason too, he forgave him when he got drunk and was incapacitated from fulfilling his duties. Then the lackeys were obliged to wake him up and the councillor would open his eyes, and murmur, 'Wait a minute! I am ready!' though he did not rise till he became sober. Then he would rise, wash himself with cold water, drink a big glass of strong wine, and go to the King. Such things used to happen in those days, not to Pauli alone; the King's friend Fleming used to get drunk and many others too. People merely laughed at a drunken man for having so weak a head. That day when they were waiting for the courier Pauli was sitting in the marshals' room, yawning. He selected a comfortable chair, stretched his legs, drooped his head a little and fell a-thinking. He could not dose. Who could travel with Morpheus into the country of dreams, not being prepared with good food for the journey? The pictures that hung in the room were too familiar to his gaze to interest him. He could not look at them, so he yawned again, this time so outrageously that his jaws cracked. It was a heartrending sight to see such a respectable councillor yawn because he had nothing to eat. The clock struck ten, then eleven, and still Pauli sat yawning and trembling on account of the emptiness of his stomach. At that moment he felt the most miserable of men. At eleven o'clock Brühl, who was waiting for the hour of his service, entered. He was lovely in his page's dress, worn with great elegance; nobody could rival him in the freshness of the lace on his cuffs, the cut of his dress, and his exquisitely combed wig. As usual, he smiled sweetly. Everyone was conquered by his smiles, his words, and the grace of all his movements. Pauli, catching sight of him, put out his hand without rising. Brühl ran to him and said: 'How happy I am to see you!' And he bowed humbly. 'Brühl, you alone can save me!' said Pauli. 'Just imagine, I have not yet had my breakfast! When will that courier arrive?' The page looked at the clock and shrugged his shoulders. '_Chi lo sa?_' he answered in that language which with French, was then used at court, for Italians were then quite numerous in Dresden. 'Eleven! and I have not had my breakfast! I shall die of starvation!' Having said this, Pauli yawned once more and shivered. Brühl stood thoughtful, then he whispered in Pauli's ear: '_Est modus in rebus!_ Why do you sit here as though you were on a public road? There is a room with a door opening on the corridor leading to the kitchen; there I could manage to get you served with something.' The councillor's eyes brightened, and he tried to rise, always a difficulty with him. He was obliged to put both hands on the arms of the chair, and leaning heavily on his elbows, at length succeeded. 'My dear boy,' he exclaimed, 'help me then, if you can.' Brühl nodded and they disappeared through the door of the next room. Here, as though Pauli had been expected, some enchanted force had prepared a table. There stood a large chair, as if made for him, and on the snow-white table a soup tureen, a covered dish and a large bottle of golden wine. Pauli, having perceived this, hastened to occupy the chair, as if afraid that someone else might step in before him, seized the napkin and stretched his arm towards the soup tureen; suddenly he remembered Brühl and said: 'And you?' The page shook his head. 'It's for you, my dear sir.' 'May the gods reward you for this!' exclaimed Pauli enthusiastically. 'May Venus give you the prettiest girl in Dresden; may Hygiea give you a stomach with which you can digest stones; may Bacchus give you everlasting thirst and the means to quench it with Hungarian wine; may--' But the tempting dishes did not permit him to finish. Brühl stood smiling at the councillor. Pauli poured out the first glass of wine. He expected an ordinary, light Hungarian wine, which they usually served at the court, but when he tasted it, his face brightened, his eyes shone, and having drunk he leaned back in his chair and smiled. 'Divine drink! My dear boy, you are working miracles! Where did you get it from? I know that wine, it's King's Tokay; smell it, taste it--it's ambrosia, nectar!' 'You must show your favour to the bottle, and not leave its contents to the profane, who would drink it without proper appreciation.' 'That would certainly be a profanation,' exclaimed the councillor, pouring out another large glass. 'To your health, to your success. Brühl--I shall be thankful to you till the day of my death--you saved my life. An hour longer and I should have been a dead man; I felt that my life was slipping away.' 'I am very glad,' said Brühl, 'that I have been able to be of service to you, sir. But pray, drink!' Pauli drank another glass, smacked his lips, and said: 'What a wine! What a wine! Every glass tastes better than the last. It's like a good friend whom the more we know the better we love. But, Brühl, when the post comes, and his Majesty calls me, if it should be necessary for me to write a letter to Berlin or Vienna--' In the meanwhile he poured out the third glass. 'Such a small bottle for you is nothing; it is only a _stimulans_.' 'Brühl, you are right. I have drunk more than that in my life.' He laughed. 'The worst thing is to mix the drinks. Who knows in what relation they stand to each other? There might meet two bitter foes, for instance, the French with German wine; they begin to fight in the stomach and head, and the man suffers. But when one drinks an honest, intelligent, matured wine, then there is no danger, it does no harm.' Speaking thus the councillor ate the meat, drank the Tokay and smiled again. Brühl stood, looked, and when the glass was empty, he filled it once more. At length the food having all disappeared, there remained only the wine. Pauli sighed and mumbled: 'But the letters!' 'Would you be afraid?' 'You are right, if I were afraid, I should be a coward, and that is a despicable thing. Fill up! To your health! You shall get on! It's brighter in my head! It seems that the sun has come out from beneath the clouds, for everything looks brighter. I feel as if I could write more fluently than ever!' Brühl filled the glass constantly. The councillor looked at the bottle, and observing that it was larger at the bottom, promised himself that the wine would last still for some time. 'I have nothing to be afraid of,' said Pauli as though wishing to reassure himself. 'I don't know whether you remember or not. I remember once on a very warm day, when his Majesty was writing to that unfortunate Cosel, I drank some treacherous wine. It tasted as good as this Tokay, but it was treacherous. When I went out into the street my head swam. It was too bad, for I was obliged to write the letters. Two courtiers seized my arms--it seemed to me that I was flying; they put me at the table, they put a pen in my hand the paper before me; the King said a few words and I wrote an excellent letter. But if you killed me I could not remember what I wrote then. Suffice it that the letter was good, and the King, laughing, gave me a magnificent ring as a souvenir of that day.' The wine was poured from the bottle to the glass, from the glass into the throat. The councillor smiled. 'Hard service,' he said quietly, 'but the wine is excellent.' During the conversation the bottle was emptied. The last glass was a little clouded; Brühl wished to push it aside. 'Tyrant!' cried the councillor. 'What are you doing? It is the nature of the wine to have dregs, they are not to be wasted, but exist to hide the virtue which is in it,--the elixir, the essence.' While Pauli was emptying the last glass, Brühl bent forward and took from under the table another bottle. Seeing it, the councillor wished to rise, but the sight rivetted him to his chair. 'What do I see?' he cried. 'It's another volume,' said the page quietly, 'of the work. It contains its conclusion, its quintessence. As you are fond of literature--' Pauli bent his head. 'Who would not be fond of such literature?' sighed he. '--I have been trying to get you a complete work,' continued the boy. 'I could not get both volumes of the same edition. The second volume is _editio princips_.' 'Ah!' exclaimed Pauli approaching the glass. 'Pour me only one page of that respectable volume.' 'But it will spoil. You must finish the bottle.' 'That's true! But the letters! The letters!' said Pauli. 'There will be none to-day.' 'Would that that were true,' Pauli sighed. Brühl poured out another glass; Pauli drank it. 'This wine the King alone drinks when he doesn't feel well,' whispered Brühl. '_Panaceum universale!_ The lips of a woman are not sweeter.' 'Oh! oh!' exclaimed the youth. 'It is quite different for you,' said the councillor, 'but for me they have lost all sweetness. But the wine! wine is a nectar which, never loses its charm. Were it not for these letters!' 'You are still thinking of them?' 'Well, let the deuce take them.' The councillor drank, but the wine was beginning to take effect. He grew heavier, he smiled, and then closed his eyes. 'Now a short nap,' said he. 'But you must finish the bottle,' said the page. 'Yes, it is the duty of an honest man to finish that which he began,' said Pauli. Having poured out the last glass, Brühl brought forward a pipe and tobacco. 'Will you not smoke?' he said. 'You are an angel!' exclaimed Pauli opening his eyes. 'You remembered about that also. But suppose this herb intoxicates me further? What do you say?' 'It will make you sober,' said Brühl handing him the pipe. 'How can I resist such a tempting offer! Come what may, give it to me. Perchance the postillion will break his neck, and will not come. I don't wish him evil, but I would prefer that he stayed away.' They both laughed. The councillor smoked assiduously. 'Very strong tobacco!' 'The King smokes it,' said the page, 'But he is stronger than I am.' The tobacco evidently made him more intoxicated for he began to mumble. He smoked for a little while longer, then the pipe slipped from his hand, his head dropped, and he began to snore. Brühl looked at him, smiled, went quietly to the door, and disappeared behind it. Then he ran straight to the King's ante-room. A young, well-dressed boy, of lordly mien, also in page's costume, stopped him. It was the Count Anthony Moszynski. He was distinguished among the other pages of the King, by his pale face, black hair, expressive although not beautiful features, eyes full of fire, but above all by his aristocratic bearing and stiff manners. He was with Sulkowski at the Prince's court, then he passed, to that of Augustus II, who, it was said, liked his liveliness and intelligence, and a brilliant career was prophesied for him. 'Brühl,' said he. 'Where have you been?' The page hesitated to answer. 'In the marshals' room.' 'It is your hour now.' 'I know it, but I am not too late,' he answered, glancing at the clock. 'I thought,' said Moszynski laughing, 'that I should have to take your place.' Something like anger flashed across Brühl's face, but it became serene again immediately. 'My dear Count,' said he sweetly, 'you favourites are permitted not to be punctual, but it would be unpardonable in me. I have often acted as a substitute for others, but no one has yet been substituted for me.' 'You wish to imply that no one is able to act as substitute for you,' said Moszynski. 'You are good-humouredly joking at my simplicity. I try to learn that in which you lords are masters.' Moszynski put out his hand. 'It's dangerous to fight you with words. I would prefer swords.' Brühl assumed a humble mien. 'I do not think I am superior in anything,' he said quietly. 'Well, I wish you good luck during your service,' said Moszynski. 'Good-bye!' He left the room. Brühl breathed more freely. He went slowly to the window, and stood there seemingly looking with indifference into a courtyard paved with stones. Beneath him swarmed a numerous company of busy courtiers. Soldiers in magnificent uniforms, chamberlains in dresses richly embroidered with gold, many lackeys and other servants moved quickly about; several post-chaises stood near the steps and yellow-dressed carriers waited for their masters; further there were carriages with German and Polish harness, hayduks in scarlet, kozaks, all constituting a variegated and picturesque whole. A chamberlain came out from the King. 'The post has not yet come?' he asked Brühl. 'Not yet.' 'As soon as it comes, bring the letters at once. Where is Pauli?' 'In the marshal's room.' 'Very well, he must wait.' Brühl bowed and returned to the window, looking through it impatiently until he perceived, galloping in on a foaming horse, a postillion with a trumpet slung across his shoulder, and a leathern bag on his chest. The page flew downstairs as fast as he could, and before the servants had noticed the postillion, he seized hold of the letters. A silver tray was in readiness in the ante-room; Brühl placed the letters on it, and entered the King's apartment. Augustus was walking to and fro with the Count Hoym. Seeing the page, tray, and letters, he put out his hand and took the letters and broke the seals. Brühl waited, while the King and Hoym read the letters. 'Ah!' exclaimed Augustus. 'Be quick, and call Pauli.' Brühl did not move. 'Go and call Pauli to me,' repeated the King impatiently. The page bowed, rushed out of the room and looked into the marshal's room. Pauli was sleeping like a log. Brühl returned to the King. 'Your Majesty!' stammered Brühl. 'Councillor Pauli--' 'Is he here?' 'Yes, your Majesty.' 'Then why doesn't he come?' 'The councillor,' said the page, dropping his eyes, 'is not well.' 'Were he dying, you must bring him here,' cried the King. 'Let him fulfil his duties, then he can die if he wishes to do so.' Brühl ran out again, and entering the room, looked at the sleeping man, then returned to the King. Augustus' eyes burned with increasing anger, he began to grow pale, which was the worst sign; when he became white people trembled. Brühl stopped at the door, silent. 'Pauli!' cried the King, rapping the floor with his foot. 'The councillor is--' 'Drunk?' Augustus guessed. 'Ah, the dirty old pig! Why could he not abstain for these few hours? Pour water on him! Conduct him to the fountain! Let the doctor give him some medicine and make him sober if but for one hour. Then the beast might die!' Brühl promptly obeyed. He tried to wake up the councillor, but he was lying like a log; the only doctor who could bring him to his senses was time. Brühl, coming back slowly, seemed to hesitate, as though pondering something in his mind. He entered the King's room as noiselessly as he could. The King stood in the centre holding the papers in his hand; his brows were contracted. 'Pauli!' 'It is impossible to awaken him.' 'I wish he would die! But the letters! Who will write them? Do you hear?' 'Your Majesty,' said Brühl humbly, 'my daring is great, almost criminal, but my love for your Majesty must be my excuse. One word from your Majesty--a small indication--and I will try to write the letters--' 'You, youngster?' Brühl blushed. 'Your Majesty shall punish me--' Augustus looked at him penetratingly. 'Come,' said he going to the window. 'There is the letter; read it, and give a negative answer, but you must hint that the answer is not definite. Let them think that there is some hope, but do not actually show it. Do you understand?' Brühl bowed and wished to go out with the letter. 'Where are you going?' cried the King. 'Sit at this table and write at once.' The page bowed again and sat on the edge of the chair which was upholstered in silk; he turned up his lace cuffs, bent over the paper and wrote with a rapidity that astonished the King. Augustus II looked attentively, as though at a curious phenomenon, at the good-looking boy, who assumed the gravity of a chancellor and wrote the diplomatic letter as easily as he would have written a love-letter. One might have thought, that the page, in accomplishing a task so important to his future, had forgotten about his pose. Apparently he sat negligently and thoughtlessly, but the fact was, that as he bent gracefully to his work, the position of his legs, arms and head, was all carefully studied. His composure did not leave him for a moment though the work was apparently done in feverish haste. The King watched him closely and seemed to guess his intention. The page without thinking or losing time, wrote as if by dictation, he did not erase a single word, he did not stop for a moment. The pen stopped only when the letter was finished. Then he read it through and rose. The King evidently curious and wishing to be indulgent came nearer. 'Read!' said he. Brühl's voice trembled and was faint. Who would have thought that that fear was simulated? The King encouraging the boy, said kindly: 'Slowly, distinctly, aloud!' The young page then began to read and his voice, which was at first faint, became sonorous. The face of Augustus depicted by turn surprise, joy, hilarity, and bewilderment. When Brühl finished he did not dare to raise his eyes. 'Once more from the beginning,' said the King. This time Brühl read more distinctly and more boldly. The King's face became radiant; he clapped his hands. 'Excellent!' cried he. 'Pauli could not do better, not even so well. Copy it.' Brühl bowing humbly presented the letter to the King, which was so well written that it was not necessary to copy it. Augustus clapped him on the shoulder. 'From to-day, you are my secretary. I will have no more to do with Pauli; may the deuce take him! Let him drink and die!' The King rang the bell, a chamberlain entered. 'Count,' said Augustus, 'give orders that Pauli is to be carried home; when he becomes sober express to him my great displeasure. I never wish to see him again! Brühl is my secretary from to-day. Discharge him from his duties as a page.' The chamberlain smiled at the boy standing modestly aside. 'He saved me from a great trouble,' said the King. 'I know Pauli, he will be drunk till to-morrow, and it was necessary to send the letter at once.' The King went to the table to sign the letter. 'Make a copy of it,' said he. 'I will copy it from memory,' said Brühl quietly. 'What a keen secretary I have now!' exclaimed Augustus. 'Pray give orders that he is to be paid the three hundred thalers.' When Brühl approached to thank him, the King put out his hand to be kissed, an especial sign of favour. A moment later a courier, having taken the sealed letter, conveyed it away at a gallop, blowing his trumpet. Brühl slipped out into the ante-room. Here the story of the letter and his unexpected promotion, told by the chamberlain Frisen, aroused curiosity and envy. When Brühl appeared all eyes turned to him, but in the new favourite of the King, one could see no trace of pride--on the contrary, he was as humble as if he were ashamed of his deed. Moszynski rushed to him. 'What do I hear?' he exclaimed. 'Brühl his Majesty's _amanuensis_? When? How?' 'Let me come to myself from fear and astonishment,' said Brühl quietly. 'I do not know how it happened. Providence watched over me, _un pauvre cadet de famille_. My love for the King worked a miracle. I am dazed.' Moszynski looked at him. 'If your good luck continues, you will soon be ahead of us all. We must recommend ourselves to your favour.' 'Count, be merciful, and do not mock a poor boy like me.' Saying this, Brühl, as if he were tired, wiped the perspiration from his forehead and sat on the nearest chair. 'One would think,' said Moszynski, 'that he had met with the greatest misfortune.' This was lost on Brühl, for he was deep in thought. All in the room dropped their voices to a whisper as they told the story of the lucky boy to those who came in. The news spread in the town and when in the evening Brühl appeared in the theatre among the pages, Sulkowski, who attended the Prince, came to congratulate him. Brühl seemed to be very grateful and could not find words to thank him for his kindness. 'Do you see, Brühl,' whispered Sulkowski, looking upon him protectingly, 'I told you that they would appreciate you at your right value. I was not mistaken in thinking that our lord's eagle eye had singled you out in the crowd.' They applauded the singer; Sulkowski also clapped his hands, but turning to his friend he said: 'I applaud you.' The page bowed humbly, blushing. After the end of the play he had a chance of disappearing, and the friends who looked for him in the castle and in his rooms could not find him. They thought it was his modesty; it was nice of him not to boast of his good fortune. On enquiry his servant told them that he had gone out. The fact was, that after the opera Brühl stole into the Castle street and from it he went towards Taschenberg, where Cosel formerly lived, and which was now occupied by a daughter of the Emperor of Austria, Josepha. Those who met him might have suspected that he was going to deposit his laurels at the feet of some goddess. It was very probable. He was twenty years of age, he was very good-looking, and the women, spoiled by Augustus, were very coquettish. It was evident that he was anxious not to be seen or recognised, for his face was wrapped in his mantle and every time he heard steps he hastened his own. He entered the house next to the princess's palace, ran up the stairs, and knocked three times at the door. There was no answer. Having waited a little while, he knocked again in the same way. Slow steps were heard within, the door opened a little, and the head of an old man appeared. Brühl slipped in quickly. The room into which he entered, lighted by one candle held by the servant standing at the door, was full of bookshelves and somewhat gloomy. The old servant, questioned in whispers, pointed to the door in lieu of an answer. Brühl threw off his cloak and going on tip-toe approached the door at which he knocked softly. '_Favorisca!_' The large room into which the page now entered was lighted by two candles under green shades. There were several tables loaded with books, between two windows there was a large crucifix, on the sofa a guitar was lying. At the table leaning on one hand, stood an elderly, slightly bent man: his face was yellowish, bony; he wore a long beard; his eyes were black. By his features it was easy to recognise an Italian. There was something enigmatical about his thin, pale lips, but the whole face was rather jovial than mysterious. There was something ironical as well as kindly in it. A large hooked nose almost covered his lower lip. On his closely-shaven hair he wore a black silk cap; his dress was long and dark; it indicated a priest. He welcomed Brühl with outstretched arms. 'Ah! it's you, my dear boy! How glad I am to see you.' The youth bent humbly and kissed his hand. The host seated himself on the sofa, at the same time pointing to a chair for Brühl, who sat down, still holding his hat. '_Ecco! Ecco!_' whispered the old man. 'You think you bring me news, but I already know about it. I am truly delighted. You see Providence rewards, God helps those who worship Him.' 'I am thankful to Him,' said Brühl quietly. 'Remain faithful to the creed to which you have opened your heart, and you shall see.' He raised his hand. 'You shall go far, far. I am telling you that. I am poor and humble, but I am the Lord's servant.' He looked at the humble page, and having accomplished his pious duty, added joyfully: 'Have you been to the opera? How did Celesta sing? Did the King look at her? Was the Prince there?' Padre Guarini was the name of the man to whom Brühl paid this visit; he was the Prince's confessor, confidant of the Princess, spiritual father of the young count, but he seemed to care as much about the opera as about the conversion of the young man sitting before him. He asked about the tenor, the orchestra, the audience, and at length if the page went behind the stage. 'I?' asked Brühl with astonishment. 'I should think no worse of you for that, if for the sake of music, of art, you wished to see how those angels look as common mortals, divested of the glitter and sparkle of the stage. Celesta sang like an angel but she is ugly as a devil. There is no danger that the King will fall in love with her.' And Padre Guarini laughed. 'And who rules over the King?' asked he. And without waiting for an answer, he said: 'It seems that, just as in Poland, the election is coming.' He laughed again. 'But tell me something new; besides that you have become the King's secretary.' 'I have nothing to say, except that nothing can change my heart.' 'Yes, yes, I advise you to be a good Catholic, although secretly. We can't expect from the present King much zeal for the faith. We must be satisfied with him as he is, but his successor will be different; our pious lady Josepha will not permit him to leave the path of truth. The Prince is pious, a faithful husband, a zealous Catholic. When he becomes ruler we shall be mighty. Let us be patient and we will manage the Protestants. _Chi va 'piano, va sano--qui va sano, va lontano!_' He repeated the word _lontano_ several times and sighed. 'As a souvenir of this fortunate day,' added he, 'I must bless you; it will bring you good luck. Wait.' Padre Guarini pulled out a drawer and took from it a black rosary on which were a cross and medallion. 'The Holy Father blessed it; to the one who recites it every day, pardon is granted.' Brühl murmured something indistinctly by way of thanks, kissed his hand and rose. Padre Guarini bent over and whispered something in his ear. The page, having nodded in the affirmative, kissed his hand again and went out. The old servant awaited him at the door with a candle. Brühl gave him a thaler, wrapped himself in his mantle and descended the stairs. On reaching the door he looked cautiously down the street, and seeing no one pressed forward. Then he stopped, seeming in doubt as to where to go. He put the rosary which he was holding in his hand in a side pocket, and looked for a familiar house near St Sophia Church. He glanced round once more. The door was opened. A little oil lamp gave a pale light. The spacious Gothic hall was quiet and solitary. Brühl rang the bell on the first floor. A female servant came and opened it. 'Is the minister at home?' he asked. 'Yes, sir, but he is engaged with visitors.' 'Visitors?' repeated Brühl, hesitating as to what to do. 'Who is there?' 'Some pious young men from Leipzig.' Brühl was still hesitating, when a dignified middle-aged man appeared in the doorway and conducted him to a further apartment. 'I do not wish to intrude,' said the page, bowing. 'You never intrude,' said the host coolly and distinctly. 'The people will not crowd my house any more now. Pray, come in. In a Protestant country one enters a clergyman's house secretly, as the first Christians did into the catacombs. Glory to those who pass our threshold.' So saying he entered with Brühl into a large, modestly furnished room. Here were two young men, and it seemed to Brühl that he knew the taller of the two. He could not however remember where he had seen him. The tall man also looked attentively at Brühl, and approaching him, said: 'If I am not mistaken, this is the second time we have met. I am indebted to your kindness that I did not fall into the hands of the King's servants and was not treated as a vagabond.' 'Count Zinzendorf--' 'Brother in Christ,' answered the youth, 'and were you Catholic, Aryan, Wicklyffite or of any denomination, I should always greet you as a brother in Christ.' The host, whose face was severe and to whom bushy, contracted eyebrows gave a still more gloomy expression groaned. 'Count, let your dreams alone; the chaff must be separated from the grain, although they both grow on one stem.' Brühl was silent. 'What news from the court?' asked the host. 'There does not seem to be any change; prayers in the morning, opera in the evening. But pray be seated.' They all sat. Zinzendorf looked at Brühl piercingly, as though wishing to penetrate into his soul, but those windows, Brühl's beautiful eyes, through which he hoped to look within him, avoided meeting his. 'Is it true that they are going to build a Catholic church?' asked the host. 'I don't know anything definite about it,' answered Brühl. 'It would be scandalous!' the minister moaned. 'Why?' interrupted Zinzendorf. 'We complain that they are not tolerant; should we then retaliate? The glory of Christ may be sung in many ways. Why not by Catholics as well as by us?' Brühl nodded in the affirmative, but as he did so he encountered a severe glance from the host; so he stopped the gesture, and changed his expression into a double-faced smile. 'Count,' said the minister, 'those are the ideas of youth, beautiful in your mouth, but impossible in life. As one cannot sit on two chairs, so one cannot confess two religions, for in that case, like some people in very high positions, we have no religion.' The minister sighed; they all understood to whom he was alluding. Brühl pretended not to hear; perchance he was sorry he had fallen among these men, discussing such delicate questions. Zinzendorf, on the contrary, seemed to be perfectly happy. 'But how can we spread the truth and convert the people if we mix not with those of other creeds? Christ mixed with Pharisees and heathens and converted them by His kindness.' 'You are young, and you dream,' sighed the minister, 'but when you will be called upon to fight, and to change your dreams into action--' 'That's what I desire!' the young enthusiast cried, lifting his hands. 'Did I only love myself, I would go into the desert to seek for Christ in contemplation; but I love my fellow-man, everybody, even those who are in error; that is why I shall act and try to realise my dreams, as you put it.' The minister, Brühl, and the other young man, each listened with quite different feelings. The first stood gloomy and irritated, the second was embarrassed although he smiled, and the other was filled with admiration for each of his friend's words. 'I think that your zeal,' said the minister, 'would diminish at court.' 'Shall we have the pleasure of seeing you at the court?' Brühl asked quietly. 'Never!' exclaimed Zinzendorf. 'I, at court? There is no power that could bring me there. My court is where there are poor people, my future is to apply Christ's teaching to my life. I go to preach Christ's love. At court I should be sneered at.--I shall search for another field in order to accomplish that whereunto I am called.' 'But your family, Count?' said the minister. 'My father is in heaven,' answered Zinzendorf. 'To Him alone I owe obedience.' Brühl came to the conclusion that he had nothing to do there. Zinzendorf frightened him by his extraordinary speech. He took the minister aside, whispered with him for a moment, and took his leave. He bowed from afar in true courtly manner to the apostle and went out. It would be difficult to say whether he was more sincere with the Jesuit or with the minister, but the fact remains that although he visited both, he flattered Padre Guarini more than the Rev. Knofl. In the street Brühl again hesitated. The Prince's palace was not far distant. Two guards were at the door. The young page went into the courtyard and ran to the left wing. The open door and the light in the window tempted him to try his luck at the court also. Here lived the Countess Kolowrath, lady in waiting to the princess, her favourite, a much respected and middle-aged lady; she was fond of the young page, who would bring her all the gossip of the court. He could enter her apartments at any hour of the day, and took advantage of that privilege very freely, but in such, a way as not to be seen by the people, or to give them a chance to know about his intimacy with the Countess. In the ante-room a lackey, in the court livery, opened the door and showed in the page. Brühl entered on tip-toe. The drawing-room was lighted with a few wax candles. To the right, through the half-opened door a stream of bright light was seen, and at the noise of Brühl's shoes on the shining parquetry floor, a child's head appeared. Brühl stepped softly forward. 'Ah! it's you. Monsieur Henry,' said a fresh voice. 'Wait a moment.' The head disappeared, but soon the door opened wide and an eight year old girl came to it. She wore a satin dress ornamented with lace, silk _à jour_ stockings, shoes with high heels; her hair was curled and powdered, and she looked more like a doll than a child. She smiled to Brühl, curtseyed to him, as it was customary in the court and as she was taught by her _maître de ballet_, Monsieur Favier. She had the comically serious mien of those china figures made in Meissen. Brühl bowed to her as he would have done to an elderly lady. The child looked seriously at him with a pair of big black eyes, but all at once her seriousness forsook her and she burst into laughter. The comedy was over. 'How do you do, Henry?' 'And how is her Excellency?' 'Her Excellency, my mother, prays with the Princess. Padre Guarini recites a litany, and I am bored. Listen, Brühl, let us play at court; I shall be the queen and you the great chamberlain.' 'I would do it willingly, my dear Frances,' but I must return to the King's service before playing.' 'You are not polite towards the ladies!' answered the little Countess with the air of an old lady, which made her very amusing. 'I will not love you, and should you ever fall in love with me--' 'Ah! yes, it will be soon,' said Brühl laughing. 'Then you will see how cruel I shall be,' added Frances. Saying this she almost turned her back on Brühl, took a fan from a chair, inclined her head backwards, pouted her lips and looked at Brühl with contempt. In the eyes of that girl there was already reflected the frivolity of the times. Brühl stood enchanted and the scene would perhaps have lasted much longer had it not been interrupted by the rustling of a silk gown and then by laughter. 'Francesca! Brühl, you are courting my daughter.' The lady who said these words, was tall, majestic, still very beautiful, and above all had an aristocratic bearing. She was Frances's mother. Frances did not become confused, she repeated her curtsey and then ran to her. Brühl bowed humbly and then looked with ecstasy into the Countess's black eyes. She was no longer young but her features were still very beautiful. The whiteness of her complexion was enhanced by black hair, that night innocent of powder, but carefully dressed. Her figure, notwithstanding its ample form, was still graceful. She looked at the page with half-closed eyes. 'Frances,' said she, 'go to Fraülein Braun; I must have some conversation with Henry.' The girl looked roguishly at her mother and disappeared through the door. The Countess, rapidly moving her fan, walked to and fro in the room, then bending towards Brühl, spoke confidentially. Brühl followed her respectfully, although sometimes he approached perchance too near. Even the pictures on the walls heard not that conversation, and half an hour later the page was sitting in the King's ante-room, apparently dozing. CHAPTER III Ten years have passed since that prologue to Brühl's life, since that first scene in a long drama. Brühl was still that brilliant, affable, charming young man, whose fascination even his foes could not resist. In the magnificent court of the Louis XIV of the North, whom the flatterer called Apollo-Hercules, the people and favourites were changed. A few days after that on which Brühl succeeded to Pauli's office, Augustus II's favourite became his aide-de-camp. When old Fleming died, Brühl was placed in charge of the King's secret archives. Humble and exceedingly polite, Brühl succeeded in overthrowing two ministers: Fleming and Manteufel. Soon he was created a chamberlain, and promoted to wear a key, as badge of office; the key to the king's heart and exchequer he had already possessed for some time; at length he became a grand chamberlain and was given a new appointment created specially for him, that of _grand maitre de la garde-robe_. To this office belonged the care of the libraries, art galleries and other collections of Augustus II, who could do nothing without Brühl. Many others could not do without him either, and he, as if needing everyone himself, as if afraid of everyone, bowed, smiled, and respected even the door keeper of the castle. King Augustus the Strong had changed a great deal since the days when he could drink so much. He still preserved the stature of Hercules but no longer possessed his strength. No more could he dig his spurs into his horse's flanks or saw his head off. Carefully dressed and smiling he would walk with a stick, and if he lingered for a longer time than usual to chat with a lady he would look round for a chair, for he felt pain in the toe, which the surgeon Weiss cut off, risking his head, but saving the King's life. The surgeon's head still existed, but the toe did not, and thus the King could not stand for long at a time. It was a glorious memory that tournament in which Augustus conquered the heart of Princess Lubonirski. The King's loves were scattered throughout the world. Even the last, Orzelska, now the Princess Holstein Beck, was a respectable mother of a family, for in the year 1732, during the carnival, she gave birth to the future head of the princely house. The King would have felt lonely had not the Italian nightingale, Faustina Bordoni, brightened his gloomy thoughts by her lovely voice. The singer was married to the famous composer of those times, Hasse, whom however they sent to Italy, in order to give him a chance to cultivate his art and that he might not disturb his wife. Hasse composed masterpieces inspired by the yearning of his heart. That year the carnival promised to be brilliant, but there was a lack of money, which the King could not bear: Brühl, who could manage everything, was the only man who could assure tranquillity to the King's mind. Therefore, during the carnival the King entrusted the modest Brühl with the portfolio of the minister of finance. In vain the modest young official tried to excuse himself from such an honour, but King Augustus II would brook no refusal, would listen to no excuses, and commanded him to provide him with money. From that moment it was Brühl's duty to make the Pactolus flow continually with gold, although it would be mixed with blood and tears. Brühl was no longer a humble page, but a man with whom the most influential dignitaries were obliged to reckon. The King would permit no word against him, and would frown threateningly if any were ventured. In him alone he found that for which he had formerly looked in ten other men. Brühl knew all about pictures, he was fond of music, he understood how to get money from those who were moneyless, how to be blind when occasion demanded, how to be dumb when it was prudent; he was always obedient. Through the King's munificence he was then given a house near the castle, and he soon turned it into a palace. The evening before Shrove-Tuesday the newly created minister was sitting in his palace; he was thoughtful, and seemed to be awaiting the arrival of someone. The room in which he sat might have been the boudoir of the most fastidious woman spoiled by the luxury of the court. In gilded frames shone mirrors; the walls were covered with lilac-coloured silk; on the mantle-pieces, tables, consols, there was a perfect museum of china and bronzes; the floor was covered with a soft carpet. Brühl, with his legs stretched out, lying back in the recesses of a comfortable arm chair, his hand shining with splendid rings, seemed to be absorbed in thought and perplexities. From time to time, at the sound of an opening door, he would listen, but when nobody came, he returned to his thoughts and calculations. Sometimes he would glance at the clock standing on the mantle-piece, for a man burdened with so many duties was obliged to count his time as he counted the money. Notwithstanding work and emotions, his youthful face had not lost its freshness, his eyes shone brilliantly as ever; one felt that he was a man reserved for the future, who had more hopes than reminiscences. At the further end of the house doors could be heard opening one after another. Brühl listened--steps approached. The steps were those of a man, though cautious and soft; the tread of one person. 'It's he,' whispered Brühl, and rose from the chair. The knock at the door was gentle and full of respect, as though the fingers that rapped were swathed in cotton wool. 'Enter!' said Brühl softly, and the door opened noiselessly. At the door stood a man, such as one could only find at the court, for they are born for the court; though cradled in a stable, their coffin would certainly be found in a palace. He was tall, strong and flexible in every movement as a juggler. At the first glance one could read nothing in the man's face, for its features were insignificant, neither ugly nor comely, the expression was cold and vulgar. Clean-shaven, his lips closed so tightly that one could hardly see them, the new-comer stood humbly at the door and waited to be questioned. His dress did not betray to what class he belonged. It was neither elegant nor striking. The coat he wore was grey with steel buttons; the rest was black; at his side hung a sword with dark enamelled hilt; on his head he had a wig, which was rather official and dignified than coquettish. Under his arm he held a black hat, innocent of galoons; and he had no lace round his sleeves. Brühl on seeing the man, rose quickly as though moved by a spring, and walked across the room. 'Hans,' said he, 'we have but half an hour. I sent for you about an unfortunate affair. Open the door and see that there is no one in the ante-room.' The obedient Hans Henniche quickly opened the door, looked through it, and signed that there was no one. 'You know,' said Brühl, 'that his Majesty was kind enough to appoint me Secretary of the Treasury.' 'I wanted to congratulate your Excellency,' said Henniche with a bow. 'Don't trouble yourself,' said Brühl with the well-assumed mien of an embarrassed man. 'It's a new burden on my feeble shoulders.' 'Your Excellency is too modest,' said Henniche with a new bow. 'Hans,' said Brühl, 'do you wish to help me, to be my right hand? Will you swear to be faithful and obedient to me? Do you wish to go with me, even if we have to break our necks?' 'But you and I can't break our necks,' said Henniche, smiling cynically. 'Stronger people than we have done so before now.' 'Yes, but they were not so cunning as we are! Strength means nothing, if one does not know how to use it. I guarantee you that we shall succeed, provided I can do what I please.' 'Remember only,' Brühl said coolly, 'that these are not trifling words, but a solemn oath.' Henniche raised his hand and said ironically: 'I swear--but on what, my lord and master?' 'On God!' said Brühl, bending his head piously. 'Henniche, you know that I am a religious man, you mustn't joke.' 'Your Excellency, I never joke. Joking is a very costly thing, and many people pay for it with their lives.' 'If you help me,' added Brühl, 'I promise to make you rich, powerful, important.' 'Before all, the first,' said Henniche, 'for riches mean everything.' 'You forget the one who although rich went to Königstein.' 'Do you know why?' 'Lord's disgrace. God's disgrace.' 'No, it's trifling with the sleeper,' said Henniche. 'An intelligent man ought to put a sleeper on the altar and pray to it: the women do everything.' 'But they fall also: Cosel is in Stolpen.' 'And who overthrew Cosel?' asked Henniche. 'If you look through a glass you will see the white fingers of the Countess Denhoff and a small sleeper, under which the great King was held.' Brühl sighed but made no remark. 'Your Excellency entered on a new life yesterday, and ought to remember one word: woman.' 'I remember it,' Brühl said gloomily, 'but we don't have time to talk about it. Then you are with me?' 'For life or death,' answered Henniche. 'I am a man of no importance but great experience; and believe me that my wisdom is quite equal to those who bear silver trays to drawing-rooms. I need make no secret to you that for a long time I served as a lackey and used to open the door. But before that they opened to me. My first experience was in Lützen as a revenue officer.' 'That is why I need you. The King needs money and the country is already overtaxed. The people groan and complain.' 'Who would listen to them?' answered Henniche indifferently. 'They will never be satisfied, they will always complain. One must squeeze them as one squeezes a lemon for the juice.' 'But how?' 'We shall find the means.' 'They will complain.' 'To whom?' said Henniche laughing. 'Can we not close the road with bars, and send those who are too noisy to Königstein, or Sonnenstein, or Plissenburg, for the sake of the King's tranquillity?' 'Yes, that's true,' said Brühl thoughtfully, 'but it won't bring any money.' 'On the contrary, we must be severe, if we wish to obtain it.' Brühl listened attentively. 'We need a great deal of money; the carnival will be costly.' 'Yes, and all that is spent at court does not sink into the ground, it returns to the people, therefore they can pay. We need money for the King and for ourselves.' Brühl smiled and said: 'Naturally, we cannot toil for nothing.' 'And endure so many curses.' 'Well, when it is a matter of duty, one cannot pay attention to cursing. The King must have that which he needs.' 'And we, what is due to us,' Henniche added. Brühl stepped before him and said after careful thought:-- 'Then keep your eyes and ears open; inform me about everything, work for me and for yourself; I have already so much to do, that I can undertake no more without you.' 'Rely on me,' said Henniche. 'I quite understand, that while working for you, I work for myself. I don't promise you Platonic love; for thus if I mistake not, they call kissing the gloves, having no respect for the hands. One must clearly define the business. I shall remember my own interests; you and I will not forget the King.' He bowed. Brühl clapped him on the shoulder. 'Henniche, I shall help you to rise.' 'Provided it's not too high, and not in the new market square,' whispered Henniche. 'You may be easy about that. And now, what would you advise me to do in order that I may not lose my footing at the court? It is easy to mount the ladder, but the question is not to break one's neck.' 'I have only one piece of advice,' said the former lackey, 'everything is done by the women.' 'Oh! Oh!' said Brühl,' there are other means too.' 'Yes, I know that your Excellency has Padre Guarini on his side.' 'Silence, Henniche!' 'I am already silent, but I must add all the same, that your Excellency must bear in mind the power of women, it will do no harm to have two strings to one's bow.' Brühl sighed. 'I shall remember your advice.' They were both silent for a few moments. 'How does your Excellency stand with the Count Sulkowski?' whispered Henniche. 'One must not forget that the sun sets, that the people are mortal, that the sons succeed the fathers, and Sulkowski the Brühls.' 'Oh!' said Brühl, 'he is my friend.' 'I would prefer that his wife was your Excellency's friend,' said Henniche. 'I put more faith in her.' 'Sulkowski has a noble heart.' 'I don't deny it, but the best heart prefers the chest in which it beats. And how about the Count Moszynski?' Brühl shivered and blushed: looked at Henniche sharply, as though he would learn whether he mentioned the name with any design. But Henniche's face was placid and indifferent. 'The Count Moszynski is of no importance whatever,' hissed Brühl, 'and he never shall be of any importance.' 'His Majesty gave him his own daughter,' said Henniche slowly. Brühl was silent. 'The people have evil tongues,' continued Henniche. 'They say that Fräulein Cosel would have preferred to marry someone else than Moszynski.' 'Yes,' cried Brühl passionately. 'He has stolen her from me.' 'Then he has done your Excellency a great favour,' said Henniche laughing, 'instead of one tool, you can have two.' They looked into each other's eyes. Brühl was gloomy. 'Enough of it,' said he. 'Remember that you are mine and count on me. Your office will be here; to-morrow I shall send you an official appointment.' Henniche bowed. 'And salary corresponding with my official position.' 'Yes, if you find the means to pay it with.' 'That is my business.' 'It is late; good-night.' Henniche bowed and went out as quietly, as he came. Brühl rang the bell; a lackey promptly attended. 'I must be in the castle in half-an-hour: my post-chaise!' 'It is ready.' 'Domino, masque?' 'Everything is ready,' and having said this the lackey opened the door and conducted Brühl to a large dressing-room. Brühl's dressing-room was already considered one of the sights of the capital. Round it were large wardrobes of carved oak; between two windows stood a table and on it a large mirror in a china frame composed of cupids and flowers. Round the table, winter and summer, there were always a profusion of roses and lilies of the valley. And on the table were disposed such an array of toilet articles as might have belonged to a woman. The wardrobes contained dresses with shoes, swords, hats, and watches to match each, for the fashion demanded that everything should be in harmony. For that evening the most important detail was the domino and not the dress. In a special wardrobe was everything necessary for fancy balls. Brühl was not quite decided in his choice of a dress. It was a very important matter, for the King was fond of difficulty in recognising his guests; and perchance Brühl did not wish to be recognised at all. The lackey, walking after him with a candelabra, waited for the order. 'Where is that dress of a Venetian noble?' asked Brühl turning to the lackey. The servant ran to a wardrobe standing in a corner and handed him the dress. Brühl began to dress hastily. The dress was becoming to him; everything was black, even the sword. The only shining ornament was a heavy gold chain on which hung a medallion on which was the figure of Augustus the Strong. Brühl looked at himself in the mirror and put on a mask. In order not to be easily recognised he glued to his chin a little Spanish beard. He changed the rings on his fingers and went downstairs. At the door the post-chaise was in readiness. The two carriers wore red woollen caps, short dark brown cloaks and masks. The moment Brühl entered the carriage and drew the green curtain he was driven to the castle. In the principal gate the guards, gorgeously dressed, permitted only the lords' carriages and post-chaises to pass, thrusting back the curious crowd with halberds. The court was already crowded with equipages, post-chaises and servants. The castle was profusely lighted: that day two courts were united, those of the King and the Prince. Within the castle there were already numerous guests, all in fancy dress. Brühl's post-chaise stopped at the door and a Venetian nobleman stepped out gravely. Just as he was about to mount the stairs, there appeared another Italian but quite differently dressed. He was tall, strong, stiff, with a soldierly bearing, and was dressed like a bandit taken from Salvator Rosa's picture. The costume was very becoming to him. His head was covered with a light, iron helmet, on his chest he wore armour ornamented with gold, over his shoulder was thrown a short cloak, at his side he had a sword, and at his belt a dagger. His face was covered with a frightful mask, with long moustachios and a small beard. Brühl glanced at the unpleasant mask and walked upstairs, but the bandit followed him. '_Signore!_' he hissed, '_come sta?_' Brühl merely nodded. The bandit came close to him, bent over him and whispered evidently something disagreeable in his ear, for Brühl drew aside impatiently. The bandit laughed and said: '_A rivederci, carissimo, a rivederci!_' and continued to follow him. One could already hear the music. When they both reached the rooms, Brühl disappeared in the crowd. The rich, resplendent dresses of the women, were shining with precious stones. Everybody moved about, laughed, muttered, exclaimed, came and went. In magnificent Polish dresses, their swords ornamented with precious stones, walked several senators who were easily recognised, for they wore only a small black strip over their eyes, in obedience to the King's order, that everyone should wear a mask. There were many Turks and Spaniards; several monks, women disguised as bats, many mythological goddesses and Venetians were to be distinguished among clowns, harlequins, and cupids with bows and arrows. There were also Queen Elizabeth, Mary Stuart, Henry IV, and many others. The King, leaning on a gold-headed stick, walked slowly, talked to the women, and tried to recognise them. It was not difficult for him, he knew them all, at least those who were worthy to be known. In one of the King's rooms were beautiful ladies sitting in the booths distributing refreshments. Beyond the King's apartments, the Princess Josepha and her court received the distinguished guests. Among her ladies in waiting the most brilliant was Frances Kolowrath, the same who, when but eight years of age, could so well play the rôle of a lady of the court. Now she was a beautiful young lady, coquettish, lively, proud, and covered with diamonds. The Princess Josepha did not participate much in such amusements; she was there only to please her father-in-law and her husband. Her proud mien, severe and not beautiful face, cold manners, did not attract the people. Everybody knew she was not fond of amusements, that she preferred family life, prayers and gossip. Severe with herself she was the same with others, and looked sharply at those around her. Her surroundings were stiff and cold. Nobody dared to joke for fear of the lady's disapproval of any outburst of levity. Even during the fancy dress ball, Josepha did not forget that she was the daughter of an emperor. Polite, affable, silent, the Prince Frederick stood beside her; he was good-looking but also cold and stiff like a statue. He was pleased that others enjoyed themselves, but took no part in the entertainment. One could see, that notwithstanding his youth, he was both physically and spiritually heavy, especially spiritually. Splendidly dressed and lordly-looking, Sulkowski, the acknowledged favourite of the Prince, stood behind him, ready to carry out his orders. The Prince would often turn to him, ask some question and having received the answer, nod his head in sign of satisfaction. On seeing them together, one could easily guess their relation to each other. The servant was much more lord than the lord himself, who merely represented his office but did not feel it. Sulkowski on the contrary assumed great airs and looked proudly on the people around him. He was also better looking than the Prince, who notwithstanding his youthful age and good health looked like a common German. Round Augustus the Strong's table a more joyful company was gathered. Bare-shouldered women tried to attract the attention of the King, who looked on their charms with indifference. Brühl entered, as it seemed to him, without being noticed; he did not speak and seemed to be looking for someone. As he passed through the refreshment rooms he did not notice that the bandit was following him. His beautiful figure attracted the women and several of them tried to stop him, but he looked at them indifferently, and passed on. One or two tried to intrigue him but laughing he whispered their names and they let him alone. The King looked at him and said to Frisen: 'If a Prussian prince were here, he would steal that man for his guard. Who is he?' No one could answer the question for certain. The bandit disappeared behind the columns. In the meantime Brühl was stopped by a gipsy. She was old, tall, leaning on a stick, and covered with a long silk cloak. Through the small mask could be seen the yellowish wrinkled face of the woman. She put out her hand and paling asked him to give her his that she might tell his fortune. Brühl had no wish to look into the future and wanted to pass the gipsy, but she insisted. '_Non abiate paura!_' whispered she. 'I will tell you of good fortune.' Brühl put out his hand. The gipsy lifted it and having examined it, shook her head. 'A splendid future!' she said. 'You will be marvellously successful, but I cannot promise you much happiness.' 'How can that be,' said Brühl, 'to have success and not be happy?' 'For one can be happy but not successful,' exclaimed the old woman. 'And would you know the reason that you will lack happiness,--you have no heart.' Brühl smiled ironically. 'You don't love anybody,' continued the woman. 'What more?' he asked. 'You are ungrateful,' she whispered, 'you are blind, you are only pursuing greatness.' 'I see,' said Brühl, 'that you take me for somebody else.' The woman wrote on his palm; Brühl withdrew his hand, mixed quickly with the crowd and disappeared. Perchance he preferred to wander unknown among the guests. At length he noticed a woman who absorbed his whole attention. Her fantastic, oriental costume, was meant to represent some queen, Semiramis or Cleopatra, it was difficult to say who, for its magnificence was greater than its historical exactness. The great thing in those days was to be magnificently dressed, not archaeologically exact. So the lady, who wished to appear a majestic ruler, succeeded by means of her dress which was made of gold brocade, over which a transparent veil fell from her diamond crown to her dainty feet; round her white neck hung a magnificent amethyst necklace; her girdle was set with diamonds; she held a sceptre in her hand; and her bearing was that of one who ruled not only over people, but also over their hearts. Her hair was dark, covered with gold powder; the lower part of her face was of great beauty. As she passed, everyone gave way to her, nobody dared to speak to her. She looked round indifferently. Brühl stood near a column, hesitated for a moment, and then greeted her, touching the brim of his hat. She stopped. Brühl put out his hand and she gave him hers on which he wrote her name. She looked at him attentively, and walked further on; Brühl followed her. She turned several times and seeing that he followed her, she stopped again. A bench nestled among some palms, and here the queen sat down. Brühl stood. She looked at him and when he gave her his hand, she wrote H. B. on it and laughed. 'It's no wonder, Countess, that I recognise you,' he said, 'for I could not mistake you, even were you not dressed like a queen. But I wonder how you recognised me?' 'By the dress of a member of the Council of Trent,' said the lady. 'And to whom would it be more becoming than to you?' 'Countess, you are beautiful.' She accepted the compliment without paying much heed to it. 'But beautiful,' he continued, 'like a marble statue, and cold like the marble.' 'What more?' asked the woman. 'Say something more amusing, I have heard that so many times.' 'What else could I say to you?' said Brühl with trembling voice. 'Every time I look at you my anger is aroused, storms of vengeance and jealousy shake me.' 'Very pathetic,' whispered the woman. 'What more?' 'Had I the heart, I would curse the hour I first saw you,' said Brühl passionately. 'But a glance at you conquers me. You have a power over me possessed by no one else.' 'Is that true?' the woman coolly inquired. 'Is it necessary to swear it to you?' 'I do not need your oath. I merely wanted to be convinced, and very often an oath fails.' She looked at him piercingly. 'But my love--' said Brühl. The woman laughed. 'Brühl,' she said, 'I believe you were in love with me, I am not surprised at that. I was young, I had a good name and I could assure a splendid future to the man I married; but your love might have been that we see everyday, burning in the morning and quenched in the evening. I do not want such love.' 'I gave you proof of my constancy,' said Brühl with animation. 'My love for you began when I was a mere lad and was not quenched even when you took all hope away; it lasts although repulsed and despised.' 'Is it love or ambition?' asked the woman. 'For with you ambition dominates everything.' 'I do not deny that since I cannot be happy, my aim is now to be strong and to be feared.' The woman looked at him and spoke slowly. 'I do not know what the future may have in store for us. Wait, be faithful to me. I will be frank with you; I was fond of you; with you I could have been happy; we are alike in character.--But things are better as they are. Husband and wife are two fighting enemies; we can be faithful friends to each other.' 'Friends!' said Brühl, 'it sounds like a funeral to my love for you. Your husband will be your lover and I your friend; that means a despised friend.' 'A husband a lover?' said the woman laughing. 'Where did you hear of that? Those two words swear at each other. My husband, I hate him, I despise him, I can't bear him!' 'But you married him.' 'My father, the King, married me to him; but believe me, it is well that it happened so. With him my heart is free, I am myself and shall preserve myself for the future. I believe in my star.' 'Will our stars ever meet?' 'If they are destined for each other, they will.' 'You say this so indifferently--' 'I always control my feelings, whether I love or hate. The sentiment that betrays itself, becomes the prey of the people.' 'But how can one believe in it, if one cannot see it?' 'Then what is faith?' said the woman laughing. 'The one who loves must feel, and he who cannot guess the woman's love is not worthy of it.' Having said this, she very quickly, and before Brühl could realise it, disappeared. He was standing thoughtfully, when a rather remarkable clown--for he had diamond buttons--appeared. He seemed to be looking for someone and seeing only the Venetian, stopped, gazing at him attentively. He bent down, wishing to look under the mask, but Brühl pressed it over his face with his hand. '_Cavaliero nero!_' said the clown, what did the queen say to you? Do you know her?' '_Sono un forestiere--Addio_,' hissed Brühl and made off, but the clown followed him. Presently he met the bandit to whom the clown whispered: 'Who is he?' 'Brühl.' 'Ah!' exclaimed the clown. 'I guessed it was he by the hatred I felt towards him. But are you sure it was he?' 'I? Who hate him more than you, Count? I would recognise him even in hell.' The clown suddenly darted forward, for he caught sight of the queen. The bandit, thankful, wandered about without aim. The guests grew more and more animated and those who were searching for each other could hardly move among the dense crowd. Laughter and chatting were louder than the music. Brühl directed his steps towards the apartment where the Princess was receiving the people. A monk seized his hand. 'If you did not wish to be recognised,' said he in Italian, 'you have not succeeded. Who would not recognise you, the Secretary of the Treasury?' And he laughed. 'How could they recognise me?' asked Brühl. 'By your way of walking and by your beautiful dress.' Brühl could not be sure that he recognised the monk; he disappeared in the crowd. He could have sworn it was Padre Guarini, but could he suppose that a Jesuit would be at a fancy dress ball? A little disappointed, he found himself in a room lighted with alabaster lamps. Here a tall woman struck him with her fan. He recognised her and had no doubt that she knew also who he was. 'Brühl, accept my congratulations,' said she. 'What for?' 'You have already mounted very high, but be careful, for _non si va sano_. You must lean on the arm of a woman, who often raises a man as though he had wings.' Brühl sighed. 'I know for whom you sigh,' she continued, 'and what there is in your heart. But you must forget the ungrateful queen and look for another.' 'To search, in order to be repulsed and despised!' 'Only the one who is unworthy of you could despise you, and such a woman is not to be regretted.' She bent close to his ear, and having whispered something in it, disappeared in the crowd. He passed on. Opposite him was Frances Kolowrath's table, surrounded by young men. The girl laughing, her parted lips showing her teeth, handed the glasses of wine. He looked at her from a distance. She was tempting and graceful, but her cool coquettishness frightened him. He stood for a long while deep in thought, and then turned aside. Hardly had he sat down on a chair, in order to rest for he was tired, when the bandit sat beside him. 'Not long ago,' said he, 'you were flirting with a queen, and now you are thinking of that young girl. Am I not right?' Brühl shook his head without answering. 'She is a rich girl, and she has plenty of diamonds.--Are you not fond of them?' Brühl turned his head away and did not answer. But the bandit spoke further. 'Look, what dainty hands, what round arms, what a fresh face. It's a bite for a minister if not for a king; but Augustus II is too old, and the Prince is too pious,--you may have her. And after that, I don't know what might happen, for look how she smiles on twenty young men, and it's dreadful what her eyes are saying! She is the very wife for such a man as you. They married Hasse, a great musician, to Faustina; such an artist as you must marry Frances Kolowrath. See how admirably she already plays her part and what a success she will have in the rôle of _la grande coquette_!' One could see by an impatient movement that Brühl was terribly annoyed, but he did not lose his head, he did not change his position, he did not look at the bandit; he rose and went off. His tormentor searched for him in vain, he was no longer in the palace. The music played and the masqueraders danced till daybreak. The last couple still whirled in the King's apartments, while, in the chapel of the castle in Taschenberg, Padre Guarini put ashes on the young Prince, his consort and the Catholic court. CHAPTER IV Notwithstanding the carnival, notwithstanding the enormous buildings in course of construction with which the King tried to amuse himself, notwithstanding the magnificence by which he was surrounded, Augustus II began to be wearied. They wanted him to marry for the sake of distracting his thoughts--he yawned and laughed; he had no wish for a wedding, for they were expensive, and the wedding worthy of such a monarch was bound to cost much. His foot pained him, he was sad. The world had no interest for him; he tasted of so many pleasures, that at the bottom of the cup, there remained only dregs. The most beautiful girls ceased to attract him, in his memory there passed in review an endless number of lovely forms, shining for a moment and withered so quickly. The Princess Tubonirska was old, the Countess Cosel locked up, the others scattered throughout the world. Unable to be happy, he wanted to be great. Therefore he sent servants to Africa and built. Enormous barracks were built in New City, rebuilt by him in the Old City, the Catholic church and palaces were in course of erection. The King would go to Königstein to look at the walls and find them gone; he would go to Hubertsburg and be wearied; he would give orders that he was to be driven to Moritzburg and there find nothing to interest him. Dresden simply bored him. Had anyone suggested it to him, he would probably have ordered the town to be fired, in order to build it again, though the idea was not new. While he was in Poland his affections were with Dresden, but when he was in Dresden he was longing after Warsaw. November the second, the day of St Hubert patron of hunting, was always celebrated with a great display; the two courts, that of the King and that of the Prince went to Hubertsburg. The grand huntsman of the court was Herr von Leibnitz, the grand falconer the Count Moszynski. But the King found St Hubert too old-fashioned and the hunting monotonous. He was seized with restlessness. On New Year's day the market at Leipzig attracted him; the horse dealers promised to bring splendid horses, but the King found they were hacks; and the actresses brought from Belgium had false teeth. On the sixth of January Augustus returned to Dresden for the opening of the carnival, and at the first ball he perceived that the faces of the women were withered, that their eyes lacked fire, and their lips were pale. He thought that he would enjoy Poland better, therefore he left the carnival, for the Prince and Padre Guarini and ordered the carriages to be got ready to convey him to Warsaw. Brühl was in constant attendance. Others had disappeared, changed for fresh faces; but he, who from a page had become the minister, was indispensable to the King. The money flowed to the Treasury, the heavy taxes filled the coffers. The noblemen grumbled, but there was a remedy: the court was filled with foreigners, Italians, Frenchmen, Dutch, Danes, Prussians, Bavarians flourished at the court and the Saxon noblemen returned to their estates to make money for the King. Brühl's opinion was that his Majesty was right in maintaining that those made the best servants whose whole career depended on the favour of the King. On the tenth of January the courtyard of the castle was full of horses, carriages and people. The Polish and Saxon courts were ready for the journey. The rooms were filled with those who were to accompany the King. Augustus II was taking leave of his son and his wife. The former majesty in his face was replaced by impatience and weariness. The Prince was tender towards his father, while his wife, the Princess Josepha, was majestic. Frederick looked into his father's eyes and smiled sweetly. Brühl entered: there were some papers to be signed and money to be taken for the journey. The King looked sharply towards the Secretary of the Treasury and asked: 'Brühl, have you the money?' 'Yes, your Majesty!' answered he bowing. The lord's face brightened. 'Look,' said he to his son, 'what a servant! I commend him to you--he is the man who relieved me of my money troubles. Remember! I am indebted to him for the order that prevails.' Frederick looked into his father's eyes, as though wishing to show him that he promised to obey. 'Had I a few more men like him in Poland,' continued the King, 'I should have restored order in the republic and introduced the same system as I have in Saxony. Ah, those Polish, so-called friends and faithful servants, suck as Lipski, Hozynsz and others, are all afraid of the nobility, and they fool me. But let us be patient, I shall end all that, several heads shall fall off and then everything will be quiet. I cannot bear a public that dares to murmur when I command.---Enough of it.' The interrupted leave-taking was continued: Frederick kissed his father's hand. Lackeys, pages and servants were ready in the ante-room. The officials and clergy stood quietly in a corner. The King smiled to all. He repeated to the huntsmen his order to take care of the twelve bisons brought from Bialowiezer and kept in Kreirn near Moritzburg and moved towards a carriage standing ready. The postillions were already mounted; in the courtyard stood bareheaded burghers, at whom the King only glanced and whom he commanded to pay their taxes: a moment later everything was quiet in the castle and in Dresden. Everyone had plenty of time to rest until the King returned, when it would fall to their lot to amuse him again. The whole retinue, escorted by a detachment of cavalry, had already reached the bridge, while Brühl's carriage still stood in the courtyard of the castle. The King's favourite came out thoughtfully and saw Sulkowski. Brühl's face brightened at once; he seized Sulkowski's arm and conducted him to one of the nearest rooms. Brühl's face expressed the tenderest friendship. Sulkowski was indifferent. 'How happy I am,' said Brühl, 'to be able once more to win a place in your affections.' And his voice was as sweet as his words. 'Brühl, listen!' Sulkowski interrupted. 'I also remind you of our agreement. In good fortune or bad, we shall remain friends.' 'Do you need to remind me?' exclaimed Brühl. I love you, I respect you, I am grateful to you, I am your friend.' 'Give me a proof of it.' 'As soon as I have opportunity! Pray, give me that opportunity! Dear Count, I am yours! Do not forget me! You know what I mean--' 'Fräulein Kolowrath!' said Sulkowski laughing. '_Grand bien vous fasse_, you shall have her. Her mother is in your favour.' 'But she?' 'Oh! don't be afraid, nobody will stand in your way. One must be as brave as you to attain to such bliss.' 'I missed a greater and the only bliss,' said Brühl, sighing. Sulkowski slapped him on the shoulder and said laughing: 'I see that Moszynski is right in hating you.' 'Nonsense!' protested Brühl. 'Oh! don't deny it. It's difficult to conceal anything at court. You and the Countess Moszynski are better friends than if you were married.' Brühl shrugged his shoulders. 'My heart owns only Frances Kolowrath.' 'Her hand is waiting for you.' 'Her mother herself will propose her to you. And it is time that Frances was married, for her eyes shine strangely.' 'Like stars!' Brühl exclaimed. 'What would the Countess Moszynski say to that?' Suddenly Brühl seized Sulkowski's hand. 'Count,' said he, 'do not forget me and speak in my favour to the Prince. I fear whether I sufficiently showed my respect and attachment to him, as well as towards the pure and saintly Princess.---Tell him--' 'You speak for us to the King,' interrupted the Count, 'and I will do the same for you with the Prince. And then, my Brühl, you will not be without protectors. Padre Guarini tries to convert you, the Countess thinks of you as her future son-in-law, and I should not be surprised if you had still another friend at court.' 'All that is nothing if you are not with me,' said Brühl.--'I would give up Guarini and Kolowrath in your favour.' 'But you would not give up Moszynski,' said Sulkowski laughing. 'And now good luck to your journey; remember me in Poland to all my countrymen.' 'Not to their wives and daughters?' 'Yes, should some of them ask after me--but I doubt it. I prefer German women.' 'I too!' said Brühl. They had already reached the door. '_Eh, bien, à la vie, à la mort!_' They shook hands. Brühl hastened towards the carriage. At the farther end of the courtyard Padre Guarini was standing, making the sign of the cross over Brühl as he drove off, following his master to Warsaw. CHAPTER V It was the beginning of January 1733. In the morning Prince Frederick returned from hunting at Hubertsburg. Sulkowski was with him. In the evening the incomparable Faustina was going to sing in the opera. The Prince was as great an admirer of her voice and beauty as his father. The singer would tyrannise over her competitors, would persecute those who had not the good fortune to please her, and when she deigned to sing there was quiet in the hall as in a church; if anyone dared to sneeze he might be sure that she would become his bitterest foe. The opera called 'Cleophia' was announced and Prince Frederick enjoyed the prospect. In the afternoon, the Prince, dressed in a splendid _robe de chambre_, was sitting in an armchair, digesting with that pleasant feeling produced by a strong stomach and excellent cooking. Sulkowski stood opposite him. From time to time the Prince would look at his friend, smile, and smoke on in silence. The friend and servant looked with pleasure on his happy master, sharing his happiness silently. The Prince's face beamed, but it was his habit, when in a happy mood, to speak very little and to think. Nobody knew what about. Sometimes he would raise his drooping head, look at Sulkowski and say: 'H'm! Sulkowski?' 'I am here.' Then he would nod and that was the end of it. A quarter of an hour would elapse and the Prince would call him again by his Christian name, or caressingly in the Italian language. The Count would reply as before that he was there and the eloquent silence would follow. The Prince spoke but little and only when obliged to do so. He disliked anything unexpected. His life must flow quietly, monotonously. The afternoon hours, when he only received his most familiar friends, were those he enjoyed best. In the forenoon he was obliged to give audience, to listen, to talk, to sign papers. After such efforts the afternoon _siesta_ was delightful to him. When there was no opera he would go to Princess Josepha, listen to some music, and the day would end with a supper. Never before did the courtiers have a lord more easy to entertain. He was satisfied though one day resembled another as two drops of water. That day the afternoon _siesta_ had just begun; the Prince was smoking a second pipe, when Sulkowski, noticing something through the window, hesitated a moment and then went towards the door. The Prince's eyes followed him. 'Sulkowski!' he said softly. 'I return at once,' answered the Count, opening the door and disappearing through it. In the anteroom two pages and some servants were waiting. 'Don't let anybody in without my special permission,' said Sulkowski. All heads bowed. Sulkowski went out, rushed down the stairs, and stopped in the doorway petrified. 'Brühl? You here?' Wrapped in a fur cloak covered with snow, cold, tired, pale and troubled, there stood the favourite of Augustus II. In the courtyard one might have seen a carriage with two tired horses; the postillions had already dismounted and were also so tired that they could hardly keep on their feet. Brühl did not answer: he made him understand by his look that he wished to enter and to rest. This sudden arrival had something so mysterious about it, that Sulkowski, being very much troubled about it, led the way to a room situated on the ground floor. The servants recognised Brühl, and pressed forward, but he dismissed them with a wave of the hand and entered the room with Sulkowski. Brühl quickly divested himself of his furs. The Count stood waiting. 'For Heaven's sake, Brühl, what news do you bring?' Brühl sat down on a chair as though not having heard the question, and leaned his sorrowful head on his hand. The favourite of the Prince, uneasy and impatient, stood before him, but pride prevented him from insisting.---He waited. Brühl rose and sighed, looked around, wrung his hands and cried: 'My most gracious lord, the King, is dead!' Over Sulkowski's face there passed like lightning an expression difficult to define--fear and joy mixed. He moved as though about to run, but stopped. 'Nobody come before me from Warsaw?' asked Brühl. 'Nobody.' 'Then the Prince knows nothing?' 'No, he does not even suspect anything,' said Sulkowski. 'The Prince must be notified at once,' continued the Count. 'But tell me, how was it? The King was in good health.' Brühl sighed pitifully. 'On the sixteenth we came to Warsaw,' he said quietly. 'The road was most abominable: in some places snow drifts, in others mud. The King was tired and impatient, but catching sight of Warsaw, his face brightened up. We sent couriers ahead; the reception was splendid notwithstanding the wretched weather, the cannons boomed, the regiment of musketeers was splendid. The carriage stopped at the door of the Saxon Palace. As the King alighted he knocked his foot against the step, in the place which has troubled him continually since Weiss amputated his big toe. We noticed that he grew pale and leaned on his stick. Two pages ran to help him, and leaning on them he entered the palace, where the clergy, the lords and the ladies awaited him in large numbers. The King was obliged to sit down immediately and he told the Grand Marshal to shorten the reception as he did not feel well. As soon as he entered the chamber he ordered Dr Weiss to be called, complaining that he felt his foot hot and wet. They cut the boot; it was full of blood. Weiss grew pale: the foot was already swollen and discoloured; yet notwithstanding that--' 'Cut it short,' cried Sulkowski. 'Someone might tell the Prince that you have arrived.' Brühl came near to him. 'Count,' said he, 'I--we should come to some understanding before we venture to do anything. The Prince loved his father dearly, the shock he will receive--will it not be necessary to prepare him for the news?' 'Yes, but how?' 'My advice is,' said Brühl, 'that we should do nothing without first consulting Padre Guarini and the Princess.' Sulkowski looked at him with ill-disguised discontent. 'But it seems to me,' said he, 'that the Prince needs neither the Princess's help nor the spiritual consolation of his confessor.' 'I should think--' said Brühl, and suddenly confused he looked towards the door which opened and Padre Guarini appeared. It was difficult to guess how he could have learned so quickly of Brühl's arrival. He walked straight to him; his face was sad although it was difficult for him to change its naturally cheerful expression; he opened his arms as though he would like to embrace him. Brühl would probably have kissed his hand had there not been a witness. Therefore he only advanced and drooping his head said: 'The King is dead.' '_Eviva il re!_' answered the Jesuit quietly, raising his eyes. 'God's designs are impenetrable. Does the Prince know it?' 'Not yet,' said Sulkowski drily, looking at the Jesuit askance. Guarini purposely averted his gaze. 'My wish,' said Brühl, 'is to spare the Prince's feelings and take the advice of the Princess.' Guarini nodded and Sulkowski shrugged his shoulders and looked at Brühl with discontent. 'Then let us all go to the Princess,' he said, 'for there is not a moment to be lost.' Brühl glanced at his travelling clothes. 'I can't go as I am,' said he. 'You both go to the Princess; I shall order my clothes to be brought here and dress first.' Sulkowski agreed in silence to the proposition, Guarini nodded in the affirmative, and they turned towards the door. Brühl threw himself into a chair, as though unable to stand on his feet. Sulkowski followed the Jesuit quite unwillingly, leaving Brühl who leaned his head on his hand and became thoughtful. This resting and thinking did not last very long; as soon as the two disappeared in the dark corridor of the castle, Brühl rose quickly, hurried to the door, opened it, and looked into the ante-room. There stood a lackey as if waiting for orders. 'Send page Berlepsch at once to me.' The servant went off and five minutes later a boy, wearing the uniform of the King's pages, rushed in out of breath. Brühl, standing near the door, put his hand on the boy's shoulder. 'Berlepsch, I hope you have confidence in me; don't ask any questions but go to the Prince's apartments, and on your own responsibility, understand, on your own responsibility tell the Prince that I have arrived. Listen! If anything prevented you all would be useless.' The intelligent boy looked into Brühl's eyes, did not say a word, and went out. Brühl again sat at the table and covered his face with his hands. It was quiet about him, but he trembled at the slightest noise. There was some stir and bustle on the upper floor, and on the stairs one could hear someone rushing down; a good-looking man, with an ironical smile, appeared in the doorway, and said: 'His Royal Highness, the Prince, having learned by an accident about your arrival, commands you at once to bring him the dispatches.' Brühl pretended to be embarrassed. 'I am not dressed.' 'Come as you are.' 'Such is the order?' 'Word for word.' Brühl rose as if he were forced, but he was satisfied inwardly. They both went silently upstairs. The door opened, Brühl entered slowly with such a sorrowful expression on his face, that the Prince dropped his pipe and rose. The door closed and Brühl fell on his knees. 'I bring to Your Majesty the saddest news, but first bow down at the feet of the new King. Our most gracious lord, the King, is dead.' Frederick stood for a while as if turned into a block of stone; he covered his face. There was a moment of silence; at length Frederick gave Brühl his hand to be kissed and made a sign to him to rise. 'Brühl, how and when did it happen?' 'On the first day of February, the King Augustus the Great died in my arms and entrusted me with his last will, with the jewels of the Crown and secret papers. I, myself, brought the jewels and the papers and I deposit them at the feet of your Majesty.' Frederick again gave him his hand to be kissed; Brühl bent very low and pretended to be crying; covering his eyes with a handkerchief, he sobbed. The new King also took out a handkerchief and began to weep for his father, whom he loved and respected. 'Brühl, tell me, how did this misfortune occur?' he said quietly. In a muffled voice, trying to master his emotion, Brühl narrated the circumstances of the illness, its course, and told of the King's patience and peace at the moment of death. At length he took out a letter and handed it to Frederick, who impatiently tore open the envelope. After having read it, he kissed it. The letter contained the blessing and recommendation of his most faithful and best servant, the messenger of his last will. Frederick looked at Brühl and sighed. 'I will do as my father advises and commands me.' The letter was still lying on Frederick's knees, when the door leading to the Princess's rooms opened, and there entered Josepha dressed in black, Sulkowski and Guarini. How surprised they were at seeing Frederick crying, Brühl in his travelling clothes standing at the door, and the opened letter! Frederick, still sobbing, threw himself into his wife's arms; she began to cry also, according to the Spanish etiquette prescribed to rulers and their courtiers as the form of sorrow and expression of grief. Sulkowski looked at Brühl with disapproval and whispered to him: 'You told me, you would wait for me.' 'Someone betrayed the secret of my arrival; they called me; I was obliged to obey.' 'Who did that?' 'Watzdorf.' Sulkowski seemed to be trying to remember the name. The five people gathered in that room made an interesting group. Frederick alone was really sorrowful. Accustomed to respect and love his father, overwhelmed by grief and the fear of the burden that now fell on his shoulders, Frederick's face was very much changed. Usually serene and quiet, it was now twisted with grief which he could not conceal. Josepha's sorrow was more simulated than true; she never forgot for a moment her dignity and etiquette. Sulkowski was thoughtful and gloomy, as a man who, coming into power, calculates how to begin. His great self-esteem never left him even in the presence of the lady, to whom his respect was due. Padre Guarini bent his head, closed his eyes, and twitched his face with an expression well assumed for the moment. Brühl while not forgetting that he should appear to be overwhelmed by sorrow, could not abstain from glancing from time to time at those present, especially at Sulkowski. He seemed to see an adversary. While the Princess tried to comfort her husband, Sulkowski mustered up courage and coming nearer proposed that he should call the dignitaries for a council and announce to the capital and the country, by ordering the bells to be rung, that Augustus II was dead. Josepha looked at the intruding adviser with some aversion, whispered something to her husband, and majestically directed her steps towards the same door through which she had entered a short time before, Guarini following her. Those who remained were silent for a time. Brühl waited for orders which the new King did not dare to give; Sulkowski gave Brühl to understand that he had better leave them. Brühl hesitated, and then he left the room. Frederick did not notice him go out. They remained alone, till suddenly Frederick took the handkerchief from his eyes and said: 'Where is Brühl?' 'He went out.' 'He must not leave me. Pray command him to stay here.' Sulkowski wished to protest, but then he opened the door, whispered through it and returned. 'One must bear God's will as a man and king,' said he familiarly. 'The King has no time for sorrow.' Frederick only made a gesture. 'The council shall be called at once.' 'Then go and preside at it; I can't,' said the King. 'Call Brühl here.' 'But why is Brühl necessary?' said Sulkowski in a tone of reproach. 'He? In his arms my father died. Father recommended him to me, I wish to have him, let him come.' 'They have sent for him,' Sulkowski said shrugging his shoulders impatiently. 'Joseph, don't be angry,' said Frederick in a plaintive tone. As he said this the bells began to ring mournfully in the churches of the capital of Saxony. Frederick kneeled and prayed. Sulkowski followed his example. One after the other the bells rang out, the solemn sounds forming a gloomy choir, accompanied by the whispering of the people, whispering to each other the sad news. CHAPTER VI While the preceding events were taking place in the castle, preparations were in progress at the opera for the performance of 'Cleophila.' The splendour with which the operas were put upon the stage, a hundred horses and camels appearing with numberless artistes in gorgeous oriental costumes, and the fairy-like effects produced by elaborate machinery, combined to attract as large an audience as did the charming voice of Signora Faustina Bordoni. Faustina, the first singer of those times, famous for her victory over the equally famous Cuzzoni, was prima donna in the full meaning of the word, on the stage, behind the scenes, and beyond. Signora Bordoni, although married to the great composer, Johanet Hasse, could forget him. The marriage had been broken the next day by command of the King, who sent the musician to Italy to study there. As the carriage bringing Brühl and the sad news of the death of Augustus the Strong neared the castle Faustina was sitting in the small drawing-room arranged for her near the stage, and having removed her furs was about to issue her orders. The prima donna was not very young, but notwithstanding her Italian beauty, which blossoms and withers quickly, she preserved her voice, the charm of her figure, and the beauty of her face, the features of Juno with which nature had endowed her. She was not a delicate woman, but strong and majestic, with the form of a statue, as though made from one block by the energetic chisel of Michael Angelo. Her beauty was equal to her voice. Everything was in harmony with her character; her head of a goddess, bosom of a nymph, hand of a Bacchante, figure of an Amazon, hands and feet of a princess, abundant black hair like the mane of an Arabian horse. In her face, notwithstanding the classical beauty of her features, there was more strength than womanly sweetness. Not infrequently her black eyebrows contracted in a frown, her nostrils dilated with anger, and behind her pink lips her white teeth gleamed angrily. Her manner was that of a woman accustomed to command, to receive homage, fearing nought, daring even to hurl her thunderbolts at crowned heads. The drawing-room was elegantly furnished with gold, the furniture upholstered with blue satin, and the dressing-table, covered with lace, was loaded with silver and china. The wardrobes for her dresses were ornamented with bronze, and from the ceiling descended a china chandelier like a basket of flowers. Three servants stood at the door waiting for orders. One could recognise that two of them were Italian women, for they had not given up their national coifure. Faustina glanced at the clock, threw herself on the sofa, and, half leaning and half sitting, played with the silk sash of her large, silk _robe de chambre_. The servants were silent. There was a knock at the door. Faustina did not move, but glancing towards a good-looking young man who appeared in the doorway, greeted him with a smile. It was the tenor, Angelo Monticelli. It was easy to see that he was also Italian; but while Faustina was the personification of Italian energy and liveliness, he was the embodiment of almost womanly charm. Young, remarkably handsome, with long black hair falling over his shoulders, he seemed to be born for the rôles of _innamorati_, of lovers and gods. The classical Apollo, playing the lute, could not have been more charming. Only he lacked the pride and energy of the god. He bent to salute Faustina, who hardly nodded to him. 'Angelo!' said Faustina, 'you run after those horrid German women--you will lose your voice. Fie! How you can see a woman in those German girls! Look at their hands and feet!' 'Signora!' said Angelo, placing one hand on his chest and looking into a mirror, for he was in love with himself. '_Signora, non è vero!_' 'You would tell me, by way of excuse,' said Faustina laughing, 'that they run after you.' 'Not that either; I am longing for the Italian sky, Italian faces, and the heart of an Italian woman--I wither here--' Faustina glanced at him and made a sign to the servants to leave the room. '_Ingrato!_' whispered she. 'We all pet you, and yet you complain.' Then she turned her gaze to the ceiling taking no notice of Monticelli's devouring eyes. 'Has Abbuzzi come?' she asked. 'I don't know.' 'You do not wish to know about Abbuzzi!' 'I don't care about her.' 'When you are talking to me! But I am neither jealous of her nor your Apollo-like beauty; only I hate her, and I can't bear you.' 'Why not?' 'Because you are a doll. Look at the clock and go and dress.' As she spoke a new face appeared in the doorway; it was the cheerful Puttini. 'My humblest homage,' said he. 'But perchance I interrupt a duet; excuse me.' He glanced at Angelo. Faustina laughed and shrugged her shoulders. 'We sing duets only on the stage,' said she. 'You are all late to-day. Go and dress.' She jumped down from the sofa; Angelo moved towards the door; Puttini laughed and remained where he was. 'My costume is ready, I shall not be late.' The door opened noisily and in rushed a man dressed in black; his round face, with small nose and low forehead, expressed fear. Faustina who was in continual dread of fire, shrieked: 'Holy Virgin, help! Fire! Fire!' 'Where? Where?' The new-comer, much surprised, stood still. His name was Klein, a member of the orchestra, Faustina's great admirer, a friend of the Italians, and an enthusiastic musician. His Christian name was Johan, Faustina changed it into Giovanni and called him Piccolo. 'Piccolo! are you mad? What is the matter with you?' she cried. 'The King is dead! King Augustus the Strong died in Warsaw.' At this, Faustina screamed piercingly, covering her face with her hands; the rest stood silent. Klein left the door open and the actors began to crowd in. The great majority of them were already half dressed for the performance of 'Cleophila.' Abbuzzi rushed in with naked bosom. Her beauty was striking even when compared with Faustina; only she was small and still more lively. Catherine Piluga, with a crowd of Italians and French, half dressed, with frightened faces, followed Abbuzzi. All pressed round Faustina exclaiming in all possible voices: '_Il re è morto!_' Their faces expressed more fear than sorrow. Faustina alone was silent, and did not seem much afraid of the news. All looked at her hoping that she would speak, but she would not betray her thoughts. The bells resounded throughout the whole city. 'There will be no performance to-night, go home!' she cried imperatively. But they did not obey her; frightened, they stood as though rivetted to the spot. 'Go home!' repeated Faustina. 'We have nothing to do here; we shall not play for some time.' The crowd began to withdraw, murmuring. As soon as the last had gone, Abbuzzi also disappeared, and Faustina lay on the sofa not seeming to notice an elderly gentleman standing quietly apart. He coughed softly. 'Ah! It's you?' 'Yes,' said the German, indifferently. It was Hasse, Faustina's husband. 'What are you thinking about? About a new _Requiem_ for the dead King?' 'You have guessed almost right,' answered the composer. 'I was wondering if the mass: _Sulla morte d'un eroe_, which I composed some time ago, would be suitable for the funeral service. I am a musician, and even grief turns with me to music.' 'But what will become of us now?' sighed Faustina. '_Chi lo sa?_' They were both silent; Hasse walked to and fro, then stopped in front of his wife. 'I think we need not fear,' said he, 'for there is hardly anyone who could be put in my place, not even such a one as Popora, and there is absolutely no one to rival Faustina.' 'Flatterer,' said the Italian. 'Faustina's voice is like a candle that burns brightly--it will be extinguished one day.' 'Not very soon,' answered the thoughtful German, 'you know that better than I do.' 'But that quiet, pious, modest, ruled-by-his-wife new King--' Hasse laughed. '_E un fanatico per la musica, e fanatico per la Faustina_.' '_Chi lo sa?_' whispered the singer thoughtfully, 'Well, if he is not all that you say, we must make him so.' A bright idea flashed through her brain, 'Poor old Augustus is dead,' said she in a lowered voice. 'I should like to make a beautiful speech over his grave, but I can't.' Hasse shrugged his shoulders. 'There will be plenty of funeral speeches,' he said almost in a whisper, 'but history will not be indulgent to him. He was a magnificent tyrant and lived for himself only. Saxony will breathe more freely.' 'You are unjust,' Faustina exclaimed. 'Could Saxony be more happy, more brilliant, more favoured? The glory of that hero is reflected in her.' Hasse smiled painfully. 'He may have looked like a hero, when from his box in the opera, covered with diamonds, he smiled upon you, but the whole country paid for those diamonds with tears. Joy and singing resounded through Dresden, moaning and crying throughout Saxony and Poland. In the capital there was luxury, in the country misery and woe.' Faustina sprang to her feet, she was indignant. '_Tace!_ I will not permit you to say anything against him; your words betoken horrid jealousy.' 'No,' said Hasse quietly, looking at her. 'My love was absorbed by the music, I loved the beautiful Faustina for her voice, and was entranced when I heard it or even thought of it.' At that moment the door opened a little way, and then closed again immediately, but Faustina had perceived who was there and called him in. It was Watzdorf, the same who had called Brühl to the Prince. His figure and movements resembled those of the bandit of the fancy dress ball. For a courtier the expression of his face was unusual, an ironical smile, merciless and biting, overspread his features, which were illumined by piercing eyes. 'I thought,' said he, entering and smiling to Faustina, 'that you had not yet heard what had happened.' 'But it was announced _urbi et orbi_ by the sound of the bells,' replied the Italian approaching him. 'Yes, but the bells ring all the same for funeral or wedding; you might even suppose that a princess was born and that they called you to rejoice.' 'Poor King,' Faustina sighed. 'Yes,' said Watzdorf maliciously, 'he lived long, had at least three hundred mistresses, scattered millions, drank rivers of wine, wore out plenty of horses' shoes, and cut off many heads--was it not time after such labour to lie down to rest?' None ventured to interrupt the speaker; Hasse eyed him furtively. 'What will happen next?' asked Faustina. 'We had an opera called _Il re Augusto_, we shall now have a new, but will it be a better one? The daughter of the emperors, Padre Guarini, Padre Salerno, Padre Toyler and Padre Kopper. Faustina shall sing as she used to sing before; Hasse shall compose operas as he composed before. It will be worse for us court composers when the first rôles are taken by foreign pages and foreign lackeys.' Hasse bowed and said in a low voice: 'Enough! Enough! Suppose someone should be listening at the door. It is dangerous even to listen to such a speech as yours!' Watzdorf shrugged his shoulders. 'Where were you in March last year?' asked Faustina carelessly. 'I? In March? Wait--well--I don't remember.' 'I see you were not in New Market Square where the drama entitled "Major d'Argelles" was played.' Watzdorf said nothing. 'Don't you remember that d'Argelles who spoke the truth invariably, sparing no one? I could see him from a window. I pitied the poor man whom they put in the pillory surrounded by the crowd. The executioner broke a sword over his head, gave him two slaps on the face, and thrust into his mouth a bunch of his libellous writings. Then he was incarcerated in Kaspelhouse in Dantzig till his death.' 'An interesting story,' said Watzdorf ironically, 'but I pity more the man who acted so cruelly towards Major d'Argelles.' Watzdorf looked at Faustina triumphantly and continued, 'Signora Faustina, during the morning you will be able to rest and get strength for your voice so as to be able to charm the new king and rule over him as you ruled over the deceased. And I can tell you that it will be an easier task. Augustus the Strong was a great seducer, whilst his son is fond of smoking the same pipe; when they hand him a new one he shakes his head, and if he could he would be angry.' He laughed and continued:-- 'Well, I am not needed here, you know all about it, and I must hasten to get my mourning suit ready for to-morrow. I must show my sorrow outwardly if I cannot within; no one can see into my heart.' 'I have forgotten,' said he suddenly turning from the door to Faustina, 'to ask you how you stand with Sulkowski? To-morrow he ascends the throne, and to-morrow also Brühl will either return to Thuringia or accept the position of a lackey in order to overthrow him at the opportune moment. Brühl and Padre Guarini are the best of friends.' Hasse called 'hush!' Watzdorf suddenly covered his mouth with his hand. 'Is it not allowed? I am silent then.' Faustina was confused. '_Signore_,' said she, coming near him, 'you are incorrigible. Be careful.' She placed a finger on his lips. 'I fear nothing,' said Watzdorf sighing. 'I have no other ambition than to remain an honest man, and should they put me in Königstein I will not be tempted to change my opinion, it is worth something.' 'I hope you may not be your own prophet,' said Hasse clasping his hand. 'Think what you please, but say nothing.' 'There would be no merit if I did not try to spread my thoughts among people,' answered Watzdorf already at the door. 'I wish you a very good-night.' And he disappeared. 'There is no doubt that he will end in Königstein, or if there should be no room for him there, then in Sonnenstein or Pleissenburg.' And Hasse sighed. CHAPTER VII The next morning one could hardly see any signs of grief or mourning in the town, but a general feeling of uneasiness and curiosity had been aroused. Small groups of people might be seen near the castle and in Taschenburg trying to guess what was going on. There was unusual animation but the order of changing guards was unchanged. Carriages with drawn curtains and closed _porte-chaises_ went to and fro through the streets. It was a quiet, subdued animation, however. The official signs of mourning did not yet appear, and there was no grief visible on any face. Every courier on horseback was an object of curiosity to the crowd who tried to guess his errand. The people whispered but did not dare to speak aloud. Königstein was near, and it seemed that at the head of the government the same officials would remain, carrying out the same policy, for the Prince, the present Elector, out of respect to his late father would not introduce any strangers, and he was too fond of peace and quiet to be bothered with changes. They guessed only that Brühl might fall and that Sulkowski would rise above all. But no one knew how he would exercise his power. Round Brühl's house situated in the New Market Square everything was quiet. They only knew that, the day before, he had brought the crown jewels and the King's secret archives. The whole day passed in this apparent quiet. The smaller officials did not know to whom they should bow or whom avoid. Henniche, Brühl's confidential man, that ex-lackey whom although promoted to the rank of councillor the people still called by that name, was sitting in his house situated near that of his protector. At the time of his marriage Henniche never dreamt of how high he might rise, for he had married a servant, whose only claim to his favour was youth and some slight beauty. To-day, when both had disappeared, Henniche's wife although a good woman was a veritable torture to her husband, for she bore such evident traces of her low origin, that he could not bring her forward. Notwithstanding her love for her lord and master, she tormented him by her talkativeness and petty ways. He had only just got rid of her and yawned leaning on his elbows, when there entered his room, without being announced, a good-looking man, elegantly dressed--although already in mourning--and evidently a courtier. From, his face one could not guess much more than that he was an intelligent and cunning man, two qualities necessary for a life among intrigues, which, like the wheels of passing carriages, might catch and crush a man. The new-comer threw his hat on a chair, took out a snuff-box and handing it to Henniche, who looked at him inquisitively, said: 'Well, what do you think, how will it be?' 'I don't think anything; I wait and watch,' answered Henniche quietly. 'You think, Brühl?' They looked into each other's eyes. 'What does the world say?' asked Henniche. 'Everybody says that which he wishes for; some say that Brühl will be driven away and perhaps imprisoned; others say that Brühl will remain and drive out the rest. And what do you think?' 'I told you, I don't think anything,' answered Henniche. 'Should they succeed in overthrowing Brühl, I shall help them: should Brühl be successful in overthrowing them, I shall help Brühl. Thank God, I am not yet in so high a position, as to break my neck, should I fall down.' The new-comer laughed. 'The fact is that the only safe policy is to wait and not mix oneself up in anything.' 'Yes, yes, my dear councillor Globig,' said Henniche rising, 'it's dangerous to go forward as well as to remain in the rear; the wisest course is to remain in the middle. But, between ourselves, I wager you anything you like--even my wife against another better-looking one, for she tried me to-day by her prattle--that Brühl will not fall and that nobody will be able to rival him: from to-day begins the reign of Brühl I, and let us pray that it lasts as long as possible. We shall both be satisfied. But you must have come from the castle? What news there?' 'Nothing, quiet as the grave; they prepare for mourning, that's all. Padre Guarini passes from the Prince to the Princess; Sulkowski watches them closely, and as to Brühl, I don't even know what has become of him.' 'He will not be lost,' said Henniche. 'It seems that the Princess will not be satisfied if she becomes only the wife of an Elector.' 'Brühl shall make her a Queen,' said Henniche laughing. At that moment horses' hoofs resounded in the street; both men rushed to the window, in time to see a detachment of cavalry gallop to the castle. A court lackey entered the house. Henniche ran to the door; Globig took his hat. There was a knock and the lackey appeared holding a letter in his hand. Henniche glanced at it and Globig looked inquisitively at the message but could not read it, for their host put it into his pocket and dismissed the lackey. Again they remained alone. 'There is no secret,' said Henniche smiling, 'a great deal of money is needed. It is not forthcoming but must be had.' Globig advanced towards the door; Henniche took up his hat. 'Henniche, I hope we shall always pull together.' 'Even if we have to fall,' said the host smiling ironically. 'That is not necessary,' answered Globig quickly. 'On the contrary, if one of us should fall, the other must remain and help him to rise. We must climb together.' 'And if we fall, push each other down.' 'No, we should require no help from each other for that.' They shook hands. Henniche was just going out when he met a new-comer in the ante-room; this was a tall man with thin arms and long legs and an ugly but intelligent face. 'Look, he is here also,' said Henniche laughing. The tall man entered bowing. 'Well, what news? Do we fall or rise?' 'You must be patient and wait,' said the host. 'When there is the question of our skins!' answered the new-comer. 'My dear councillor Loss, our skins sown together would not cover a comfortable seat. Everything rests on someone who has broader shoulders than ours. Have you heard anything?' 'Just what everyone expected; Sulkowski is prime minister.' 'Very interesting indeed!' Henniche hissed. 'Sulkowski, being a Catholic, cannot preside at state councils in Protestant Saxony, unless he becomes a Lutheran, and should he do this the Prince would spit in his face, not to speak of the Princess.' 'You are right,' said Councillor Globig, 'I never thought of that.' 'You forget,' said Loss showing a row of long teeth, 'that his majesty can change the law.' 'Without convocation of the diet?' asked Henniche. 'Yes, here he is ruler,' replied Loss, 'and Saxony is not Poland, where the nobles do as they please and the King is obliged to bow to their will.' Henniche cleared his throat, for steps were heard at the door and at that moment there appeared a large, fat man, who without taking off his hat, looked at the three men. He was another councillor. Hammer. 'What is it, a diet?' said he slowly uncovering his head. 'This is quite unexpected,' said Henniche angrily 'speaking frankly, one would think that we conspire.' 'Who does anything to-day? The work will not begin till to-morrow,' said Hammer. 'To-day everyone thinks of himself and makes a compromise with his conscience, lest he should seem to be against the rising sun by saluting the setting one; it is well known that if one turns one's face towards the West, one turns something else to the East.' They all laughed. 'Hammer,' said Globig, 'you who know everything, tell us, what news have you?' 'Bells, bells, bells!' answered Hammer. 'Even if I knew anything I would not say, for who knows to-day, who is his friend and who his foe? One must be silent, one must cry with one eye and laugh with the other and be silent, silent! Henniche has his hat,' said he after a pause, 'are you going out?' 'I must,' said the host, 'duty!' ^Yes! it is the most important thing,' said Hammer. 'To-day, everybody serves himself--there is no more exacting master.' 'Don't you know anything new?' said Globig in a low voice coming near Hammer. 'On the contrary, I have much news, but I shall not tell it, except one item.' All drew nearer. 'We Saxons do not count at present, Poles are the most important. They are sure of the succession to the principality of Saxony, but to get the Polish crown Sapiechas, Lipskis, Czartoryskis, Lubonirskis, Moszynskis, and Sulkowskis are necessary.' 'You have put Sulkowski last?'--asked Loss ironically. 'For this reason, that he should be at the head,' said Hammer; 'and now, gentlemen, I wish you good-bye.' He put on his hat and went out first followed by the others. The host remained behind evidently wishing to go alone. At the door of the house everyone of them looked round cautiously, and they all went in different directions. In the square could be seen groups of people and soldiers marching. The same curiosity was aroused in other houses of the capital of Saxony, but until the evening nobody could say anything for certain. The dusk was falling, when a _porte-chaise_ stopped at the house in which Padre Guarini lived. He was in the same room in which we saw him previously with Brühl. Here, the confessor to the Prince and Princess, the most powerful although the most modest man in the court, received his friends. The modest old man would have contented himself with a couple of rooms, but as he was obliged to receive many distinguished guests, he occupied the whole house. According to the rank of his visitor, he received him either in his study or his drawing-room, the latter being beautifully furnished and ornamented with pictures by old masters. A tall man alighted from the _porte-chaise_ dressed in dark clothes and wearing a sword. By his face one could see he was a foreigner; his features were delicate, aristocratic but faded. A sweet smile brightened his face. His forehead was high and white, his eyes were large and dark; a Roman nose, thin lips, and a clean shaven face showed that he was a man of gentle birth. He wore a black cloak and white lace cuffs to his dress. He ran upstairs, rang the bell, and when Guarini's old servant opened the door, he entered without asking any questions and without giving his name. The old servant hastened to open not the door of the study but that of the drawing-room. The room was dark and unoccupied, but Padre Guarini entered almost at the same moment; not a little surprised at seeing the new-comer, he bent his head humbly and crossed his arms on his chest. The stranger drew near and they kissed each other's shoulders, Guarini bending almost to his hand. 'You didn't expect me,' said the guest, 'I did not know myself that I should come to-day. You can guess what brings me here--the present situation is of the greatest importance.' 'Yesterday I sent a letter asking for instructions,' answered the host. 'I have brought them to you. Lock the door. We must be alone.' 'It is not necessary,' answered Guarini, 'we are quite safe here.' 'Then let us not waste time! How do things stand? What is going to happen? Are you afraid of anything? Do you need any help? Speak and let us be advised beforehand.' Guarini became silent, weighing that which he was going to say. Although the stranger wore civil dress, he said to him: 'Most Reverend Father, you know as well as I do the state of affairs at the court. The Prince is a zealous Catholic, the Princess, if it were possible, is still more zealous. The first favourite Sulkowski is also a Catholic. Everyone about them confesses to our holy faith.' 'But Sulkowski! I heard that he will be the most important figure in the future. The Prince is good, of weak character, and lazy, consequently someone must rule for him. Can we trust Sulkowski?' Guarini became thoughtful, looked into the eyes of the stranger, put one hand on his mouth and shook his head. 'He is a Catholic,' said he after a pause, 'but he is cold, his ambition is stronger than his faith; his longer influence would be perilous both for us and Catholicism. There is no doubt.' 'But, as far as I know, it is impossible to overthrow him,' said the guest. 'Is the Princess strong enough?' 'By her face and character?' whispered the Jesuit. 'Do you think, then, that in that quiet nature of the Prince, there will ever arise the blood and the passions of Augustus the Strong? Is it possible? Then of what account would the Princess be? Sulkowski will suggest other women to him, in order to rule through them.' The stranger frowned. 'Your views are too gloomy,' said he 'we must find some remedy.' 'I have thought it over beforehand,' began Guarini seating his guest on the sofa and taking a chair beside him. 'We must have near the Prince a man whom we can be sure will serve us, who would also depend upon us. Frederick is lazy, we must make him a soft bed, provide him with his favourite amusements, give him operas, hunting and pictures. Who knows, perhaps something more,' said he sighing. Again the stranger frowned. 'It is too bad,' he interrupted, 'that for so great a purpose, we must use base means; it is sad--' '_Cum finis est licitus, etiam media licita sunt_,' quoted Guarini quietly. 'We cannot limit the means: they are different in every case.' 'I understand,' said the guest, 'it is of the greatest importance that we do not expose ourselves to calumny. The question is about the salvation of our souls, about holding our position here, where previously Luther was omnipotent. We have tools, it would be sinful if we dropped them for the sake of scruples, we must rather lose one soul than sacrifice thousands.' Guarini listened humbly. 'Father,' said he quietly, 'I have told myself the same a hundred times, and that is why I serve as best I can, not always in the direction conscience would direct, but often like a _pulcinello_ of the Prince, like an impresario behind the stage, like a councillor there, where advice is necessary. When the question is how to take a stronghold, and when one cannot take it by force of arms, one takes it by strategy. _Media sunt licita_.' 'We don't need to repeat that to each other,' said the guest. 'Tell me all about your plans.' 'We must act with caution,' began Guarini. 'You must not be scandalised at our actions; sometimes you will have cause to sigh over our wickedness, but weak people must be guided by the cords of their own passions.--We are sure of the Princess; our first duty is, if possible, to make her influence stronger. But that most pious lady, I am forced to admit, is the most unbearable in private life, and the King must have some distraction, for he could not live without it. If we do not furnish it, he will supply it for himself--' He paused and then continued: 'Sulkowski will not listen to anybody, he will sacrifice everything for himself; in order to keep the King under his domination, he will give him everything he wishes for. We never can be certain of him; we must overthrow him.' 'By what means?' 'I shall come to that; Providence has given us a tool. We have a man. Brühl is that man.' 'Protestant,' said the stranger. 'He is a Protestant in Saxony and publicly; but in Poland and in his private life he is a Catholic. We must permit that; you know what our Maldonatus says:--_Onando vobis dissimulantibus religio vera aliquod detrimentum acceptura sit aut aliqua religio falsa confirmaretur, alias ittam dissimulare licet, aliqua causa legitima interveniente_.[1] Brühl shall be or rather is a Catholic. We shall find him a Catholic wife, whom he will accept from the Prince's and our hands; we shall help him to overthrow Sulkowski; with Brühl we are lords here. Nobody will suspect that we have had a hand in the matter, for nobody could suspect us of helping a Protestant against a Catholic.' 'But are you sure of him?' Guarini smiled. 'He shall be dependent upon us; should he attempt to betray us, he would fall to-morrow; we have plenty of means to accomplish that.' 'I cannot deny that the plan is excellent,' said the stranger after a moment of thought, 'but the execution of it seems to me doubtful.' 'Yes, just at present,' said Padre Guarini, 'it may take us one or perchance two years' work, using all possible means, but with God's help victory is certain as far as in human affairs one can be certain of anything.' 'Do you count on the Prince's character?' 'Yes,' answered Guarini, 'having been his confessor for so many years I know him well.' 'What about the Princess?' asked the guest. 'She is a worthy lady and a saint, but God has not endowed her with any feminine charm. She will not satisfy the Prince.' 'For God's sake! I hope you will not persuade him to lead the lascivious life that his father did!' 'We need not restrain him from that,' said Guarini, 'his natural disposition will not allow him to create a public scandal, but it would be impossible to put a bridle on his passions. They will be secret but stubborn. We must overlook many things in order to make him remain a Catholic.' The stranger became sad. 'What an awful thing it is to be obliged to soil oneself for the sake of the holy truth!' 'Well, there must be some scapegoat, such as I,' said Guarini jocosely. 'The people envy me--' 'Not I,' interrupted the visitor, 'not I!' 'What are your orders?' asked Guarini. 'Your plans shall be considered by our council,' answered the stranger. 'In the meanwhile you must act. We shall send you our instructions soon.' 'Brühl shall remain. The Prince, with tears, has promised his wife to fulfil his father's last wish. Sulkowski shall only be the apparent ruler, Brühl shall be the true one, and then--' 'You think you will be able to overthrow him?' 'We are certain; we all act against the man, who has not the slightest idea of danger, and Brühl's ambition is the best weapon in our hands.' 'But Brühl!' 'He is a devil in human form, but a devil who prays and is equally ready to crush his enemy, and suffers from no qualms of conscience. Then he is sweet, polite and winning to the highest degree.' They became silent, the stranger thoughtful. 'Any progress in conversion?' asked he after a moment's pause. 'In this nest of heresy?' said Guarini, 'here, where Protestantism dominates? The progress is very small, and the souls, which our fishermen's nets pull to the shore, are not worth much. Their descendants may pay for our labour. And then there is a new heresy spreading rapidly, the fight against which may be more difficult than against the others.' 'What is it?' 'Nothing new, any more than other heresies; but the apostle of it is a powerful, exalted, self-satisfied man. We have to fight not only a dogma, for with him dogma is of secondary importance, but a new social organisation, which he proposes to build. Falsehood takes the brightness from truth. In the woods beyond the town, the committee of the Moravian Brothers, something like a monastic order without any rules, was organised and prospers.' 'Tell me more about it,' said the guest, with animation. 'I have heard nothing about it.' 'A strange fanatic, not of religion but of the social organisation and the way of living, attempted in the name of Christ and his teaching, to create a new State. Christ is the King of that republic. Separated, but living in the same spot, there dwell troops of women, girls and children. They are united by joining in common prayers and meals. The powerful lord, Count Zinzendorf, granted land to the community and became its minister and preacher. Work and prayer, strict discipline and brotherly love, rule over the Moravian Brothers of Herrnhut.' The stranger listened attentively. 'And you permitted the spreading of heresy?' he exclaimed. 'I tried to stop it, but in vain,' said Guarini. 'Investigations were made, and I hope Zinzendorf will be banished.' 'But they must have committed some abominations!' said the guest. 'The most careful investigations failed to discover anything vicious. Those people confess different creeds, but they are united in one strange community, in which there is no private property, no poor people, no orphans; they constitute one family, the father of which is Christ.' '_Horrendum!_' exclaimed the stranger. 'And the marriages?' 'They are strictly observed, but as they believe that they are directly ruled by Christ, you may guess how marriages are contracted. The young men draw their wives by lots and the couples live an exemplary life.' 'You tell me of strange things. But may they not be false rumours?' 'I was there myself, and I saw the praying bands of maidens with purple sashes, of married women with blue, and of widows with white.' The guest sighed. 'I trust you will not suffer the sect to grow.' 'We must cut off its head,' said Guarini. 'Zinzendorf shall be banished, then the community will scatter.' 'Have you seen this Zinzendorf?' 'Yes, several times, for he does not avoid the Catholic priests: on the contrary, he discourses willingly with them, not about theology, however, but about the first Christians, their life and our Saviour's love, the axle-tree, according to him, round which the Christian world ought to revolve.' At this moment the old servant appeared in the doorway. Padre Guarini, having excused himself, went to the ante-room where he found one of the King's lackeys. The Prince had sent for his confessor. It was necessary to take leave of the guest, to whom paper, pen and ink were given, and he settled himself to write as though in his own house. Padre Guarini took leave of his guest and preceded by the lackey, hastened to the Prince. Frederick was sitting in the same room in which he had learned about his father's death. He held a pipe, his head drooped, and he was silent as usual. Only the wrinkles of his forehead indicated that he was thinking hard. When Padre Guarini entered the Prince wished to rise, but the Jesuit held him gently to his chair and kissed his hand. At a little distance stood Sulkowski, who would not leave his master even for a moment. His face was beaming triumphantly but he tried to be sad officially. Padre Guarini could take more liberties; he knew that notwithstanding the official mourning, a little distraction would be necessary; consequently his manner was almost jovial, he took a stool and sat near the Prince, and looking into his eyes, spoke in Italian with animation. 'We must pray for our late King, but it is not proper to mourn too much over that which is natural and necessary. Too intense grief is injurious to the health, and then your Royal Highness has no time for it. It is necessary to rule and to keep in good health.' The Prince smiled. 'I saw Frosch in the ante-room,' continued the Jesuit, 'he looks as if someone had put him into vinegar; he cries because he cannot play tricks on Horch.[2] They sit in opposite corners and put out their tongues at each other.' 'It must be very amusing!' whispered the Prince: 'but it would not be decorous for me to see it; it is the time of mourning.' The Jesuit was silent. 'Frosch is very amusing, and I like him,' added the Prince, and looked at Sulkowski, who walked softly to and fro. The Padre tried to read the Count's face, but saw only pride and self-satisfaction. The Prince pointed at him and whispered--'Good friend--all my hopes are centred in him--but for him I could not have peace.' The Jesuit nodded in sign of approval Sulkowski knowing that to prolong the conversation would bore the Prince, came to him and said: 'It is difficult to find amusement for your Royal Highness amid so many troubles.' 'I think,' said the Jesuit, 'that with your good-will everything can be done.' 'Yes, in Saxony,' answered Sulkowski at whom the Prince was looking and nodding affirmatively, 'but in Poland--' 'Our late King left many friends and faithful servants there. What does Brühl say?' asked Guarini. The Prince looked at Sulkowski as if authorising him to answer. The Count hesitated a moment, then said: 'Brühl assured us that our friends there will work zealously at the coming election. But who knows that Leszezynski, France and intrigues will not stand in our way? For that we need money.' 'Brühl must furnish it,' said the Prince. 'He is very able at that.' Sulkowski became silent. 'We shall all do our best and put the crown of a king on the head of our gracious lord.--' 'And Josepha's,' added Frederick quickly. 'It is due to her; she cannot remain the wife of the Elector of Saxony.' Both men nodded; the Prince smoked his pipe and became thoughtful. It seemed that he would talk further on the same subject when he bent to Guarini and whispered: 'Frosch sitting in the corner must be very amusing; you say they showed each other their tongues?' 'I am certain I saw two red tongues, but I don't know whether they showed them to each other or to me.' The Prince, forgetting himself, laughed aloud, then he put his hand to his mouth and became silent. And it was not until after a long while that Frederick bent again to Guarini's ear and whispered: 'Have you seen Faustina?' 'No,' answered the Jesuit. 'Ah? No? Why? Assure her of my favour, only she must take care of her voice. I appreciate her very much. _E una diva!_ She sings like an angel! No other can rival her. I shall be longing to hear her. Now she must sing in church, there at least I may listen to her.' Sulkowski disliked that whispering: he moved aside, and then came near the Prince. Frederick again pointed him out to the priest. 'He will be my prime minister--my right hand.' 'I am glad to hear such good news,' said Guarini, clapping his hands softly. 'Saxony is to be congratulated at having at her head such a man and such a good Catholic as the Count.' The Prince looked round. 'If my Saxon subjects object to having a Catholic as my prime minister, Brühl will do whatever I command.' 'I have nothing against Brühl,' said the Jesuit, 'but he is a stubborn Protestant.' To this the Prince answered: 'Pshaw!' and waved his hand. Sulkowski looked suspiciously at the Jesuit, who assumed a humble and quiet mien. At that moment Moszynski was announced, and the Prince ordered him to be shown in. 'I wished to take leave of your Royal Highness,' he said bending to kiss Frederick's hand. 'I am going to Warsaw: we cannot neglect the election.' 'Very well, go then,' said the Prince sighing. 'Although Brühl assures me--' 'Brühl knows neither Poland nor the Poles,' said Moszynski with fervour. 'It is our affair.' Suddenly, Frederick rose, and exclaimed as if he had recollected something: 'By the bye! You are going to Warsaw! Pray remember about those hounds that were left in Wilanow. I must have them! Send someone by _porte-chaise_ with them. There are no better hounds than they are. You know--' 'Yes, they are black,' said Moszynski. 'Jupiter, Diana, and Mercury,' enumerated the Prince. 'Pray send them to me at once.' 'I think they had better stay there,' said Moszynski. 'When the Prince becomes King----' 'My dear Count, send me also Corregio's Madonna! Take it from the Saxony Palace and send it! It is a masterpiece!' Moszynski bowed. 'Any further orders?' asked he. 'Greet the musketeers; my father was very fond of them.' The remembrance of his father made him gloomy, he sat down. Sulkowski, always anxious that his master should have that of which he was fond, went to tell a lackey to bring a fresh pipe. The Prince seized it quickly and began to smoke. All were silent. Guarini looked attentively at Frederick; Moszynski waited in vain, for the Prince was so much absorbed in his pipe that he forgot about everything else. At length Moszynski kissed the Prince's hand and took his leave. Frederick smiled on him affectionately, but said not a word more. Sulkowski conducted Moszynski to the ante-room; the Prince remained with Guarini. Hardly had the door closed when the Prince turned to the Jesuit. 'That's nothing,' he whispered, 'when they only show each other their tongues, but when Frosch begins to abuse Horch, and the latter begins to kick, and then when both go under the table and fight, then one can die of laughter.' Guarini seemed to share the Prince's appreciation of the comical attitude of two fighting fools. 'No,' continued the Prince, 'one cannot let them into the dining-room to-morrow; but later on, for they must not forget their excellent tricks.' Guarini got up; it seemed that he was hastening to return to the guest he had left at his house. The Prince changed the subject of conversation, and said: 'Don't be angry, that I propose to make Brühl a minister although he is a Protestant. He shall be quickly converted, for he is an intelligent man, and I shall command him--you shall see.' Guarini made no answer; he bowed and went out. CHAPTER VIII During the reign of Augustus the Strong, Dresden was not lacking in beautiful women. Notwithstanding sad experiences of the King's instability, every beautiful woman hoped to be able to attract his attention, although they well knew that it would not be for long. Among the young ladies there was not however, one more beautiful, more coquettish, more vivacious, or better able to please, than the young Countess Frances Kolowrath, the same who, several years before, received Brühl in the Taschenberg Palace, the same, whom we saw in one of the booths during the fancy dress ball in the castle. The high rank of her mother, who was the principal lady-in-waiting at the court of the Princess, gave her the privilege of precedence before all other ladies except the princesses of the ruling houses: the favours of Princess Josephina, hopes of a brilliant future, her family name, all made the girl proud and self-willed. The older she grew the more difficult it was for her mother to control her. An only child and much petted, notwithstanding the Princess's severity, she was able to throw off the court etiquette, and form many acquaintances and love intrigues. She did not seem to care much about the future. She looked upon matrimony as upon freedom from a yoke which she could not bear. A few days after the news of the King's death, when the court was obliged to go into mourning and all amusements were stopped, Lady Frances was bored more than ever. The black dress, which she was obliged to put on, was becoming to her, but she disliked it very much. That evening she stood in her room before her mirror and admired her beautiful figure and features. As dusk fell she rang the bell and ordered lights to be brought. She was alone, for her mother was at the court, and she did not know what to do with herself. Walking to and fro she noticed a box and took it from a little table. She brought it near the light and opened it with a little key she carried in her pocket. The box was full of small jewels and pieces of paper. One could guess that these were letters addressed to herself. Some of them she put aside with a smile, the others she read and became thoughtful. Then she locked the box and lay down on the sofa, looking at a little ring that glistened on her finger. It was an old, black enamelled ring, with an inscription in gold on it: _A hora y siempre_. In the young lady's room, besides the door leading to her mother's apartment, there was another little door concealed in the wall, leading to some side stairs. Just as she became thoughtful over the ring, the door opened quietly and someone looked through it cautiously: the young lady turned her head, saw who it was, and rose from the sofa with an exclamation. The good-looking young Watzdorf stood before her. We saw him at Faustina's comically joking, and ironically sneering. To-day his face, usually ironical, bore quite another expression; it was almost sad and thoughtful. The beautiful Frances, as if afraid at his appearance, stood silent. Watzdorf seemed to beseech her forgiveness with his eyes. 'Christian, how could you!' she said at length, with a voice in which there was true or artificial emotion. 'How could you do this, when there are so many people about? Someone will see you and tell about it. The Princess is severe, and my mother--' 'Nobody could see me,' said Watzdorf coming nearer. 'Frances, my goddess! I have been waiting for hours under the stairs, in order to see you alone for a moment. Your mother prays with the Princess, there is nobody in the house.' 'Ah! those stolen moments!' cried Frances. 'I don't much like such secret happiness.' 'Patience, till the other comes,' said Watzdorf taking her hand. 'I hope--' 'Not I,' interrupted the girl, 'they will dispose of me, against my will, as they would dispose of a piece of furniture. The Princess, the Prince, my mother, Padre Guarini--I am a slave.' 'Then let us run away from here!' 'Where?' asked Frances laughing. 'To Austria, where we shall be caught by the Emperor's police: to Prussia, where the Brandenburgian would stop us. Let us run! That is all very well, but how and with what? You have nothing, except your salary at the court, and I have only the favour of the Prince and Princess.' 'But your mother's heart--' 'That heart will search out happiness for me in diamonds--it understands no other.' 'Frances, my goddess! How cruel you are to-day, you take all my hope from me!' 'I can't give that which I don't possess myself,' said the girl coolly and sadly. 'For you don't love me.' The lovely girl looked at him reproachfully. 'I never loved anybody but you!' said she. 'I shall never be able to love anybody else, and because I love you, I should like to speak frankly with you.' Watzdorf cast his eyes on the floor. 'I understand,' he muttered.--'You wish to convince me, that because you love me, you cannot be mine, and that I must give you up. Such is the logic of love in courts. Because you love me, because I love you, you must marry another man--' 'Yes; I must marry the first one they give me; but that man shall not have my heart.' 'It's hideous!' interrupted Watzdorf. 'You do not wish to sacrifice anything for me.' 'For I do not wish to bring evil on you,' said the girl. 'They would catch us to-morrow if we fly today, you would be sent to Königstein, and they would marry me to the man whom they have selected for me.' 'I think I shall go to Königstein in any case,' said Watzdorf. 'I cannot shut my mouth looking at this horrible life, at this despotism of a lackey. I say what I think, and that is, as you know, the way to get there, where one speaks only to four walls of the prison.' 'Listen, Christian, instead of talking, we ought to be silent,' said the girl, 'instead of wishing to improve them, we ought to despise them and rule them.' 'Giving in to their fancies, and lying for a lifetime, cheating them, and soiling oneself--' said Watzdorf. 'What a lovely life!' 'Then is it better to give up everything?' said the girl laughing. 'I, a woman, I am not so tragical, I take life as it is.' 'I despise it,' muttered Watzdorf. The girl put out her hand to him. 'Poor enthusiast!' she sighed. 'Ah! how I pity you and myself; there is no hope for us--and if we could catch a moment of happiness, it is amidst falsehood and lying.' She came near him, put one hand on his shoulder, and the other she put round his neck. 'Ah! this life!' she whispered, 'one must be drunk in order to bear it.' 'And be a cheat!' added Watzdorf, who seized her hand and kissed it passionately. 'Frances, you don't love me; you love the life more than me; the world and the golden fetters.' The girl was silent and sad. 'Who knows?' she said. 'I don't know myself. They brought me up, cradling me in falsehood and teaching me how to lie, in the meanwhile arousing in me a desire for sensation, distraction, luxury and enjoyment. I am not certain of my own heart, for I was corrupted before I began to live.' 'Love ought to make us both better,' said Watzdorf looking into her eyes passionately. 'I was also a courtier before I loved you--by that love I became a man; I became purified in its flames.' The girl laid her head on his shoulder and spoke to him in a whisper; they both seemed to forget about the whole world. Their eyes spoke more than their lips; their hands met and joined. They forgot themselves to such a degree that they did not notice that the same door by which Watzdorf had entered opened, and the threatening, pale and angry face of the girl's mother appeared through it. Seeing her daughter with a man whom she did not recognise at once, she was struck dumb. She made a step forward and pulled Watzdorf by his sleeve. Her lips trembled and her eyes were full of awful anger; the girl turned and perceived the thunder-bolt look of her mother. But she was not afraid. She retreated a step, while Watzdorf not knowing yet who had disturbed them, mechanically searched for his sword. Only when he turned and saw the Countess did he become pale and stood silent like a criminal caught red-handed in the act. The Countess could not speak, because of her great anger: she breathed heavily, pressing her bosom with one hand, with the other pointing imperiously to the door. Watzdorf before obeying bent over the girl's hand and pressed it to his lips; the mother pulled it from him, and trembling continually pointed to the door. Watzdorf looked at the pale girl and went out slowly. The Countess fell on the sofa--her daughter remained cold and indifferent like a statue. The Countess cried from anger. 'Shame on you!' cried she, 'you dare to receive that man in your room!' 'Because I love him!' answered the girl calmly. 'And you dare to tell me that!' 'Why should I not say what I feel?' The Countess sobbed. 'And you think that because of your stupid love for that good-for-nothing man, who is hardly tolerated in the court, I shall sacrifice your future? Never!' 'I did not expect that I could be happy and honest,' answered the girl coolly. 'You are mad!' cried the mother. The girl sat in the chair opposite her mother, took a flower from the bouquet standing on the table, and raised it to her lips. Cold and ironical resignation was depicted on her face; the mother looked at her and was frightened. 'Happily, he could go out without being noticed,' she murmured to herself. 'To-morrow I shall order that door to be fastened, and I shall lock you in like a slave. Could I ever have expected to see such a thing?' The girl, biting the flower, seemed to be ready to listen to any reproaches her mother might heap on her. The disdainful silence of her daughter made the Countess still more angry. She sprang from the sofa and walked rapidly across the room. 'If Watzdorf shall dare to speak, or look at you, woe betide him! I shall fall at the feet of the Princess, I shall pray Sulkowski, and they will lock him up for ever.' 'I don't think he would like to expose himself to that,' said the girl. 'To-day I took all hope from him. I told him that I may not dispose of myself; that they would treat me like a slave; that I shall marry the man they destine for me, but that I shall not love him--' 'You dare to tell me that!' 'I say what I think. The man who would marry me, will know what to expect from me.' The Countess looked at her daughter threateningly but she was silent. Suddenly she wrung her hands. 'Ungrateful!' she cried more tenderly. 'The moment I try to secure for you with our lady the most brilliant future, you--' 'I am quite aware that I shall be led like a sacrifice, dressed in brocade,' rejoined the girl laughing bitterly. 'Such a future is unavoidable.' 'Yes, for you know that you cannot resist the will of your mother and that of the Princess and the Prince.' 'Who has no will whatever,' said the girl ironically. 'Silence!' interrupted her mother threateningly. 'I came to tell you about happiness, and I found shame!' 'It was not necessary to tell me of that which I was aware. Sulkowski is married, consequently I must marry the other minister, Brühl. I expected that. Indeed, it's a great happiness!' 'Greater than you deserve,' answered her mother. 'What could you have against the nicest man in the world?' 'Nothing whatever; I am as indifferent to him as if he were the most stupid and the most horrid. He or another is just the same to me, if I can not marry the one whom I love.' 'Don't dare to pronounce his name: I hate him! If he dares to make one step he is lost!' 'I shall warn him: I don't wish him to come to nought: I wish him to avenge me.' 'Don't you dare to speak to him! I forbid you!' The girl became silent. The Countess, having noticed that she was five minutes late for her duties at the court, said: 'You come with me; the Princess commanded you to come. You know how you should behave.' A few minutes later both ladies went out. It was supper time. The strict etiquette introduced from the Austrian court and severely observed by the Princess Josephine did not permit anyone to sit at the same table with the Prince and Princess, except the ministers. The other dignitaries of the court, who were present during meal times sat at another table in a separate room. That day the Prince supped alone with his consort. Padre Guarini sat on a stool apart to keep them company. Before the court went into mourning he would amuse the Prince by joking with Frosch and Horch, who usually would fight, while the Prince would laugh to encourage them, and be in his best humour. The new mourning did not permit the fools to perform, but in consideration of the necessity of distraction for the Princess, Guarini allowed Frosch and Horch to be present in the dining-room, but they were not permitted to play their usual jokes. They were placed in such a way that the Prince would notice them immediately. The table was set magnificently and lighted profusely. Frederick entered with his consort whose common features were in striking contrast to the serene and beautiful although cold face of her husband. The type of the Hapsburgs was not well represented in Josephine, who although still young had none of the charm of youth; the hanging lower lip, gloomy expression, something common and severe in her face, made her repulsive. Whilst Padre Guarini recited the _benedicite_, the Prince and Princess stood with piously clasped hands, the servants waiting. As Frederick sat down he caught sight of Frosch and Horch who had assumed such a dignified and pompous mien that they were more ridiculous than ever. Frosch was almost dwarfish; Horch tall and thin. They were both dressed alike. Although the court was in mourning the fools wore red tail coats and blue trousers. Frosch's wig was curled like a sheepskin, while Horch's hair was flat. Frosch stood in the position of the Colossus of Rhodes, with hands placed behind his back. Horch stood stretched like a soldier, with arms straight down his sides. Both were very amusing. The Prince having noticed them smiled. While eating and drinking with a famous appetite, Frederick looked from time to time at his favourites; he was sorry he could not permit them to play their jokes, but they would have been too noisy. The sight of them alone made the Prince happy, but he had another source of happiness in that Sulkowski and Brühl were such good friends. Brühl willingly resigned his appointment as Grand Marshal of the court, which dignity the Prince bestowed upon Sulkowski, and was content to be the president of the ministers and Secretary of the Treasury. It was only a matter of form, as Sulkowski was expected to keep everything under his own control. But the future was not certain. Brühl seemed to be Sulkowski's best friend, and the latter being sure of the Prince's favour did not fear him as a rival. Having put the whole burden of ruling on these two men, the Prince felt at ease to lead his own monotonous life. He only longed after the opera, after Faustina, and after hunting. But all that was bound to return after the mourning was over. In Poland the Count Moszynski, the Bishop Lipski and others were working hard to assure the Prince's election as King, and Brühl guaranteed that it would be done. A few days after the news of his father's death, Frederick declared that he would not change anything. But Saxony expected some improvements, and was soon disillusioned and informed that she must not expect anything. The taxes were as heavy as ever. That evening when the Prince went to his apartment, Sulkowski and Brühl followed him. In another room some courtiers were grouped round Josephine, and between them was the joking Padre Guarini. The Princess, having remained to talk to them for a time, retired to her own room followed by the Countess Kolowrath, who told her daughter to follow her. Josephine stood in the centre of the drawing-room as though expecting something. The young girl entered without the least sign of fear. The Princess asked her to come near and said: 'My dear girl, it is time to think of your future--I am willing to do something for you.' The mother fearing some improper answer said: 'We shall ever be thankful to your Royal Highness.' 'I know that you are a good Catholic,' continued the Princess, 'therefore, I must assure you before all, that your future husband, although not born in the Catholic faith, shall embrace it. Consequently you shall have the merit of gaining one soul for God.' The girl listened quite indifferently. The Princess looked at her but failed to see any emotion in her face. 'I congratulate you,' added she, 'on the choice made for you by myself and your mother; the man destined for your husband is very pious, of great character and keen intelligence-it is the Secretary of the Treasury, Brühl.' Josephine looked again at the girl, who stood silent. 'You must permit him to approach you, so that you may get to know each other, and I hope you will be happy.' The mother pushed the girl towards the Princess; Frances resented being pushed, bent her head and moved aside. Thus the day ended, memorable in the life of the girl, who looked so indifferently on her future. The next day, probably by permission of the Countess, Brühl paid his respects to the young girl who was sitting alone. After a moment's reflection she allowed him to be shown in. She received him in the same room in which yesterday, leaning on Watzdorf's shoulder, she had said good-bye to happiness. The mourning was very becoming to her: her beauty seemed still greater on the dark background of her black dress. Besides paleness there was no other sign of suffering on her face; cool and brave resignation lent something imposing to her features. Brühl, who was one of the most refined dandies of his time, attributed great importance to dress, and was dressed that day with particular care. The sweet smile did not leave his too delicate face even for a moment. In the same proportion that the young lady wished to be sober and thoughtful, did he wish to be joyful and happy. He advanced quickly to the table behind which she was sitting; she nodded slightly and pointed to a chair standing near. 'I see,' said Brühl, 'that you have assumed a sad expression to be in harmony with your mourning, while I--' 'You are more lively to-day than ever,' interrupted the young lady. 'May I ask what makes you so happy?' 'I hope you are aware of the cause,' said Brühl raising his hand to his heart. 'Let us not play a comedy,' said Frances, 'neither you can deceive me, nor I you. They commanded me to marry you, while I love another man; they command you to marry me, while you love another woman. Those are not very joyful things.' 'I, in love with another?' said Brühl, with well-assumed surprise. 'For a long time you have loved, and passionately, the Countess Moszynski; of this both she and her husband and everyone else, is aware, and you think that I, living in the court, do not know it?' 'If you wish me to confess that I was in love with her--' 'Oh! the old love is lasting.' 'But you tell me that you love.' 'Yes, I don't conceal that I love another man.' 'Whom?' 'There is no need to betray his and my secret.--Suffice it that I am sincere when I tell you of this.' 'It is very sad news for me!' exclaimed Brühl. 'It is still sadder for myself. Could you not find another woman, with whom you could be happy?' She looked at him: Brühl grew confused. 'It is the will of the Prince and Princess.' 'As well as Padre Guarini's,' said the young lady. 'I understand. Is it then irrevocable?' 'Madam,' said Brühl, 'I hope that I shall win your regard--I--' 'I have no hopes, but as our matrimony is inevitable, it would be well to prepare ourselves for that which we must expect.' 'I shall try to make you happy.' 'Thank you, but I think I had better take care of my happiness myself, and you of yours. I don't forbid you to love Moszynski, for even were I to forbid you to do so, it would be useless. Cosel's daughter inherited her mother's beauty and power--which unfortunately, I don't possess.' 'You are cruel.' 'No, I am sincere, that's all.' Brühl, notwithstanding a great faculty for conversation, felt that words failed him. His situation became painful, while the young lady did not show that she was disturbed in the least. 'Notwithstanding all, I am not in despair,' he said after a pause. 'I have known you ever since you were a mere child, I have been your admirer for a long time; that which you said about the Countess Moszynski was only a fancy, already passed and forgotten. My heart is free, and it is yours. I hope you will be able to throw off your aversion to me.' 'I have no aversion to you; you are a matter of perfect indifference to me,' the young lady interrupted. 'Even that means something.' 'It means, that you might awaken my aversion, while wishing to awaken love.--It is very possible.' Brühl rose; his face was burning. 'Perchance never a wooer met with a worse reception,' he said sighing. 'But I shall be able to overcome this impression.' 'Do as you please, but remember, that if I become a victim, I shall marry you, for I must, but you know now what awaits you.' Having said this, she rose; Brühl smiling as sweetly as he could, wished to take hold of her hand, but she withdrew, and said: 'I wish you good-bye.' The secretary left the room: his face was sweet and serene as ever, and nobody could have guessed his defeat. While walking with elastic step across the drawing-room, he met the Countess Kolowrath, who, before speaking, looked at him sharply--but discovered nothing. 'Have you seen Frances?' she asked. 'I return from her.' 'How did she receive you?' Brühl did not answer at once. 'As one receives someone who is not welcome,' he said at length. 'Ah! you have plenty of time.---For many reasons I should not care to hasten the wedding.' 'I am not of your opinion, for I know that it is easiest to conquer the heart, when one is sure of the hand,' said Brühl. 'The approach of the wedding would give us a chance to know each other, and I hope that your daughter knowing me better, and my sentiment--' The Countess smiled. 'Enough for to-day,' said she, '_cela viendra_. Frances is so beautiful that it is impossible not to worship her, but she is proud and high-spirited like a goddess. If our old King were living, I should fear for her, for she could make an impression even on him.' Brühl, having made some further remark, left her with a sweet smile. When he entered his post-chaise, waiting for him at the door, his face became gloomy. 'I should like to know,' said he to himself, 'whom she loves. She had always so many admirers, and was so sweet to them all, that it is impossible to guess who succeeded in winning her heart, but her beauty is necessary to me. Who knows! The Prince may not always be faithful to his wife,--and in that case--' He finished his thought with a smile. 'She may not love me, but our common interests will make us friends. Then they know about Moszynski; it is difficult to conceal love.' Drowned in his thoughts, Brühl did not notice that his post-chaise had stopped before the door of his house. Numerous servants waited for him. The moment he alighted his face was sweetly smiling. He ran upstairs. Henniche was waiting for him. The faithful servant looked better and more healthy than usual. His face was smiling ironically. Brühl entered the office, where he found Globig, Hammer, and Loss. All rose to greet his Excellency, followed by Henniche. The secretary was ready to look through some papers, when Henniche whispered. 'You are wanted there.' And he pointed to the door of the drawing-room. There, Padre Guarini, dressed in a grey coat was walking to and fro. CHAPTER IX The Prince could rest quietly; in Poland numerous adherents were working for him, in Dresden Sulkowski and Brühl, equally ambitious, though the former was more sure of his position. The Prince loved him and, what was more important, was accustomed to him. He had been with Frederick ever since they were mere boys. Together they received their first impressions, together they became men. Sulkowski knew his master, for he had watched him as he grew. Brühl divined him. When Augustus II became a Catholic in order to get the Polish crown, the Pope Clement XI, made every effort that the son might not follow his mother, a zealous Protestant, but that he should follow his father's religion, a matter of indifference to the King who did not believe in anything. For Augustus the Strong was an irritating problem to the Church. It was uncertain which way the election would go in Poland; in Protestant Saxony Catholicism was an obstacle and a peril. Then the mother, Queen Eberhardin, _nèe_ Beirenth, and the grandmother Anna Sophia, the Danish Princess, watched that the son and grandson might not follow his father. Both ladies were Protestant fanatics. But this is certain, that Augustus II, in his efforts to make a hereditary monarchy of Poland, even if he were obliged to sacrifice part of it, was inclined to make his son a Catholic--otherwise it was immaterial to him. Urged by the Pope, Augustus the Strong on the 4th of September 1701 swore that his son should be brought up a Catholic, and on February 8th 1702, he assured the Saxon states that his son should be Lutheran. The fact was that he did not know which policy was the best. When Frederick was yet a mere boy, his grandmother appointed Alexander von Miltitz as tutor. The man was not fitted for the position. The contemporary documents say that the grandmother had not much judgment; she was ruled by Protestant motives, and after dinner knew less than in the morning what she was doing. The little Frederick was taken from the Queen Eberhardin and placed in the care of the grandmother. Alexander von Miltitz being pedantic, avaricious, dull and lazy, could not have had any good influence. As he was indifferent in the matter of religion, the Protestant clergymen surrounded the young Prince, and did not permit him to come in contact with Catholics. Furstenburg notified the Pope about it and an admonition came from Rome. When Frederick was twelve years old he was taken out of the women's hands and sent with a tutor to travel, but he soon came back. Both queens, being afraid that he might be made a Catholic, ordered him, when fourteen years of age, to make a public confession of Protestantism and then he received confirmation. The King, who was then in Danzig, wrote to the Pope about it, assuring him that were he not hindered by certain circumstances, he would have those who had dared to take such a bold step without his knowledge, punished. The circumstances then were such that Augustus was obliged to smooth matters over with Rome by promising that Frederick should be converted. General Koss was brought from Poland and appointed the Prince's instructor. Sulkowski was already with the Prince. In 1711 Augustus took his son to Poland from whence they went to Prague and here the consultation with the Pope's nuncio Albani took place. The result of it was that they determined to change the Prince's whole court, and to surround him with Catholics. Frederick knew nothing about it and on his return to Dresden he went to a Lutheran church. Then General Koss, by the King's command, dismissed Baron von Miltitz together with the other members of the court, with the exception of the physician and the cook, and the Jesuit father Salerno took the Prince's education in hand. In the meantime Augustus II sent his son to travel, commanding him to go first to Venice. In those days the Venetian carnivals held in St Mark's Square were still very famous. In January 1712 they started on the voyage which, in order to keep the Prince from Protestant influence, was to last for seven years. All the letters the Prince wrote to his family were read by the Saxon General, Lutzelburg, a shrewd man, but whose morals were not of the best. The Prince, being from the first troubled by his conscience, succeeded in communicating with and asking help from the Queen of England, Anne, and Frederick IV, King of Denmark. Queen Anne invited him to come to England, the King of Denmark wrote that should he become a Catholic, he would lose all chance of the throne of Denmark. In the same year, the Pope assured Augustus II that in the event of the Protestant princes attacking him, he, the Pope, would support him. In the meantime the Prince, accompanied by Sulkowski, who, being the same age, became his favourite, travelled incognito in Italy, under the name of the Count of Luzacia. His court, besides Sulkowski, was composed of two generals, Koss and Lutzelburg, and of Father Salerno in civilian's clothes, and of another Jesuit, a Saxon, Father Vogler. The secretary was also a Jesuit, whose name was Kopper, who also wore the garments of a civilian and travelled under the name of Weddernoy. Consequently the influence on the Prince was constant and as it went on several years was difficult to resist. From Venice they went to Bologna, where the Prince was received solemnly by the officials of the Pope. Here Father Salerno succeeded in converting the Prince. The confession of the faith was made in strictest secrecy, before Cardinal Cassoni. Later both Albani and Salerno were rewarded with the hats of Cardinals. The conversion remained a secret for a long time, and as the Saxon states requested that the Prince might return, Augustus, not wishing to irritate them, ordered that the proposed journey to Rome be abandoned. In 1713 the Prince was returning home, when he was told to stay for some time at Düsseldorf at the court of the Elector Palatine, a very zealous Catholic; later he went on to the court of Louis XIV, who had been advised by the Pope of his conversion. There was a rumour of a plot made by his Protestant relations about the conversion of the Prince, but the affair remains in obscurity. They feared continually that the Prince might never become a Protestant again. In Paris the Prince was very well received, as one can see from the letters of the old Princess of Orleans; they found him very agreeable although he spoke but little, a habit that remained with him through life. From France they took the Prince not to England as the original project was, but through Lyons and Marseilles again to Venice, where the _signoria_ did everything to amuse him. Masquerades, regattas, comedies, balls succeeded each other. By the advice of Pope Clement XI, it was decided to marry the Prince to a Catholic princess; for this purpose they began to search Venice through Father Salerno; the Count von Harkenberg and the Prince Eugene helped so much that a Princess was promised. They took the Prince to Vienna; he could not take one step without his father's permission. The conversion was still secret, although the reason for sparing the sensibility of the queen-mother ceased, for she died. In October of 1717, on a certain morning, the Count von Lutzelburg ordered the whole court to be ready at ten o'clock in the anteroom of the Prince. About eleven o'clock, the carriage of the papal nuncio drew up in front of the palace and Monsignor Spinoli alighted from it and was conducted to the Prince. Shortly after that there came a little man with a casket under his arm and the Count von Lutzelburg said to the courtiers that in the Prince's room something was going on, and that the Protestants could look at it or not. The door opened, the nuncio was reading, and the Prince, not being well and lying in bed, listened with great piety. After the Mass the nuncio left and the Prince said to his Protestant courtiers: 'Gentlemen, now you know what I am, and I beg of you to follow me.' To this General Kospoth answered: 'We have not yet had time to realise it, it is difficult to decide at once.' The Prince said: 'You are right, one must first of all become good Christians, then Catholics.' The secret was unveiled; the following Sunday the Prince went to the Jesuit church and took the Communion. There was great joy in Rome over this success. Saxony was again assured that the Protestant religion should be respected, but it was easy to foresee that efforts would be made towards conversions. They kept the Prince seven months in Vienna, Augustus furnished plenty of money for a splendid court and balls; and there he was married, in 1719, to the Archduchess Maria Josephine. During the whole of that time Sulkowski was continually with the Prince. He returned with the court to Dresden where the Emperor's daughter was received with the greatest honours. Sulkowski by habit and necessity shared in all the amusements of the Prince, his hunting parties, theatres and art. During his travels with the Prince in Germany, France and Italy, he saw a great deal and educated himself; he learned to know the world, and what was more important, Frederick's likes and dislikes. He was able to take advantage of them, by pleasing him, to rule him, and he felt that he was so necessary to him that nobody could overthrow him. The Prince was very familiar with him, and the critical times made their relations still closer. The friends that Sulkowski made in various courts strengthened him still more, for he knew that in case of emergency he could count on them. Therefore he neither feared Brühl's competition nor anybody else's. Through his wife, _nèe_ Hëin Jettingen, he was sure of having the Princess on his side. He was less humble than Brühl, but a more consummate courtier, more daring, in a word he was a 'cavalier' as they said in those times, of the best sort. Tall and polished, Sulkowski had not the ability necessary for a prime minister, but he was proud and very ambitious. Less familiar with the affairs of state than Brühl, who for a long time worked in Augustus' private office, he was sure of the help of a man from whom he expected assistance. Consequently he determined to become a ruler, being persuaded that he would be able to hold the position. Sulkowski's way of living was more modest than Brühl's, for he was not fond of luxury. Sulkowski's court was not very numerous, the servants not very refined, the carriages not very elegant. The portfolio was about to be handed to him, when one morning, before he went to see the Prince, he sent for his man. Sulkowski was reading a French book, waiting, when the councillor Ludovici, whom he had sent for, entered, out of breath. Ludovici held the same position with Sulkowski that Henniche did with Brühl: he was his factotum, principal clerk in his office and adviser. One glance at the man was sufficient to indicate who he was. His face bore no special characteristic, but it could change and assume any expression that was necessary. His whole face was covered with wrinkles; his eyes were black, and his mouth moved so quickly that it was impossible to describe its shape; while in motion it made Ludovici unpleasing. It was necessary to be accustomed to him in order to tolerate him. Fortunately for Sulkowski he was accustomed to him, and by his own dignified manner he could control Ludovici's impatience. Having entered he leaned on the chair nearest to hand and awaited the new minister's orders. Sulkowski seemed to be thinking whether or not he would make a confidant of the councillor, and his thoughtful attitude excited the latter's curiosity. 'It is very unpleasant,' he said at length rising and looking out of the window, 'that living in the court, and having the confidence of the Elector as I have, I must yet resort to certain precautions.' Ludovici smiled, lowered his eyes, but did not dare to interrupt. 'I can say frankly,' continued Sulkowski, 'that I am not afraid of anybody, but in the meanwhile I must not trust anybody.' 'Excellent! Beautiful!' said Ludovici, 'we must trust no one. A very intelligent man once said to me that one must treat one's friends in such a way as though we expected that to-morrow they would become our foes.' 'The question is not that they might become my foes, but that they shall not harm me; but I must know about their plans and movements.' 'Excellent! Beautiful!' Ludovici repeated. 'Until now this was not necessary, to-day it seems to me unavoidable.' 'Excellent! Beautiful!' Ludovici repeated. 'Yes! we must have men who will keep their eyes open on everything.' 'Yes, even on people in high positions,' said Sulkowski emphatically. Ludovici looked and being uncertain that he rightly caught the meaning of the words, waited. He did not know how high his suspicions would reach. Sulkowski was unwilling to explain himself better. 'I cannot,' he said with some hesitation, 'look into all the official doings of my colleagues.' 'Official doings!' said Ludovici, laughing, 'that is a trifle; their private doings are more important to your Excellency.' 'Consequently I should like to have--' 'Excellent, beautiful--a little report,' rejoined Ludovici, 'every day, regularly. Written or verbal?' They both hesitated. 'Verbal will do,' said Sulkowski, 'you might bring it to me in person, after getting the necessary material.' 'Yes, truly, yes. I--and I can assure your Excellency, that you cannot have a more faithful servant.' Here he bowed very respectfully and then raised his head. 'I would take the liberty of making some suggestions,' Ludovici said softly. 'The foreign resident ministers should be carefully watched, for what else are they than official spies of their countries? I do not exclude even the Count von Wallenstein although he is the master of ceremonies. And then the Prussian Waldburg, the Marquise de Monte, the resident minister Woodward, the Count Weisbach, and the Baron Zulich.' 'Ah! my dear Ludovici, very often the foreign countries are not as dangerous as home intrigues.' 'Excellent, beautiful,' Ludovici said. 'Yes! Yes! Yes! Nobody respects the minister Brühl more than I do.' At that moment Sulkowski looked at Ludovici, the councillor at him, laughed, raised his hand, turned his head aside, and became silent. Thus they understood each other. 'He is my friend,' said Sulkowski, 'a man whose great talents I appreciate.' 'Talents--great, unusual, enormous, fearful,' Ludovici affirmed with animation. 'Oh, yes!' 'You must know that the late King recommended him very strongly to the Prince, that he is going to marry the Countess Kolowrath, that the Princess thinks much of him. Notwithstanding all that, you would be wrong in interpreting my thoughts if you suppose that I distrust him, that I fear him--' 'Yes, but it is better to be cautious, and it is necessary to watch--through him flows the river of silver and gold.' Sulkowski changed the subject of conversation and said: 'They complain to me that Watzdorf has too ready a tongue.' 'The younger one,' Ludovici interrupted, 'yes, yes unbridled, but it is a mill that grinds away its own stones; his talk will harm himself alone, and then he cannot help being angry, because--' He did not finish, for a loud noise was heard in the ante-room. Sulkowski listened, Ludovici became silent, and his face and manner changed; from a courtier he became a dignified official. Pushing, interrupted by a woman's laughter, was heard. Evidently someone was trying to enter by force. Sulkowski gave Ludovici to understand that the interview was over for the present and advanced towards the door, through which there appeared a lady dressed very strangely. Figures such as she presented are seen only on screens or made of china. Over-dressed and very plain, thin, sallow, smelling of _l'eau de la reine d'Hongrie_, wearing a large wig, the little woman rushed in looking sweetly at Sulkowski with her small eyes. The moment that this unwelcome guest took the room by storm, Ludovici bowed humbly, left the room, and the new-comer looked at him and said: '_Ah! ce cher comte!_ You see, you ungrateful, before you could learn that I was in Dresden, as soon as I had kissed the hand of my august pupil, I came to see you. _N'est ce pas joli de via part?_' Sulkowski bowed and wanted to kiss her hand, but she struck him with her fan and said: 'Let that be--I am old, it would not be seemly; but let me sit somewhere.' She looked round and sat on the nearest chair. 'I must breathe; I wanted to talk to you privately.' Sulkowski stood before her ready to listen. 'Well, we have lost our great magnificent Augustus.' She sighed, so did Sulkowski. 'It's a pity that he died, but between ourselves, he lived long enough, he abused his life a great deal--I cannot speak about that: _des horreurs_! What will become now of you, poor orphans? The Prince? He is inconsolable in his grief? True? Yes? I came from my court with condolences to my august and dearest pupil.' She bent a little and leaned on the arm of the chair, raising the fan to her mouth. 'What news? My dear Count, what news? I already know that you have been appointed to a position due to you. We are all glad of it, for we know that our court can count on you.' Sulkowski bowed. From those words it was easy to guess that the new-comer was sent by the Austrian court. She was a famous teacher of the Archduchess Josephine, Fräulein Kling, whom they used to send where a man would attract too much attention. Fräulein Kling was one of the most able diplomats in the service of the Austrian court. 'I suppose you already know about everything.' 'Dear Count, I don't know anything; I know only that the Kürfurst loves you, that Brühl is going to help you. But pray, tell me, who is this Brühl?' Sulkowski became thoughtful. 'He is a friend of mine!' he answered at length. 'Now I understand. You know that the Princess promised him the Countess Kolowrath's hand and that the girl, as it seems, does not fancy him very much. Was Brühl not madly in love with the Countess Moszynski?' All this was said so quickly, that it gave Sulkowski no time to think over his answer. 'Yes,' said he shortly, 'it seems that he is going to marry.' 'But he is a Lutheran?' 'He is going to be converted to Catholicism.' 'It is to be hoped not in the same way as the late magnificent and great Augustus II, who used to put rosaries round the necks of his favourite hounds.' Sulkowski was silent. 'What more? I have not yet seen the Prince--has he changed? Has he become sadder? I pity him! Mourning--he will not have an opera for a long time. And what about Faustina? Is she superseded by someone else?' 'The Prince wishes to keep everything as it was during his late father's life. Nobody could supersede Faustina.' 'But she is old.' 'She charms with her voice alone.' Fräulein covered her face with her fan and moved her head. 'It is a very delicate question,' she said softly, 'for me as a woman, but I am inquisitive, I must know. My dear Count, tell me, is he still faithful to his wife? I love her so much, my dear, august pupil!' The Count retreated. 'It is beyond my doubt,' said he with animation. 'The Princess does not leave him for a moment; she accompanies him to the hunting parties, to Hubertsburg and Diannenburg.' 'In order that he may become sooner tired of her,' whispered the lady. 'That's unwise--I am always afraid of that passion which must be in his blood.' She looked at the Count, who shook his head. 'The Prince is so pious,' said he. Fräulein Kling covered her smile with her fan. The windows of the room in which they were sitting looked on the square. Although they spoke quite loudly, some laughter and shouting became so overpowering, that Sulkowski, frowning, could not help turning towards the window to see what was going on in the street. In those times street noises and shouting of the mob were very rare. If anything of the kind happened the cause for it was nearly always an official one. In this case, one could see through the windows crowds of people in the street, in the windows and doors of the opposite houses. Amongst the crowd, moving like a wave, a strange procession advanced. Fräulein Kling, very curious, sprang from her chair and rushed to the window, and, having pushed aside the curtain, she and Sulkowski looked into the street. The crowd passed under the windows, rushing after a man dressed in dark clothes and sitting on a donkey, his face turned toward the ass's tail. The donkey was led by a man dressed in red. It was painful to look at the unfortunate culprit, an elderly man, bent and crushed by shame. From the window one could see his pale face with the painful expression of a punished man, who, judging by his dress, belonged to the better class. His pockets were full of papers sticking out; his clothes were unbuttoned and threadbare. A kind of stupor evidently followed the humiliation, for he mechanically clasped the donkey in order not to fall, he did not look at what was going on around him, though men armed with halberds surrounded him, while the always merciless crowd threw mud and small stones at him. His dress and face was covered with dirt. The men laughed, the children rushed, screamed and thoughtlessly tortured the unfortunate man. 'What is it?' cried Fräulein Kling. 'What is going on? I don't understand!' 'Oh! nothing!' said Sulkowski indifferently, 'a very simple thing. It cannot be permitted that any scribbler can dare to criticise the people belonging to the upper classes, and speak about them disrespectfully.' 'Naturally,' answered Fräulein Kling, 'one cannot permit them to attack the most sacred things.' 'That man,' said Sulkowski, 'is an editor of some paper called a gazette, or news; his name is Erell. We noticed that he took too many liberties. At length he said something very outrageous in the _Dresden Merkwürdigkeiten_ and they ordered him to be put on such a donkey as he is himself.' '_Et c'est juste_!' cried Fräulein Kling. 'One must be severe with such people. I should like to see the same in Vienna, that we might catch those who take the liberty of speaking about our secrets in Hamburg and the Hague.' They looked through the window on the shouting crowd. Erell, an old man, evidently exhausted, swayed to the right and to the left and seemed likely to fall from the donkey. At the bend in the street he disappeared and Fräulein Kling returned to her arm-chair; Sulkowski took another, and they began to talk. The host however answered her questions cautiously and coolly. 'My dear Count,' the lady at length added, 'you must understand that my court is anxious that the Kurfürst and his consort should be surrounded by people with sound common sense. It is true, that officially you have accepted the Pragmatic Sanction, but--someone might easily tempt you. My court trusts you, my dear Count, and you can count on it, for we know how to be grateful.' 'I consider myself the most faithful servant of His Imperial Majesty,' said Sulkowski: Fräulein Kling rose, looked in a mirror, smiled and curtseyed. Sulkowski offered her his arm and conducted her downstairs, to the court post-chaise waiting at the door, which was lifted by two porters in yellow livery, who carried off the smiling lady. CHAPTER X Soon after the events described, one day after dinner, which was served in those days before two in the Castle, Brühl entered his house. On his face, usually serene, one could see traces of irritation. He glanced at the clock and hastened to his dressing-room. Four lackeys here waited for his Excellency, the fifth was Henniche standing at the door; his face was very sour. Brühl having noticed him, asked: 'What do you want?' 'A very important affair,' said Henniche. 'I have no time just now,' said Brühl impatiently. 'I am still more pressed than your Excellency,' muttered the factotum. Seeing that he would not be able to get rid of him, Brühl came to him and waited to hear what he had to say. But the councillor shook his head, signifying that he could not speak before witnesses. Brühl took him into the next room, locked the door, and said: 'Speak quickly.' Henniche put his bony hand into one of his pockets, took from it something shining, and handed it to Brühl. It was a medal as large as a thaler. Brühl took it to the window, for the day was dark, and examined it: one side of it represented a throne with a man in a sitting posture, dressed in a morning gown and holding a pipe; it was easy to guess that it represented the young Kurfürst; three men, two of them in pages' costumes, the third one in livery, supported the throne. On the other side could be read the following verse relating to Brühl, Sulkowski and Henniche: Wir sind unserer drei Zwei Pagen und ein Lakai. Brühl threw the medal on the floor; Henniche stooped and picked it up from under the sofa where it had rolled. Brühl was angry and thoughtful. 'What does your Excellency say to that?' said Henniche. 'What? Give me the man who did it, and you shall see,' cried Brühl. 'It was stamped in Holland,' said Henniche, 'and we cannot get at them there. But it came from Saxony, for in Holland nobody cares that I was a lackey and both your Excellencies were pages. It came from Saxony!' 'Then we must find the man who did it,' cried Brühl. 'Don't spare money, but find him.' Henniche shrugged his shoulders. 'Give me that medal,' said Brühl. 'Where did you get it from?' 'Someone put it on my desk. I have no doubt you will find one also.' 'I shall send the culprit to Königstein,' cried Brühl. 'We made Erell ride on a donkey, but this one will be safer in a dungeon.' 'In the first place we must find him,' muttered Henniche. 'I will attend to that.' 'We must buy out the medal and destroy it and you will find the culprit. One can do a great deal with a couple of thousand thalers. Send some intelligent man to Holland.' 'I shall go myself,' said Henniche, 'and I shall find him. He would not be a man who, having done such a witty thing, did not boast about it to anybody. We shall get him.' Brühl was in a hurry, so he nodded and went out. Henniche left the room also. The minister, still gloomier now, washed his face, dressed carefully, matching his sword, snuff-box, wig and hat to his suit. The carriage waited at the door. As soon as he got in, the equipage rolled towards the suburb of Wilsdurf. At the entrance to it, he stopped the carriage, put on a light cloak, told the coachman to return, waited till the carriage was at a certain distance, looked round carefully, and seeing only common people he advanced and turned towards a large garden; he followed a path till he came to a gate of which he had the key; he looked once more round, opened the door and entered a small garden at the end of which could be seen a modest country house surrounded by lilac bushes. The birds chirped in the bushes--everything else was quiet. Brühl, with bent head and thoughtful, walked slowly along the path bordered with trees. The noise of an opening window woke him up. In the window appeared a very beautiful lady who seemed to expect him. He caught sight of her and his face brightened. He took off his hat and saluted her, putting his left hand on his heart. Those who knew the perfect splendour of the unrivalled beauty of the Countess Cosel, then locked up in a solitary castle, would recognise in the lady standing at the window some likeness to that unfortunate woman. She was not as beautiful as her mother, not having her regular features, but she inherited her dignified and majestic mien and the power of her glance. The lady standing at the window was the Countess Moszynski, whose husband was preparing in Warsaw for the election of the Prince. She preferred to remain in Dresden. When Brühl reached the threshold she came to meet him. The interior of the house was more luxurious than one would have expected from its modest exterior. It was ornamented with mirrors, luxurious furniture and full of the scent of flowers. In the first large, quiet room, there was a table set for two people, shining with silver, china and cut glass. 'So late--' whispered the Countess, whose hand Brühl kissed. 'Yes,' answered the minister, looking at his watch set with diamonds, 'but I was prevented by an important and unpleasant incident.' 'Unpleasant? What was it?' 'Let us not speak about it to-day. I should like to forget it.' 'But I would like to know it.' 'My dear Countess, you shall learn it in time,' said Brühl, sitting opposite her. 'It is no wonder that a man who has reached my position by degrees has enemies in those who remain behind him, and who avenge their inferiority by calumnies.' The Countess listened attentively, made a trifling movement with her hand, and said: 'Calumnies! And you are so weak that you pay attention to them, that they hurt you? I should have my doubts about you, my dear Henry, if you are so weak. The one who wishes to play a great part in the world, must pay no heed to the hissing of spectators. It does not amount to anything. If you feel hurt by such trifles, you will never rise high. One must be superior to such things.' 'A vile insult,' rejoined Brühl. 'What do you care about the barking of a dog behind a hedge?' 'It irritates me.' 'Be ashamed of yourself.' 'You do not know what there is in question.' Having said this Brühl took the medal from his pocket and showed it to the Countess. She looked at both sides, read the inscription, smiled, shrugged her shoulders, and wanted to throw it through the window, but Brühl stopped her. 'I need it,' said he. 'What for?' 'I must find out who did it. The joke came from Saxony. If we don't punish the man who did it--' 'In the first place you must find him,' said the Countess, 'and then you had better think it over, if by taking revenge you would not be giving too great an importance to some childish folly.' 'They are too daring,' cried Brühl. 'We were obliged to make Erell ride a donkey through the town, and it would be necessary to send the man who ordered this medal to be struck, to Königstein.' The Countess shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. 'Believe me, it would be better to leave vengeance to Sulkowski,' she said. 'As long as you share the responsibility of state affairs with, him, see that everything painful falls on him; you take that which is agreeable. But I hope that you will not be long in partnership with him,' she added. 'I don't know how long it will last,' said Brühl. 'As far as I can see, we must wait till he makes some mistake through being too confident about his own powers.' 'You are right, and that will come soon. Sulkowski is very proud and too conceited; he thinks that he can do anything he likes with the Prince. One must give him a chance to turn a summersault. In the meantime _il tirera les marrons du feu_.' The Countess laughed, Brühl remained gloomy. An intelligent-looking servant, wearing high-heeled shoes and dressed like Liotard's famous 'Chocolate girl,' brought in a silver soup tureen. She smiled to Brühl as she put the dish on the table and disappeared. The _tête à tête_ dinner was animated by a lively conversation. The Countess asked about Fräulein Kling, about her mission, even about Brühl's coming marriage. 'I don't think that you will cease to love me,' she said sighing, 'the girl does not love you, and you are indifferent towards her; you marry to win favour with the Princess and the old Countess Kolowrath; I know that and therefore I keep quiet.' 'You are right,' said Brühl, 'I have not a second heart, and the one I had, I gave to you. I marry because it is necessary, as it is necessary also for me to share government affairs with Sulkowski.' 'Try to become indispensable to the Prince: amuse him, hunt with him, leave him as little as possible. If I am not mistaken, Sulkowski will wish to take it easy, to play the part of the _grand seigneur_, you must become indispensable to the King,--I call him king already, for I am certain that he will be elected. He must have somebody always near him, he is weak, and likes the faces he is most accustomed to. You must remember all this.' 'Dear Countess!' said Brühl, taking hold of her hand, 'be my guide, my Egeria, my Providence, and I shall be sure of my future.' At that moment voices were heard at the gate. The servant rushed in frightened. The Countess rose frowning, angry. 'What is it?' she cried. 'Some one--I don't know, somebody from the court, with a letter or invitation, asks to be admitted.' 'Here? But who could have told him that I was here? I don't receive anyone here.' Hardly had she pronounced the last words, when amongst the trees in the garden appeared a man in a chamberlain's dress. The gardener tried to bar his way but the chamberlain, paying no heed to him, advanced slowly. Brühl bent forward, looked through the window, recognised Watzdorf and at a signal from the Countess withdrew to the next room, closing the door behind him. The Countess ordered the servant to remove the second plate from the table, which was done in the twinkling of an eye, but the second glass was forgotten. The Countess sat at the table, looking with uneasiness towards the garden: she frowned and trembled with anger. In the meanwhile Watzdorf came to the house and seeing the Countess through the window, said to the gardener: 'I told you that the Countess was here, I knew it.' Saying this he bowed with an ironical smile, looking impudently round as if expecting to see someone else. The Countess assumed a very severe expression when he entered. 'What are you doing here?' she asked threateningly. 'I beg a thousand pardons! I am the most awkward of men and the most unfortunate of chamberlains. The Prince gave me a letter for you. I went to your palace but could not find you there. The Prince's letter is very urgent. I was obliged to try and find you, and I came here.' 'I am not surprised that you tracked me like a hound,' hissed the Countess, 'but I don't like to be the game.' Watzdorf appeared to be delighted at her anger. He glanced at the chair on which hung a napkin left, by Brühl. The Countess noticed when he smiled at this discovery. She did not grow confused; but was angry in the highest degree. 'Where is that letter?' she asked. Watzdorf smiled ironically and began to search his pockets, muttering in the meanwhile impertinently: 'Well, this house is charmingly situated for two.' He took out several things and among them as if by accident the medal, then he added: 'Just imagine the daring of these agitators! Who could have expected anything like this?' He put the medal on the table and searched further in his pockets. The Countess took the medal and looked at it, pretending that she had not seen it before: then she said indifferently, replacing it on the table: 'A very poor joke indeed! It does not hurt anybody.' Watzdorf looked at her. 'It might suggest something to the Prince.' 'What?' asked the Countess. 'That he might find other props,' said Watzdorf. 'Whom? You, Frosch and Horch?' 'Countess, you are malicious.' 'With you one might become mad. Where is that letter?' 'I am in despair! It seems that I have lost it.' 'Running after me for the purpose of amusing me,' muttered the Countess, 'to disturb me when I wish to be alone.' 'Alone!' Watzdorf repeated, smiling ironically and looking at the chair with the napkin. 'I understand you,' the Countess burst out. 'Did the Count Moszynski tell you to spy on me?' At that moment the rustling of a silk dress was heard, and a lady who a few minutes previously had entered the room and slipped behind a Chinese screen, came slowly to the centre of the room. Watzdorf was struck dumb with amazement. There was something so unusual in the apparition that even the Countess trembled. The lady was tall and not young; her gaze was piercing; her mien majestic; her face beautiful notwithstanding her age; she was dressed so strangely that one might have thought she was mad. She wore a large gown, bordered with galoons. The girdle worn on the dress underneath was golden with black cabalistic signs; on her black hair she wore a kind of turban with a band made of parchment inscribed with Hebrew letters, the ends of the band hanging over her shoulders. She looked piercingly at the intruder, frowned contemptuously, and said severely: 'What do you wish for here? Did you come to spy on my daughter and her mother in order to entertain the Prince by telling him that you have seen the old Cosel? You son of "the pagan and buffoon from Mansfeld," do you intend to annoy me also? Get out! Let us alone!' She pointed to the door. Watzdorf, confused, retreated. His eyes shone angrily--he went out. Cosel followed him with her eyes, then she turned to her daughter. It was not her day for her visit from Stolpen, and this time the Countess Moszynski did not expect her. Thinking that Brühl when he saw Watzdorf go out would return, she grew confused. The Countess Cosel sat on the chair previously occupied by Brühl. After having driven off the intruder she became almost absent-minded as she struck the table with her white and still beautiful hand and gazed round the room. 'I came unexpectedly,' she said at length, not looking at her daughter, 'but you permitted me to receive people here whom I wished to see. I asked the minister to come here.' Moszynski's face expressed surprise. 'Don't be afraid; I expect him only towards evening,' added Cosel. 'But who was here with you? Why did he hide?' Moszynski was silent, not knowing what to answer: her mother looked at her silently with a kind of pity. 'I understand,' said she with a disdainful smile. 'Some court intrigue. New master, new servants; you must try not to fall on that slippery ice.' What Moszynski was afraid of happened at that moment. Brühl appeared at the door, and having perceived the woman whom he had never seen before but guessed who she was, became dumb with astonishment and did not know what to do. Moszynski blushed, then grew pale. Cosel looked at the man, trying as it seemed to guess his character. 'Then it is he?' said she smiling. 'Who is he?' 'The minister Brühl,' her daughter answered. 'Everything new now! Brühl! I don't remember. Come nearer,' she said to Brühl, 'don't be afraid. You see before you a priestess of a new faith. Have you heard of me? I am the widow of Augustus the Strong. I was his wife. You see the Countess Cosel, famous throughout the world both for her success and her misfortunes. At my feet lay the rulers of the world, I commanded millions. Augustus loved nobody but me.' She spoke quietly; her daughter did not dare to interrupt her; Brühl stood silent, and leaning a little forward seemed to listen attentively. 'You have chanced to see the queen who has come from another world--she was dead, buried, but she is still living in order to convert unbelievers to the true faith of the one God who appeared to Moses in a burning bush.' The Countess Moszynski trembled and by her furtive looks seemed to beseech her mother to be silent. Perchance Cosel understood that look, for she rose and said: 'I am going to rest, I shall not interrupt your councils any more. Cosel's daughter ought to rule over Saxony--I understand--' Having said this she moved majestically towards the same door by which Brühl had entered, and through which she disappeared. By the other door the servant appeared with a dish. 'I am going,' whispered Brühl, taking his hat. 'It is an unlucky day, but I am glad that that malicious Watzdorf did not see me here.' 'He had a medal,' said the Countess, 'he was delighted with it: I see that he is your bitter foe. What have you done to him?' 'Nothing, except that I was too polite to him.' 'He is a poisonous snake, I know him,' said the Countess. 'He is a buffoon like his father,' Brühl said contemptuously, 'but if he gets in my way--' 'That inscription on the medal, does it not sound like some of his sneers?' Brühl looked at the Countess; her suspicion seemed to be probable. 'I shall give orders that he is to be watched,' he said shortly. 'If it is as you think, he is not long for this world.' Having said this he kissed the Countess's hand, took his mantle, thrown into a dark corner near the door and therefore not observed by Watzdorf, and went out. He returned by the same path by which he came full of hope for a long and free conversation; now he was thinking how he could return home without being noticed. He passed the gate neglecting to keep a look-out and he needed all his presence of mind in order not to betray his emotion, when he perceived Watzdorf standing opposite and saluting him with an ironical smile. Brühl returned the salute with perfect ease and amiability. 'You here!' Brühl exclaimed. 'How glad I am!' 'It is I who can call myself happy,' said Watzdorf, 'for I never expected to meet your Excellency under the apple trees. If I remember well, the fruit of an apple tree is called forbidden.' 'Yes,' said Brühl laughing. 'But I did not come for forbidden fruit. The Countess Cosel wished to see me, for she has a request to make to the Prince.' There was so much probability in it that Watzdorf became confused. 'And you, chamberlain, what are you doing in the country?' asked Brühl. 'I was searching for happiness which I cannot find elsewhere,' Watzdorf muttered. 'Under the apple trees?' 'One might find it more easily there than at court.' 'I see you do not like court life?' 'I have no talent for it,' answered Watzdorf walking beside Brühl. 'But you have wit, a sharp tool, with which you need not be afraid of anything.' 'Yes, it's a good tool for making enemies,' said Watzdorf. They walked in silence for a while. Watzdorf appearing to think over something. 'I have not yet had the opportunity to present my congratulations to your Excellency,' said he. 'What?' asked Brühl. 'They say that the most able minister is going to marry the most beautiful young lady in the court.' There was so much passion in his voice, that it struck Brühl suddenly that Watzdorf might be the man whom the beautiful Frances loved. It was only a supposition, or rather a presentiment. Brühl trembled. 'If that is so, then the author of the medal and the beloved of my future wife must be put in a safe place,' he thought. But nothing was yet proved. They looked at each other smiling, but with hatred in their hearts. The more Brühl hated anyone the more sweet he was towards him: it was not in vain that he had been brought up in the school of Augustus the Strong. 'Your Excellency neglects the Prince,' said Watzdorf. 'The Count Sulkowski is too busy, and Frosch and Horch and Padre Guarini do not suffice for him.' Brühl smiled as sweetly as he could. 'You are right, I should like to compete even with Frosch and Horch to amuse our gracious Prince, but I have no time, for I must try to conquer the heart of the young lady of whom you have just made mention.' 'That is not necessary,' said Watzdorf, 'the one who shall have her hand, and the rest--does not need her heart. It might be left to someone else. Your Excellency has an excellent example of this in the Count Moszynski, who does not care for his wife's heart.' Brühl blushed; he stopped, still smiling, but he was out of patience with this preaching man. 'My dear sir,' he said, 'let us speak frankly: have I done you any wrong that you should prick me, or is it only a habit of yours to bite everybody?' 'Both,' answered Watzdorf, 'but I did not expect that such a giant as your Excellency would feel the pricking of such a small fly as I am.' 'I feel no pain,' said Brühl, 'but it tickles me. Would is not be better to make a friend of me?' Watzdorf laughed. 'Ministers have no friends,' he said, 'it is written in the most elementary catechism of politicians.' Here Watzdorf saluted and turned into a side street. It was something like a declaration of war. Brühl was struck dumb with astonishment. 'He declares war? He must be crazy! Why such a dislike towards me? I must find out!' He went swiftly homeward. As soon as he entered his house, he went to Henniche's office. Henniche was a little surprised at seeing him. 'Give orders that Chamberlain Watzdorf is to be watched,' said Brühl. 'But as Watzdorf is very cunning you must choose a man more cunning than he. Bribe Watzdorf's servants and search his papers.' 'Watzdorf?' repeated Henniche surprised. 'Have you any reason to suspect him?' 'Yes.' 'Must he be sacrificed?' Brühl was thoughtful for a while. 'We shall see,' he said, 'I don't like to make enemies, but if it is necessary--' 'Is he in the way?' 'I don't like him.' 'One can always find something against him.' 'Yes, find it then, and have it in store,' muttered Brühl. 'I always tried to be amiable. I must show now that I can be threatening.' Henniche looked at him ironically--Brühl left the room without having noticed it. Watzdorf, who at the turn of the road separated from Brühl, walked swiftly at first, then slowly, wandering without any aim. His face was gloomy, for he felt that in satisfying his own irritation he had committed a grave mistake which he would redeem very dearly. He was too angry with Brühl to be able to control himself. Watzdorf although brought up at the court and accustomed to look at its perversity, which might corrupt him also, was a man to be feared for his honesty and integrity. All who surrounded him shocked him. The air which he breathed seemed to him infected and he was disgusted with it. His love for Frances Kolowrath also contributed to make him hate the world, which had corrupted the beautiful girl. He saw all her faults: coquettishness, levity, pride, egotism and lack of heart, but notwithstanding that, he loved her madly, weeping over her and himself. All her drawbacks he attributed to her education, to the court and its customs, the air which she breathed. He was in despair.---All noticed lately that Watzdorf had grown gloomy and irritable to a degree. If he could he would avenge her on somebody, and as Brühl was Frances's fiancé, on him he concentrated his whole anger. The courtiers, his former friends, avoided Watzdorf: some of them spoke frankly, that he was smelling like a corpse. Having nothing else to do he went almost mechanically towards Faustina's house. The first part of the mourning was over and there were already whispers of an opera. Sulkowski and Brühl knowing how fond the Prince was of music and of Faustina, were inclined to persuade him to have a performance. Although Hasse was the husband of the diva they did not live together. _Il divino Sassone_, as the Italians called him, occupied a separate house. Faustina's house was luxuriously furnished. She gave the orders for each performance, and received those who applied for appointments at the theatre. Watzdorf asked the lackey if his mistress was at home, and received an answer in the affirmative. When announced, and entering the drawing-room, he found the beautiful Italian standing in the centre of the room; while Padre Guarini, dressed in civilian's clothes was walking to and fro. His face was smiling while Faustina was red with anger. Guarini, seeing Watzdorf, said to him, pointing to the singer: 'Look what this woman is doing with me, the most peaceful man in the world. _Furioso diavolo! Furioso!_ If she was singing instead of shrieking--' Faustina turned to Watzdorf. 'Be my witness,' she shrieked, 'he wishes to make a puppet of me that I may not have my own will. To-morrow his protégé would ruin my theatre. No, he must be dismissed!' 'Why?' said Guarini quietly. 'Because the beautiful youth does not admire you? Because he prefers the blue eyes of the Frenchwoman to yours?' Faustina clapped her hands. 'Do you hear him, that abominable _prete?_' cried she. 'Do I need his homage? Have I not enough of that? I am disgusted with it!' 'Yes, as if woman had ever enough of it,' laughed Guarini. 'But about whom, is this question?' asked Watzdorf. '_Un poverino!_' the Jesuit answered, 'whom that pitiless woman wished to drive from the theatre.' '_Un assassino! Un traditore! Una spia!_' cried Faustina. Watzdorf, although feeling sad, was amused by this quarrel between a priest and an actress. 'I shall reconcile you,' said he, 'wait!' They both looked at him, for the reconciliation was a doubtful one. 'Let the culprit go,' said Watzdorf, 'and in his place, as a good actor is necessary, put one of the ministers. There are no better actors than they! And as Faustina would not quarrel with a minister, there will be peace.' Guarini nodded, Faustina became silent, and threw herself on a sofa. The Jesuit took the chamberlain by the arm and led him to the window. '_Carissimo!_' he said sweetly, 'it is still very far to hot weather, and you seem already to be sun-struck.' 'No, I am not mad yet,' said Watzdorf, 'I cannot guarantee, however, that I shall not become mad soon.' 'What is the matter with you? Confess!' 'Shall Faustina's knee be a confessional?' 'What a heathen!' laughed the Jesuit, 'What is the matter with you? Tell me!' 'The world seems to me stupid, that's all!' '_Carissimo! Perdona_,' said the Jesuit. 'But it seems to me that you are stupid, if you say such things. I shall give you some advice. When you have an excess of bad humour, go into the forest; there you may swear as much as you like, shout as much as you like, and then return to town quieted. You know that in old times they used that remedy for those who could not hold their tongues.' Watzdorf listened indifferently. 'I pity you,' added Guarini. 'If you knew how I pity you all,' Watzdorf sighed. 'But who could say whose pity is the better?' 'Then let us leave it,' said the Jesuit taking his hat. He came to Faustina and bowed to her humbly. 'Once more I pray your Excellency for the _poverino_, don't dismiss him for my sake.' 'You can do what you please without me,' answered Faustina, 'but should you force me to sing with him, I give you my word that I shall slap his face in public.' Guarini inclined his head, bowed, and went to the Prince with his report. It was the hour of rest which Frederick enjoyed after doing nothing the whole day. The hour in which he smoked his pipe, enjoyed the tricks of Frosch and Horch, and the company of Brühl and Sulkowski, for no one else could see him then. Guarini entered whenever he liked. He was the more amiable companion. The Prince was fond of laughing, and Guarini made him laugh: when he wanted to be silent, Guarini was silent: when asked a question, he answered mirthfully, never contradicting. Brühl was alone in the room with the Kurfürst. He stood at the master's chair and whispered something. The Prince listened attentively and nodded. 'Father, do you hear what Brühl says?' said the Prince to the Jesuit as he entered. Guarini came nearer. 'Speak on,' said Frederick. Brühl began to talk, looking significantly at Guarini. 'He is ironical, and for a long time has been too biting and too bitter.' 'Oh! That's too bad!' the Prince whispered. 'About whom is this question?' asked the Jesuit. 'I have dared to call his Royal Highness's attention to Chamberlain Watzdorf.' Guarini recalled his meeting with the man. 'The fact is,' he said, 'that I also find him strange.' 'And at the court it is contagious,' Brühl added. The Prince sighed, evidently already bored, and did not answer. 'Where is that fool Frosch?' he said suddenly. 'I am sure he is already asleep in some corner.' The Jesuit ran to the door and made a sign. Frosch and Horch rushed into the room so precipitously that Horch fell down and Frosch jumped on his back. The Prince began to laugh heartily. The humiliated Horch tried to avenge himself on his adversary, rose, thinking that he could shake him off, but the cautious little man slipped down and hid behind a chair. Frederick's eyes followed them--he was anxious to see the result of the contest. Behind the chair both fools, squealing, began to fight. Frederick laughed and forgot all about what he had heard that day. It would be difficult to say how long this would have lasted if Guarini had not whispered to the Prince that it was time to go to the chapel for prayers; the Prince becoming suddenly grave went with the Jesuit to the chapel, where the Princess was already awaiting them. CHAPTER XI One day towards evening both the great ministers were sitting in Sulkowski's house: they were silent and seemed to try to penetrate each other's thoughts. Through the open window came the joyful chirping of the birds and the rumbling of carriages. The faces of the two rivals to a close observer bore a striking difference. One who looked at Brühl at a moment when he thought he was not observed, would have seen under that sweet smile a cold perversity, the depths of which were frightening. In his eyes could be seen the keenness and cunning of a society man who guesses and understands everything, who penetrates the springs of social movements and does not hesitate to take hold of them, if he can do so safely, and provided they can be turned to his own advantage. Sulkowski was a proud petty noble, who having become a lord, thought that he was so sure of his high position, that he believed everything was subservient to him. He treated Brühl as _malum necessarium_ and looked down upon him with that superiority, sure of itself, which shuts its eyes to peril. He was not lacking in ideas, but he was lazy and disliked every effort. Looking on them it was easy to guess the result of so unequal a fight, for never did a beautiful face conceal more falsehood than that of Brühl, who, when he knew that he was watched, could assume an innocent, childlike expression. Two men of such calibre, placed in opposition, could not help fighting, but they did not fight yet; on the contrary they seemed to be the best of friends. Some instinct made Sulkowski feel that Brühl was his antagonist, but he laughed at the idea. Brühl was perfectly aware that he would not be able to rule absolutely over the Prince, until he overthrew Sulkowski, who furnished arms against himself. Although he could dissimulate and wait, Sulkowski sometimes avowed to himself, that he disliked the omnipotence of the Jesuit at the court, and that the Princess's influence also stood in his way. He did not make Brühl his confidant, but he did not exercise sufficient caution and permitted him to guess. While Brühl and Guarini were the best of friends Sulkowski kept aloof from him. He was very respectful towards the Princess, but did not try to win her particular favour. Sometimes he would say something that would have passed muster under the rule of Augustus, but was unadvisable with so severe a Princess. Father Guarini, knowing that the Prince was fond of him, bowed to him but kept his distance. He very seldom met Brühl alone, as one of them was obliged to be always with the Prince, to keep him amused. Evidently they had said all they had to say to each other, for Sulkowski was silent, and Brühl did not interrupt him, but he did not leave him, plainly wishing to say something further before he left. After a long silence, the Count said: 'All that must remain _entre nous_. The house of Hapsburg is near an end, the glory of the Saxon family should begin. I know well, that we gave up all right of inheritance, that we accepted the Pragmatic Sanction, but with the death of the Emperor, things must take another turn for us. We should, at least, take Bohemia, even Silesia, recompensing Prussia elsewhere. I told you that I made a plan. I told Ludovici to make a copy of it.' 'I should like to have it and to think it over,' said Brühl. 'The plan is good and worthy of you and most important for the future of Saxony. I need hardly say that it will give me great pleasure to assist in its realisation. You have in me the most zealous helper and servant. Tell Ludovici to make a copy for me.' 'I do not wish,' said Sulkowski flattered by his approval, 'that this plan for the division of Austria be seen twice by Ludovici. I shall make a copy of it myself.' Brühl smiled very sweetly. 'It would be a great favour,' he said, 'the means of realising such a wonderful project must be thought over beforehand. One could find in Berlin--' 'Ah!' said Sulkowski smiling, 'there is no doubt that it will be well received there: I rest assured that Prussia is our best friend.' 'I agree with you,' said Brühl, 'the question is only that they might not wish too much.' 'But it's not yet time to treat about it.' 'But it is to prepare the way for the strategy we are going to use.' After saying this, Brühl rose and observed carelessly: 'I am almost certain that that medal was stamped by someone from Dresden, and I have my suspicions as to who did it.' Sulkowski turned to him. 'Who could be that daring man?' 'Who could be, if not a courtier, who is confident that his position will protect him? A man of small importance would not dare, for he would know that it would bring him in contact with the executioner and the pillory.' 'Yes, but as he attacked our august lord, he might meet with something worse, because we could not overlook that.' 'I think likewise!' said Brühl. 'They are already too daring and the good-heartedness of our Prince and your magnanimity give them still more courage. Have you noticed how daring Watzdorf junior is?' Sulkowski looked at Brühl with pity. 'You don't like Watzdorf,' he said. 'He is a buffoon like his father, but not dangerous.' 'Excuse me,' said Brühl with animation. 'The one who trifles with everything, will not respect anything. He will harm me, and you, my dear Count, and at length, our gracious lord.' 'He would not dare.' Then taking hold of Brühl's button, he said confidentially: 'Tell me frankly, why do you dislike him?' 'He annoys me,' said Brühl, 'by his jokes.' 'I think you imagine,' Sulkowski continued, 'that he is in love with Frances Kolowrath.' 'I should not mind that, because it would prove his good taste,' said Brühl apparently with indifference, although he was irritated. 'But he annoys the Countess Moszynski for whom I have the greatest regard.' 'Ah!' exclaimed Sulkowski laughing. 'The Countess could defend herself,' Brühl said. 'She could ask the Prince to punish the man, but the worst of it is that he slanders us all, without any exception.' 'What? Me also?' asked Sulkowski. 'I could prove it to you.' 'It would be too daring!' said Sulkowski. 'Take my word for it. I think that he ordered that medal to be struck--' said Brühl. 'It is only a suspicion, my dear Brühl.' 'Perhaps it is more than a suspicion,' said Brühl. 'I am certain that he personally gave away four such medals.' 'To whom?' 'To the people belonging to the court. Where does he get so many of them? And why such zeal in distributing a medal which I buy out and destroy?' 'But are you certain of it?' 'Henniche will furnish you with the names of the people.' 'That alters the question,' Sulkowski said. 'It is a fact, and although I explain it by his animosity towards you, it hurts me also.' 'To be quite certain,' Brühl remarked, 'I must tell you frankly, that I ordered secret search to be made in his rooms. A number of those medals were found, which left no doubt that he was the author of them and you must punish him for that. In your high position you might be indifferent,' Brühl continued with well-played animation, 'but for such a small man as I am--' Sulkowski frowned. 'I never could suspect that Watzdorf would be capable of such villainy.' 'You shall have proofs of it, but, in that case, I shall not act without you; only I beg of you to punish him. To Königstein--' Sulkowski became thoughtful. 'I would pity him,' he said, 'but if he is guilty--' 'I shall not ask the Prince to do that--you must act. I am your servant, your assistant. I am nobody, and I don't wish to be anybody by myself: my warmest wish is to remain Sulkowski's right hand.' Sulkowski took his hand and said with his usual pride: 'I wish to have you for my friend, only my friend, my dear Brühl, and for my part, I shall serve you as a friend. I need you, and I can be useful to you.' They shook hands; Brühl played admirably the part of being moved. 'Listen, Brühl, I speak as a friend; many people know that Watzdorf is in love with Frances; if you wish to get rid of him for that reason, believe me they will accuse you and not me.' Brühl simulated surprise also admirably. 'My dear Count,' he said with animation, 'I am not jealous at all, but I can be for my lord's and your honour. To-day they attack us as well as the throne, to-morrow they will attack our gracious lord alone. We must prevent that.' 'You are right,' said Sulkowski coolly, 'but we must prove that he is guilty.' 'Naturally,' said Brühl, going towards the door. '_Au revoir!_' Yes, at the shooting,' said Brühl. 'The Prince, needs some distraction, and we must furnish it--He is passionately fond of shooting--It is such an innocent amusement.' Brühl hastened, for it was time to go to the park where targets were placed, and the court was going there. They did not wish to shoot in the castle grounds in order to preserve the appearance of mourning. In the park, situated near Dresden, the court often found enjoyment. Beautiful avenues of linden trees, enormous beech trees and oaks, a great number of statues, and a lake, made that spot one of the most charming round Dresden. It was situated only about half an hour from the capital. The park in which there was an amphitheatre was surrounded by a densely wooded forest. The scent of freshly opened buds and the quiet made the place charming. The targets were placed in the amphitheatre. Father Guarini, not satisfied with the preparations made by the huntsmen, and knowing Frederick's character, wanted to prepare some surprise for him and was busy all the morning. Not far from the amphitheatre a shanty was erected, at which a guard was placed with orders not to allow anybody in, for it contained Father Guarini's secret. Three times the Jesuit came with some boxes, and every time he, and several men who helped him, remained there quite a long time. The Jesuit's face beamed with satisfaction when he came for the last time. Evidently he had got everything ready, for, when the rumbling of carriages were heard, the Jesuit putting his hands behind his back, walked quietly down the avenue leading to the amphitheatre. The royal carriages, preceded by the runners, with lackeys in front and rear, cavaliers on horseback, and beautiful ladies, arrived one after another. The Prince was accompanied by his consort who never would leave him, especially when there were ladies in the party. The Countess Kolowrath with her daughter, ladies-in-waiting, chamberlains, pages, followed the Prince. Sulkowski and Brühl in elegant hunting costumes walked beside him. The rifles were ready, the huntsmen in charge and the pages were to hand them. As Frederick got ready to shoot, Father Guarini appeared in the right-hand alley. He pretended to be very much surprised to see the court: he approached the Prince humbly, and exclaimed: 'Ah! Your Highness, what do I see? Shooting at the target--what a splendid amusement!' 'Is it not?' said Frederick laughing, 'but you shoot only at souls.' 'And not very fortunately either--I miss very often,' rejoined the Jesuit sighing. 'Here the competition will be splendid. But where are the prizes.' 'What prizes?' the Prince asked, a little surprised. 'Your Highness must pardon me,' answered Guarini, 'but to put it plainly, those who prove the best marksmen ought to get some souvenir for their skill.' 'I had not thought of that,' the Prince replied, looking round as if searching for someone. 'If it is permitted me,' said Guarini bowing, 'I will offer five prizes. I cannot give much, for I am poor, but for the amusement of my beloved lord, I deposit my modest gift at his feet.' The Prince's eyes brightened. 'What? What?' he asked. 'It is my secret!' said the Padre, 'I cannot disclose it until the right time.' He pointed to the shanty. 'My prizes are there. There are five of them for the five best shots.' It looked like some funny joke, for Father Guarini was always most anxious to amuse the Prince; very often his jokes were not very new or very elegant, but he always succeeded in making Frederick laugh. 'You make me anxious to see your prizes,' said Frederick. 'The only condition I would make, is that your Highness does not compete. There is no doubt that nobody here shoots better, but I have not prepared a prize worthy of your royal hand. Consequently--' The eloquence in his eyes ended the sentence. Frederick began to shoot first. Being used to a rifle since he was a mere boy, it was true that very few people could compete with him, and directly he took hold of a rifle he became so absorbed in the sport that he paid no attention to anything else. The targets were so arranged that if the ball struck the centre, a white and green--Saxon colours--little flag sprang out: a yellow and black flag--colours of Dresden--marked the first circle beyond the centre; and a black flag marked the further circles. When Frederick began to shoot and hit the centre with one ball after another, he was applauded by the whole court. After having shot a great many times, the others shot by turns: Sulkowski, Brühl, the envoys of foreign courts, the old General Bandissin, the Count Wackerbarth-Salmour, the Count Los, the Baron Shonberg, the Count Gersdorf and the rest. Every shot was marked. The Prince seemed to wait impatiently for the distribution of Father Guarini's prizes. It happened that after counting all the marks, old Bandissin won the first prize. The Prince rose from his chair, gazing after Guarini, who told a lackey to bring out the first prize from the shanty. Curiosity was at its height. The door opened, and two lackeys in court livery--yellow tail coats with blue facings--brought out a large basket covered with a white cloth. 'General,' Guarini said seriously, 'it is not my fault that you do not receive a prize more suitable to your age, but it so pleased the Fates, and nobody can avoid his destiny.' They opened the basket and took from it an enormous goose, but not in its natural attire. A clever artist had made a very amusing thing of it. On its wings a silk dress, such as was then worn by fashionable ladies, had been put; on its feet there were slippers, while its head was ornamented with a wig and feathers. The apparition of the frightened bird was received with a burst of laughter, as it began to scream and wanted to fly away; but its wings were entangled in the dress, its feet in the shoes; so it opened its beak as if crying for help and rolled among the spectators. The Prince laughed till the tears came; all laughed, even the stern Princess. 'The second prize!' cried Frederick. 'Your Majesty,' said Guarini, 'The first prize is called _Angelo o l'amorosal_.' 'Who takes the second prize?' the Prince asked. The second prize was won by Sulkowski, who was disgusted with Guarini's joke. The second basket was brought out--and from it jumped a monkey dressed as a clown; the monkey was not less frightened than the goose, but notwithstanding the clothing, it began to run away and having reached the first tree climbed up it. The Prince seized a rifle and fired: the monkey screaming, hanging bleeding on the branch, fell to the ground. The third prize, destined for Brühl, was an enormous hare, dressed as _Crispino_. The Prince killed the hare also. He was much excited and happy; his hands trembled, his eyes shone, he laughed. The fourth prize was a rabbit dressed as _Scaramuzzia_. It was also killed by the Prince. The last prize was a very amusing one, and it was spared: it was an enormous turkey clad as _Dottore_, with a tail coat, wig, waistcoat and everything that belonged to its official costume. Its comical gravity saved its life. They all laughed heartily. The Prince thanked Guarini and made him a longer speech than usual. He assured the Jesuit that not only would he never forget that excellent farce, but that he should order it to be repeated. They shot till dark: the evening was quiet and warm, the air sweetly scented and the landscape charming; nobody wished to return to town; the court dispersed, forming small groups. It happened that the Chamberlain Watzdorf stood by the side of the beautiful Frances Kolowrath. Her mother noticed it and tried to separate them, but she did not succeed. Not wishing to draw more attention to them than was proper, she was obliged to leave them alone. Watzdorf did not neglect to take advantage of his opportunity. Usually ironical, that evening he was sad and depressed. As there was nobody near them he could speak to the girl. 'I am grateful to fate,' said he, 'for the opportunity it gives me of seeing you to-day: and this happens very seldom. The opportunity is the more precious to me, as I see you for the last time.' 'What do you mean? Why for the last time?' asked the girl with uneasiness. 'I feel that over me hangs the vengeance of that minister-page. They dog my footsteps, they have bribed my servants, for many of my papers are missing. They must have taken them secretly, and if that is so, I am lost.' 'Run away!' cried the girl passionately. 'I beseech you by our love, run away. Nobody watches you just now, take the best horse, and in a couple of hours you will be in Bohemia.' 'Yes, and to-morrow the Austrians would catch me.' 'Then flee to Prussia, to Holland, to France,' said the girl wildly. 'I have no means,' answered Watzdorf, 'and what is worse the charm of life is lost to me. There is no happiness for me. Frances--do not forget me--and avenge me. You will become that man's wife, be his executioner--' Watzdorf looked into her eyes; they shone with love. 'Should you not see me to-morrow at the court, it will mean that I am lost,' he continued. 'I have a presentiment of which I cannot get rid.' 'But what reasons have you to suspect this?' 'An hour ago I found everything upside down in my room; the lackey has disappeared. Farewell,' he said with a voice full of emotion. 'You will live, I shall die between four gloomy walls. Frances, I beseech you, drop a handkerchief for a souvenir. I shall carry it on my heart; looking at it my grief will be less painful.' The girl dropped the handkerchief: Watzdorf stooped, picked it up, and hid it in his bosom. 'Thank you,' said he. 'One moment more, and I shall not see your eyes again. Farewell, Frances, _addio_, my sweetest!' The girl's mother came up at that moment, and, taking advantage of the general confusion, she pulled her daughter away almost by force. Watzdorf withdrew. At a distance of a few steps from him, Sulkowski encountered Brühl, while Guarini entertained the Prince. 'One word--' said Brühl, 'my suppositions were right.' 'What suppositions?' the Count asked indifferently. 'I ordered Watzdorf's apartments to be searched and they found fifty copies of the medal and a letter from the manufacturer, who tried to justify himself because he could not execute a better facsimile of the drawing sent him. It is absolute proof that he is guilty.' Sulkowski grew pale. Brühl slipped a paper into his hand. 'Take this: I do not wish to do anything on my own responsibility; do what you please, but if you don't put Watzdorf in Königstein, who knows if one of us will not take his place there? Impudence can do much--Count, do what you please, but I wash my hands of it.--I would not condescend to a search to avenge myself--but the Prince is attacked--It's _crimen læsae majestatis_ and for that death is the penalty.' Having said this Brühl stepped aside quickly; his face assumed its usual sweet smile. He perceived the Countess Moszynski and he turned towards her, bowing in a most ceremonious and respectful way. Frances Kolowrath followed her mother; she was silent and proud; she gazed several times after Watzdorf and paid not the slightest attention to what was going on around her. While she was so deeply thoughtful Brühl came to her, bowed respectfully and smiled sweetly. The proud girl's eyes shone; she drew herself up and looked at the minister contemptuously. 'Don't you think,' Brühl said, 'that we succeeded in amusing the Prince?' 'Yes, and you proved a good marksman,' answered the girl. 'I don't doubt that you could shoot just as well at people--' Brühl looked sharply at her. 'I am not very skilful,' he said coolly, 'but if I were obliged to defend His Majesty, I don't doubt I should shoot well. I noticed that you enjoyed your conversation with the Chamberlain Watzdorf.' 'Yes,' said the girl, 'Watzdorf is very witty, he shoots with words as you do with balls.' 'That is a very dangerous weapon. If one does not know how to handle it,' said Brühl, 'one might shoot oneself.' The girl's mother interrupted this unpleasant conversation, Frances' look closed it. She wished to intercede with Brühl, but pride closed her mouth: besides she was not certain that Watzdorf did not exaggerate his peril. The Princess had already left with her ladies in waiting, the Prince still remained. Sulkowski tried to come near him, and the Prince expressing his desire to walk some little distance, the favourite seized the opportunity and walked at his side. Brühl accompanied the Countess Kolowrath. Sulkowski did not wish to postpone the affair, for he was afraid that Watzdorf might fly if it were delayed. 'It's a very unpleasant duty,' said Sulkowski, 'to be obliged to spoil your majesty's humour after such pleasant amusement.' Having listened to this, Frederick became gloomy, and looked askance at his minister, who continued: 'The matter is pressing; Brühl and I and even your Majesty are exposed to the ridicule of the whole of Europe: I did not speak before, wishing to spare your Majesty's feelings.--In Holland an abominable medal has been struck--' Frederick stopped; his face grew as pale as his father's used to do when extremely angry, and he lost control of himself. 'I did not wish to mention it, until we had found the culprit,' Sulkowski wound up. 'I and Brühl would forgive the offence to ourselves, but we cannot forgive the insult to your Majesty.' 'But who? Who?' asked Frederick. 'The man whose whole family including himself, owes everything to your Majesty's father. It is unheard of gratitude and daring--' 'Who? Who?' exclaimed Frederick, 'The Chamberlain Watzdorf.' 'Have you proofs?' 'I have a letter found in his rooms and several medals.' 'I don't wish to see them,' the Prince said extending his arm, 'nor him either; away, away--' 'Shall we let him go unpunished?' Sulkowski asked. 'It cannot be. He will carry his calumnies and spread them in other countries.' 'The Chamberlain Watzdorf? Watzdorf junior?' repeated Frederick. 'But what do you propose?' Saying this he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. 'Königstein,' said Sulkowski shortly. There was a moment of silence. The Prince walked slowly, with bowed head. It was the first offence that he was obliged to punish. 'Where is Brühl?' he asked. 'Brühl left it to me,' answered the Count. 'Watzdorf! Königstein!' repeated Frederick sighing. Then stopping he turned to Sulkowski and said:--I don't wish to hear any more about it; do what you please.' Sulkowski turned to Guarini, who walked behind them, and signed to him to approach, for he was the best man to amuse the Prince. The Padre ran as quickly as he could, guessing that he was needed. 'I am in despair!' cried he, 'my goose _Angelo o l'amorosal_ is lost, flew away, seeing that Bandissin did not care for it; I am sure it will commit suicide in the forest. I rushed after it and was unfortunate to take three ladies for my goose; they will never forgive me this.' The Prince's gloomy face brightened up; his white teeth appeared from beneath tightened lips. He looked at the Jesuit as if wishing to find the necessary cheeriness in the bright smiling face, remembering the Italian _puleinello_. Guarini having guessed that something must have saddened the good lord, did his best to counteract its bad influence. And in proportion as the Italian's jokes came out, the Prince seemed to forget all else and smiled. But the merry Father was obliged to renew his efforts to disperse the returning cloud, and he did not stop his joking until he heard the loud, hearty laughter, which announced that the Prince had forgotten about the sorrows of this world. The next day the Chamberlain Watzdorf disappeared; he was the first victim of that reign. A few days later they began to whisper that Watzdorf had been escorted to Königstein. The Prince never mentioned his name; Sulkowski and Brühl did not wish to know anything about the affair. Fear fell on the court and on the secret enemies of the two ministers. In _The Historical Mercury_, a newspaper published in Paris, there appeared the following paragraph: 'Those who were familiar with the playful and satirical mind of that young nobleman, who was mixed up in certain affairs after the death of Augustus the Strong, and who showed his cutting wit, will not be astonished at the sad lot which befel him.' Watzdorf never again appeared in this world. He died in Königstein after fourteen years of seclusion, killed by longing and solitude. CHAPTER XII A year after the preceding events, the palace occupied by Brühl was profusely illuminated. Nowhere was greater magnificence displayed during festivities than in Dresden, nowhere more enjoyment than in the capital of Saxony, where the tradition of luxury had been left by Augustus the Strong. From the court the luxury spread amongst those who surrounded the Prince, and on those who came in contact with them, even extending to rich burghers. The banks in those times gave balls for the court; everyone who furnished opportunity for enjoyment and could do something unusual in the way of entertaining, was welcomed. Fireworks, illuminations, flowers, music, pictures were employed whenever there was opportunity for displaying them. Brühl was one of the greatest spendthrifts among the _nouveaux riches_; he astounded even those whom nothing could surprise. The illumination of his palace surpassed everything of the kind ever seen in Dresden. A great crowd gazed from a respectful distance at the house of such a grandee; the palace shone with multi-coloured lanterns and wreaths of flowers. Over the _porte-cochère_, on a shield, from which two garlands of pink and white flowers hung down were the letters F and H lovingly blent. A little lower were placed two transparent shields with heraldic hieroglyphics unintelligible to the crowd. The courtiers explained that these were the coats of arms of the newly married couple. The crowd had been standing for a long time when from the palace came a carriage preceded by runners and postillions on horseback. The carriage contained the mother, and the newly-married couple, coming to their home after the reception at the court. The beautiful young wife was about to enter the house for the first time. Although no other guests were expected, on both sides of the stairs up to the first floor stood numerous lackeys wearing magnificent scarlet livery; on the first floor stood butlers and the minister's pages. The house was furnished with princely magnificence; china, silver, bronzes, rugs and thousands of _bibelots_ ornamented it. Brühl explained this luxury by saying that he wished to do honour to his lord; he declared that he spent his last penny in order to contribute to the magnificence of the house of Saxony. When the carriage stopped in front of the house, the Countess, assisted by her son-in-law, alighted first and went upstairs. Brühl offered his arm to his wife but she pretended not to see his movement and walked independently beside him. Her beautiful face was sad, stern and proud. There was not the slightest trace of joy on her gloomy features. She looked with indifference on the luxury of the house, as though she did not care to see it; she walked like a victim, who knows that she cannot change her fate and does not expect any happiness. She evidently had had time to grow cold, to think the matter over, to become familiar with her situation, for her face was chilly as a piece of marble. If there was grief within her, it had become chronic, slowly devouring. The Countess Kolowrath stopped in the drawing-room and turned to look after the married couple. Frances came to her and was silent. On her other side Brühl, wearing a blue and gold velvet dress, stood smiling sweetly at his mother-in-law. The Countess kissed her daughter silently on the forehead, and although the life of the court had hardened her, tears appeared in her eyes, while the newly married lady remained indifferent. 'Be happy,' the mother whispered. 'I bless you. Be happy!' and she pressed her hands to her eyes to hide her emotion. Brühl seized the other hand and kissed it. 'You need not be left alone,' the mother continued in a broken voice. 'It was my duty to accompany you here and to give you my blessing; but I don't wish to intrude upon you; I myself need rest after such emotion.' She turned to Brühl. 'I commend you to your wife,' she said, 'be kind to her, love her. Frances will become accustomed to you; be happy! The happiness of this world is fragile and unstable--one must try to make life sweet and not embitter it. Frances, I hope that you will be good to him--' She covered her eyes, as though some thought had prevented her from finishing what she had had in her mind. Once more she bent over her daughter's forehead and kissed it. The son-in-law graciously offered his arm and conducted her downstairs to the court-carriage waiting for her, which she entered and hid herself from the gaze of the crowd. The young bride remained alone for a time and when Brühl returned and wished to take hold of her arm, she looked at him surprised as if she had forgotten where she was and that she had become his wife. 'For God's sake,' the minister whispered, 'let us look happy at least before strangers. On the stage of life, we are all actors'--it was his favourite saying--'let us play our part well.' Having said this he offered her his arm and conducted her through the row of lighted rooms, to her apartment. Everything she looked at was so magnificent, that to anyone but her it would have been a succession of surprises. She walked not looking and not seeing. At length they came to her dressing-room, situated in front of the chamber, in which two alabaster lamps were throwing a pale, mysterious light. The young lady, seeing the open door before her, stopped; looked round for a chair, sat on one standing near the dressing-table, and became thoughtful. They were alone; only the murmuring of the crowd admiring the illuminations was heard. 'Madam,' said Brühl sweetly, 'you are in your own house, and your most obedient servant stands before you.' He wished to kneel; Frances rose suddenly, sighed, as if throwing off a burden, and said with a voice in which there was sadness: 'I have had enough of this comedy, played the whole day, and it is not necessary for us to continue it. We must be sincere and frank; let us be so from the first day. We have contracted, not matrimony, not a union of hearts, but a bargain; let us try to make it advantageous to us both.' Speaking thus and not looking at her husband, she began to take off her wreath and veil. There was no emotion in her voice. 'If you do not wish anyone to overhear our conversation,' she added, 'be so kind as to assure your-self that nobody listens at the door.' 'I am sure of that, for I have given orders,' said Brühl, 'and usually my orders are executed.' Frances took some perfume from a bottle standing on the dressing-table and put it on her temples. 'I cannot be happy,' she continued while undressing, 'as other women are; the man whom I loved, I don't conceal that, is in a dark prison; you love another woman, therefore we are indifferent to each other: although nobody told me what kind of sacrifice I am destined for, I understand it all the same. But I wish to enjoy life and I shall enjoy it--I must have all its pleasures. The poison must be sweetened; that I deserve. I like luxury and I shall have it; I must have distraction in order not to cry; I must have noise in order not to hear the voice of my heart: I must have all that.--You are a stranger to me, I am a stranger to you.--We may be good friends, if you try to deserve my friendship. Who knows, I may take a fancy and be good to you for a few days, but I will not be anybody's slave--even--' She turned to Brühl who stood silent and embarrassed. 'Do you understand me?' The minister remained silent. 'Nobody said a word about it to me,' she continued. 'I guessed it with the instinct of a woman; I know to what I am destined.--' 'Madam,' Brühl interrupted, 'there are things about which one must not speak; to betray them means--' 'You don't need to tell me that, I know everything. I can reveal to you, what you think is a secret. Augustus II wished to be famous by his amours, his pious son would not wish to be suspected of it. Therefore everything must be arranged in such a way that nobody can see or hear.' She laughed ironically. 'I expect, if I give you power, favour, that I must have something in return, and I demand that my fancies shall be respected; and it is quite sure I shall have fancies. I am anxious to know life, I am thirsty for it; I must become intoxicated in order to forget my pain. Do you think,' said she with animation, 'that I shall ever forget about that unfortunate man? I see the walls, between which he is shut, the dark room, hard bed, the face of his jailer, and himself looking through a small window. But in that man dwells a strong spirit, which may keep him alive till the door of the prison is opened. Is it true that your other victim, the poor Hoym, has hanged himself in the prison?' Brühl looked at the floor. 'Yes,' he said drily, 'it is no great loss; I shall not cry for him.' 'Nor I either,' rejoined Frances, 'but I shall never forget the other man. You understand that the hand that has done this, although I was bound to it in church,--cannot touch mine. We are and shall remain strangers.' She smiled ironically and continued: 'You became a Catholic, although this is also a secret. It commends you to me! What tact and policy! The king of Poland must have a Catholic for his minister in Poland--Brühl there is Catholic; the Kurfürst of Saxony must have a Protestant minister in Saxony: Brühl here will be a zealous Lutheran. If Zinzendorf became King of the Moravian Brothers I am sure you would belong to the Herrnhut community--_C'est parfait! C'est délicieux!_' 'Madam,' said Brühl with emotion in his voice, 'unknowingly you wound me very severely. I am a Christian and a pious one; denomination to me is a secondary thing, by the Gospel, our Saviour's love--' He raised his eyes. 'It is a part of your rôle; I understand,' said Frances. 'Then let us leave it, I should like to rest and be alone.' She looked into his eyes. 'But what would the servants say? What would the people say if you dismiss me like that? It cannot be!' 'It cannot be otherwise!' Frances exclaimed. 'You can spend the night here on the sofa or in an armchair, I will lock myself in the bedroom.' Brühl looked at her uneasily. 'Then permit me to go and change my clothes and to return here. Nobody will know what our mutual relations are, but nobody must guess it.' 'I understand that! It must be a secret and we must appear the most loving couple. Our platonic marriage will be very amusing. The men will envy you, the women will envy me; you are not bad-looking for the women; the king is better looking than you, but then he is a king! I prefer to be the mistress of the King secretly, than the wife of his minister openly.' She began to laugh sarcastically. 'I can imagine how his Majesty will be afraid to look at me in the presence of his consort--' 'Madam,' said Brühl wringing his hands, 'the walls have ears.' Frances shrugged her shoulders. 'You know,' whispered Brühl, 'that should there be even the slightest suspicion, we are both lost.' 'Especially I,' the woman rejoined, 'as I should have to remain with you _en tête à tête_, without any hope of consolation, and that would poison my life.--Consequently I shall be silent.' Brühl slipped out of the room. The rooms through which he passed were still illuminated; he walked slowly and at the other end of the house entered his dressing-room. Two lackeys waited for him knowing that he would come to undress. A morning attire lay on the table; it consisted of a gorgeous _robe de chambre_ made of blue Lyons satin with bright flowers, snow white linen, and light silk slippers. As orders were given to extinguish the lights, the lackey took a silver candelabra and lighted Brühl to his chamber. At the door the minister dismissed him with a nod and entered. There was no one in the dressing-room, the door leading to the bed-chamber was locked. Brühl looked through the window, the street was already empty. The illuminations were out; a night lamp burned at a corner; a clock in the town struck midnight. Over the black houses, standing in half shadow, the moon stood surrounded by fleecy clouds. The night was warm, quiet. In the chamber there was not the slightest movement. The husband of the beautiful Frances walked several times to and fro looking for a place to rest. He was obliged to content himself with a small sofa and a chair instead of a bed. He lay down, smiled sardonically, thinking about the future, then began to doze. He dreamed of gold, diamonds, lace, of princely luxury, but not of a human face and heart; then about white clouds with his own monogram, over which there shone the coronet of a Count. When he opened his eyes, it was already daylight. He ran down from his improvised and uncomfortable bed, and went quickly to his apartment. First he looked at a clock and was surprised to find that it was already six o'clock, at which hour he usually began his work. When he entered his study he saw Father Guarini standing in the centre and smiling sweetly. The Jesuit put out his hand to him; Brühl, confused and blushing slightly, kissed it. Before they spoke their eyes met. Then Guarini said mysteriously: 'Ministers cannot sleep long even the first night after their wedding, especially when they have as powerful enemies as you have.' 'With you, Father, and with the Princess's protection, I need not be afraid,' said Brühl. 'It is always necessary to be cautious,' whispered Guarini, 'kings do not rule for ever, my dear Brühl. 'But you, Fathers,' said Brühl also in a whisper, 'rule, and shall rule over the King, and his conscience.' 'My dear friend, I am not immortal, I am already old, and I feel that it will soon be all over with me.' They were silent for some time. Guarini walked to and fro, with his hands behind his back. 'The Princess and I have prepared the Prince von Lichtenstein,' said he, 'but it goes very slowly. We shall not hasten with that campaign, we must wait until I and circumstances have prepared our lord. At present Sulkowski is first with him. Sulkowski is everything. On your side you have the memory of his father; try to have something more--' He became silent. '_Piano, piano, pianissimo!_' whispered the Jesuit. 'One must know how to talk to our lord. _Al canto si conosce l'ucello, ed al parlar il cervello_.' Next he began to whisper in Brühl's ear, then having glanced at the clock he took his hat and rushed out. There was a rap at the other door. The yellow, contorted face of Henniche appeared through the half-opened door, and then the whole man appeared. Under his arm he had a pile of papers. First he glanced at Brühl's face consulting it as if it were a barometer to tell his humour. 'Your Excellency,' he said, 'in the first place, my congratulations.' 'Business before all,' the minister interrupted, 'we need money, money, and always money for the court, for our affairs in Poland, for the King, for me for you, not to mention Sulkowski.' 'They whisper,' said Henniche. 'The noblemen are angry, the townsmen grumble and appeal to their privileges, to _immunitates_.' 'Who?' asked Brühl. 'Almost all of them.' 'But who is at their head? Who speaks most?' 'Many of them.' 'Send the Swiss guard, seize a few of them and send them to Pleissenburg. There they will keep quiet.' 'But whom shall I choose?' 'I should doubt your acuteness if you do not understand. Do not reach so high as to touch some partisan of Sulkowski's. Do not reach too low, for it would be useless. Do not take a man who has relations at the court--' 'But the reason?' asked the ex-lackey. Brühl laughed. 'Must I give you a reason? A word spoken too loud, _crimen laesae majestatis_. You should understand if you are not a blockhead.' 'I understand,' said Henniche sighing. Brühl began to walk to and fro. 'You must tell Globig to carry out my orders. During the last hunting-party a petition was nearly handed to the Prince. A nobleman hid behind a bush. A few hours before a hunting-party, or a ride, or a walk, the roads should be inspected and guards posted. Nobody should be allowed to approach the Prince--' 'I cannot do everything by myself. There are Loss, Hammer, Globig and others.' 'You must supervise them.' The conversation changed into a confidential whispering, but it did not last long. Brühl yawned, Henniche understood and went out. Chocolate was brought. Brühl swallowed it quickly, drank some water, and rang the bell for a lackey to help him to dress. In the dressing-room everything was ready, and the changing of clothes did not take long. The _porte-chaise_ with porters stood at the door. It was nine o'clock when the minister ordered them to carry him to the house occupied by the Austrian envoy, the Prince Venceslas von Lichtenstein. The house stood in the Old Market Square and the journey was not a long one. This hour Brühl usually spent with the King, but to-day he took advantage of his wedding and went to see the Prince von Lichtenstein. Brühl did not forget that that morning it was essential he should appear to everybody the happiest man in the world; therefore although he was tired, his face beamed with joy. The Prince von Lichtenstein, a lord, and, in the full meaning of the word, a courtier of one of the oldest ruling houses in Europe, was a man well fitted for his position. He was tall, good-looking; his features were regular, his mien was lordly; he was affable and polite; in his eyes one could see intelligence and diplomatic cunning. Although Brühl was only a petty nobleman, but now, as prime minister of a Prince related to the reigning house of Austria, and as husband of the Countess Kolowrath, almost equal to Lichtenstein, he was clever enough not to show it and he greeted the envoy with respect. They entered the study. The Prince asked Brühl to be seated, and he himself took a chair opposite him. 'I return,' Brühl said 'to our conversation of yesterday.' 'My dear Brühl, I assure you that you may expect every assistance from my court; title, wealth, protection, but we must go hand in hand--you understand.' Brühl put out his hand immediately. 'Yes,' he said, 'we must go hand in hand. But nobody must see our hands--the greatest secrecy must be observed, otherwise everything would come to nought. I should be overthrown and with me the man who serves you faithfully.' 'Do you doubt?' asked the Prince? 'My word is as good as that of the Emperor.' 'I am satisfied with your word,' said Brühl. 'Is it the case, that Sulkowski has some plans?' the Prince asked. 'There is no doubt about that.' 'But nothing definite.' 'On the contrary, the plan is written.' 'Have you seen it?' Brühl smiled and did not answer. 'Could you get it?' asked the Prince. Brühl's smile became still more significant. The Prince bent towards him and seized both his hands. 'If you give me that plan in writing--' He hesitated for a moment. 'It would mean much the same as giving you my head,' said Brühl. 'But I hope you could trust me with your head,' the Prince rejoined. 'Certainly,' said Brühl, 'but once the plan is in your hands there could be no further alteration, one of us must fall, and you know how attached the Prince is to him.' Lichtenstein rose from his seat. 'But we have on our side the Princess, Father Guarini, you, Father Volger and Faustina,' he said eagerly. Brühl smiled. 'Sulkowski has on his side the Prince's favour and heart.' 'Yes, it is true, that weak people are stubborn, said the Prince, 'but acting on them slowly and intelligently one can always influence them. Never too suddenly, for their feebleness, which they feel, makes them stubborn; one must act on them in such a way as to make them believe that they act by themselves.' 'Sulkowski was the Prince's playmate in boyhood, he trusts him in matters in which he would trust nobody else.' 'I do not deny that the work is difficult, but I do not think it impossible,' answered Lichtenstein. 'But that plan? Have you seen it? Have you read it?' Brühl checked the Prince's impatience by a cool business question. 'Prince, permit me to speak first about the conditions.' 'With the greatest pleasure.' 'I am very sorry, for I respect Sulkowski for other reasons,' said Brühl; 'he is attached to the Prince, he is faithful to him; he thinks he could make Saxony powerful; but if his influence increases, his ambition may lead him on wrong roads. Sulkowski does not appreciate our saintly Princess; Sulkowski does not respect the clergy.' 'My dear Brühl,' interrupted the Prince, 'I know him as well as you do, if not better; he does not stand on ceremony when he is with me; I knew him in Vienna, where he was with the Prince.' 'We must overthrow Sulkowski.' said Brühl emphatically. 'I ask for nothing more, but this must be done for the King's and the country's good. Then I shall remain alone, and in me you will have the most faithful servant.' 'But that plan? That plan?' repeated Lichtenstein. 'Give it to me and I consent to everything.' Brühl put his hand carelessly into his side pocket; seeing this, Lichtenstein drew nearer. Brühl took out a paper and held it before the Prince's eyes. But at the moment when the paper was about to pass into Lichtenstein's hands, there was a rap at the door, and a lackey, appearing on the threshold, announced: 'The Count Sulkowski.' In the twinkling of an eye the paper disappeared into a pocket and Brühl, sitting comfortably back in his chair, was taking snuff from a gold snuff box. Sulkowski, standing in the doorway, looked at Brühl and Lichtenstein, but more especially at his competitor who put out his hand to him and smiled sweetly. 'What an early bird you are!' said Sulkowski. 'The very next day after your wedding you visit ambassadors in the morning. I thought you were still at your lady's feet.' 'Duties before all,' Brühl answered. 'I was told that the Prince was going to Vienna, and I came to take leave of him.' 'Prince, are you going to Vienna?' asked Sulkowski surprised. 'I did not know anything about it.' Lichtenstein seemed a little embarrassed. 'I do not know yet--perchance--' he stammered after a pause. 'I said something about it yesterday at the court, and I see that Brühl, who knows about everything, has learned it.' CHAPTER XIII The two antagonists were still to all appearances the best of friends, although, on both sides there had begun a secret conflict. That same morning Sulkowski spoke to Ludovici about Brühl's marriage. Ludovici was more suspicious than the Count. 'Count,' said he, 'that marriage ought to make us careful. Brühl has married not the Countess Kolowrath alone, but with her he has married the Austrian Court, Father Guarini and the Princess. Brühl is sweet as honey, but he overthrew Fleury, Manteufel, Wackerbarth and Hoym; he put Watzdorf into Königstein; I do not trust Brühl.' Sulkowski began to laugh. 'My dear Ludovici,' he said proudly, 'remember who they were, and who I am! He will not be able to overthrow me were he helped by Guarini and all the Austrians. I shall drive off Guarini and all the Jesuits. I shall give other courtiers to the Princess. With regard to Hoym and Watzdorf, you are mistaken, I sent them away, not he.' 'That is to say he did it by means of your Excellency's hands; _is facit, cui prodest_; I remember that when I studied law. Watzdorf was in love with his present wife.' 'You must not try to teach me anything about court affairs,' said Sulkowski, 'I know what I am about, and none of you know how strong my influence is with the Prince.' 'I do not doubt that,' Ludovici said bowing. Sulkowski however remembered that conversation. Although he did not betray his thoughts even to his confidant, Ludovici, the Count had distrusted Brühl for some time. It was a suspicious circumstance to him that Brühl was continually with Frederick, remaining for hours with him together with the two fools and Guarini, and accompanied him everywhere, so that the Prince grew accustomed to his face. Several times already he had asked after Brühl when he had been absent longer than usual. Little by little his presence became indispensable. Sulkowski did not even dream that this could menace him, but he did not wish for any rivals; he was jealous, and alone must be the object of the Prince's favour. 'Brühl must be got rid of,' he said to himself. 'I shall easily find an excuse. I must prepare the Prince.' The same day after dinner, when the Prince retired as usual to his apartment, put on his _robe de chambre_, sat in a chair and began to smoke a pipe, Sulkowski entered followed by a man carrying a case; he took it from the servant in the ante-room and brought it to the Prince's room. The Prince during his travels in Italy had taken a fancy to certain masterpieces of Italian art. Wishing to imitate his father, and having inherited his love of music, hunting, luxury, theatres, and even for Leipzig fairs, he also inherited his love of art. He was passionately fond of pictures, he would purchase as many as he could get hold of to increase the collection started by Augustus II. The best way to please him was either to tell him of some good picture, or present him with one. Usually cold and phlegmatic Augustus' successor would become quite another man at the sight of a good picture; his eyes would shine as they did on hearing Faustina's voice. It seemed almost that thought circulated more quickly through his brain, and, usually silent, he would talk and exclaim. Even in his saddest mood, at the mention of a picture or an opera, his face would brighten up. Sulkowski, no less than others, was aware of this weak point in his lord. Augustus III began to blow out the first whiffs of smoke when Sulkowski appeared on the threshold with the case. He looked round him, drew himself up, put out his hand, without a word. Evidently he guessed the contents of the case, personally brought by his favourite. The King's eyes brightened.--As he disliked talking he urged Sulkowski by gestures only to be quick and disclose what he had brought. 'Your Majesty,' the Count said in a whisper, 'this is certainly a masterpiece, but--' 'But what?' muttered the King frowning. 'But,' the minister said, 'the subject is a little too mythological and if by accident her Majesty should come--' The King became gloomy and less insistent; his face was stern and he moved his head significantly. Sulkowski put the case in a corner; Frederick's eyes followed it. 'And who painted it?' he asked. 'The divine Titian Vecello,' said Sulkowski. 'It is not very large, but a true masterpiece.' On hearing the name the King bowed as though greeting Titian himself, and whispered: '_Gran maestro!_' Sulkowski turned the conversation. The King looked at him as though he did not understand, became thoughtful and said to himself: '_Troppo mitologico!_ H'm!' After a while when the minister spoke of hunting he said, 'What does it represent?' The Count made a gesture with his hand. 'A very improper scene,' he said. 'Fie 'Hide it! If the Queen should come in, or Father Guarini--fie!' Notwithstanding his apparent disapproval, his gaze turned constantly to the case. 'I think it would be best to take it away,' said Sulkowski, going towards the case. The King frowned. 'But just tell me what it represents.' 'Mars and Venus at the moment when Vulcan catches them _in flagrante_ and puts a net round them.' The King shut his eyes and waved his hand. 'Fie! Fie!' he exclaimed. Sulkowski put the case under his arm. 'But to see it for the sake of art,' said the King, 'is only an ordinary sin. I shall confess it to Father Guarini--three _paters_ and all is over--' He stretched out his arm, Sulkowski smiled, opened the case, lifted the cover, and moved the picture towards the King. The pipe fell from his hands. It was indeed a small masterpiece. The woman it represented was the same belle who sat for Titian's Venus and Diana; a marvellously beautiful woman, but in very fact in a very mythological position. The King looked at it furtively, evidently ashamed of his curiosity; he blushed, but continued to gaze at the picture. He repeated, '_un gran maestro!_' His eyes shone. He paid no attention to Sulkowski and began to whisper: 'Venus is very beautiful. Classical forms! What a charming, what a lovely _favola!_' Suddenly overcome with shame, he looked round, pushed aside the picture, spat, made the sign of the cross, and said severely: 'Away with it! I do not wish to lose my soul. Why do you show me such things?' 'But what about the painting, your Majesty?' 'It is a masterpiece, but away with it!' Sulkowski shut the case and was about to carry it away, when the King stopped him. 'Wait--it is better that no one else should be scandalised by it; put it there in the corner; then we shall see--we shall burn it.' 'Burn such a masterpiece?' The King became thoughtful and continued to smoke the pipe. The minister put the case behind the sofa and returned to the King. Still under the influence of the picture Augustus III continually murmured: '_Diavolo incarnato!_' and he shrugged his shoulders, 'but the picture is admirable. If Mars were not there, and if one could change Venus into repenting Magdalene, I would hang it in my room.' 'Your Majesty, there is no indecency in works of art, one admires only the picture of a master.' The King was silent. 'I must confess to Father Guarini,' he said presently. 'I am sure that the Padre himself,' said Sulkowski, 'would look at this masterpiece, and not think of confession.' '_Siete un birbante!_' muttered the King. '_Tace! basta!_' Thus the conversation about Titian's Venus ended, and as Brühl was not there the King asked after him. Sulkowski sighed. Augustus III glanced at him. 'I see,' said Sulkowski, 'that Brühl supersedes me in your Majesty's favour, and the sight hurts an old and faithful servant like myself. For that alone I could dislike him.' The King cleared his throat significantly. 'He is a useful man, but has many drawbacks,' continued Sulkowski. 'I am afraid of him. He is mixed up with everything, he takes hold of everything--he squanders the money--is fond of luxury--' 'Oh! Oh! Oh!' muttered the King, shaking his head. 'It is true, your Majesty.' Sulkowski became silent and looked sad. The King pitied him. 'Sulkowski,' he said, 'don't be afraid, there is plenty of room for both of you, and you will always stand first with me.' After these words, which were quite an effort for the silent Augustus III, Sulkowski kissed his hand. The King embraced him. 'You are my true friend, but I need Brühl.' This time Sulkowski did not press the matter further, but made up his mind to pursue the same subject on some future occasion, and allow it to act slowly on the King; he noticed however, that Augustus III was growing accustomed to Brühl, and of this he was afraid. The King smoked his pipe contentedly, sitting up straight in his chair, blinking his eyes and thinking, as he was wont to do when at peace with all the world. There was a soft rap at the door. It announced that some privileged person, one who was permitted to enter the King's room without being previously announced, was coming. It was Father Guarini. He entered quietly and smiling; the King greeted him with a friendly nod, and continued to smoke his pipe and blink his eyes. Sulkowski, silent, stood near him. The Jesuit's eyes, searching round the room, were quick to notice the case behind the sofa. He went towards it as though wishing to inspect something with which he was not familiar. The King seeing his movement, blushed and looked reproachfully at Sulkowski, who rushed to the priest and whispered something to him; Augustus III evidently wishing to be beforehand with his excuse muttered to Guarini, 'I did not wish to look at it--it is mythology.' 'Eh!' answered the Padre laughing, 'mythology might be dangerous for your Majesty, but not for an old man like me.' Sulkowski tried to stop the priest, but the Padre insisted, while the King was embarrassed, and he frowned at Sulkowski. Guarini had no wish to give in, and repeated, 'I must see it.' Sulkowski's position became unpleasant, for through this picture he had now compromised the King, who always wished to be regarded as a man of severe morals. '_Sentile!_' said Guarini to Sulkowski, 'if you do not show me the picture, I might think that you have brought something very ugly into the palace, and that you are endeavouring to serve two gods at the same time,--ruling the country and being fond of art,--one of these two you must do badly, for the saying is--_chi due lepri caccia, una non piglia e l'altra lascia_.' Sulkowski's conscience pricked him, and he went towards the case followed by the Jesuit. The King inclined his head towards the window. They lifted the cover; Guarini clapped his hands. 'A masterpiece!' he exclaimed, '_miraviglia!_ But why do you say that the picture is immoral? On the contrary! The culprits are punished. Vulcan catches them, and he, according to _sensus paganorum_, represents God's justice. As to Venus, the poor thing is not dressed, _ma_--' The Jesuit waved his hand. The King looked at him relieved and happy at this explanation, and cried to Sulkowski: 'Bring it here! Show it to me!' The minister brought the picture. The King was looking at Venus with evident admiration, when there happened what they dreaded most. While all were bent over Venus, the door leading from the Queen's apartment opened and Queen Josephine, like an avenging angel, proudly entered the room. In the twinkling of an eye the cover was replaced, Father Guarini retreated towards the window, the King looked up to the ceiling, and Sulkowski tried to conceal the case. But nothing can escape a jealous and suspicious woman. The Queen Josephine guessed everything, blushed, frowned and moved towards the King who slowly rose to greet her. 'We are to have an opera to-day,' he said, 'Faustina will sing.' 'Very well,' the Queen answered, looking at Sulkowski, 'but I see that you have some other entertainment here. What is it that the Count so carefully conceals?' The Queen painted herself and was fond of art, and by the shape of the case easily guessed its contents. The King, knowing her strict and exaggerated modesty, grew confused. 'An interesting picture,' the King said, 'but a little too mythological!' Josephine blushed, grew angry, and looked at Sulkowski. 'I am also fond of art,' she said, 'but not that art which panders to vulgar, sensual propensities; the best painting cannot redeem a wicked thought.' Understanding the nature of the picture the Queen could not insist on seeing it, and perchance imagined it worse than it was. Sulkowski guessed that she was angry with him for showing a lewd picture to the King. It was a fact, that the Queen suspected the courtiers of inducing the King to indulge in such amours as his father had, and she considered that to show Augustus III lewd pictures would be one of the means of corrupting him. Father Guarini changed the subject of conversation, protected Sulkowski, saved the King from embarrassment, and began to talk about the quarrels of Italian actors, whom he continually had to reconcile. The Queen remained deep in thought and gloomy; she did not know how to conceal her thoughts. The King knew that she would scold him severely for being too familiar with Sulkowski; he sighed and longed for the opera, where, in his musical ecstasies, he might forget the sorrows that were unavoidable in private life, even though he occupied a throne where he could sit half the day smoking a pipe in a _robe de chambre_ and smiling at the fancies of a slow imagination. Sulkowski and Guarini slipped out, leaving the consorts alone, which was the best way of putting the Queen into a better frame of mind. CHAPTER XIV One of the greatest enjoyments of the court of Saxony during the reign of both Augustus's was the opera, one of the best of those times in Europe and in some respect perhaps even superior to the most famous theatres and orchestras. Excellent as was the selection of singers in Augustus the Strong's times, the opera was in no way inferior during the reign of his son, who was also fond of music. While listening to the music he was exempt from talking, which he disliked, and permitted to plunge into reverie, in which he spent almost his whole life. The French singers of the King, at the head of whom was Louis André, numbered about twenty and with them from time to time sang Germans, such as the tenor Gotzel, and Italians such as Annibal. The court orchestra under the famous Hasse, Faustina's husband in name, was composed of fifty members; besides this there was also a Polish orchestra for chamber music, conducted by Schltze, which consisted of seventeen members. The King would take it to Warsaw when staying there a long time. Operas and French comedies were performed by turns, for which purpose there were eleven actors and sixteen actresses, and in order to vary the performance there was a French ballet composed of sixty people under the direction of M. Faxier. Enormous sums of money were spent to maintain so large a company. When they were going to give Hasse's opera 'Egio,' for which Metastasio wrote the libretto on the triumph of Caesar, conqueror of barbarism, there were on the stage a hundred horses, the whole Roman senate, knights, lictors, pretorian guards, heavy and light cavalry, infantry; and the booty was represented by gold and silver lent from the king's treasury for use on the stage. The spectators were amazed, the members of the orchestra were stupefied, and it is a fact that the drummer made a hole in the drum from sheer astonishment. There were two hundred and fifty people on the stage; the opera house was lighted with eight thousand wax candles and the manager was brought specially from Paris; his name was Servadoni. Some of the performances cost as much as 100,000 thalers. Faustina Bordoni, still beautiful in figure and fascinating in voice, made a great impression on Augustus III. The same opera would be repeated again and again for months and the enthusiastic and dreamy king never tired of the same songs, which would lull him charmingly in the land of dreams. About that time, besides Faustina, who ruled absolutely behind the stage, appeared the so-called Faustina the second, Teresa Abbuzzi Todeschi, not younger, but perhaps more beautiful, and equally daring. It was said that Brühl was her patron. That day, after being performed many times, 'Cleophile' was again to be repeated. The King was already in his box, the theatre was full, the hour arrived--but the curtain did not rise. This was most unusual. But la diva Faustina was a privileged person; they waited patiently. In the mean while a storm was raging behind the stage. Faustina would not sing with Teresa--Teresa swore that she would not appear on the stage with Faustina. Nobody knew why they were so angry. They both quarrelled madly, but though their tongues were let loose, they did not reveal the cause of their wrath. A third singer, called Piloja, stood aside, listening to the stream of coarse street language, and smiled as though the spectator of a comedy. The voices from behind the stage reached the hall, and Sulkowski sent a page to learn what the trouble was. The page returned, having learned no more than that it would require Neptune with a three-pronged fork to pacify the excited waves. Sulkowski whispered to the King and a page was despatched for Father Guarini who alone could unravel the mystery. In the meanwhile Faustina and Teresa stood opposite to each other as though ready for a fight, both were ready dressed for the stage and neither paid any attention to the fact that their anger ruined the colours with which their faces were painted. The duel might have been fought, had not Father Guarini rushed in like _Deus ex machina_. Seeing him both women became silent. The Padre looked at them, then took Faustina aside. He seemed to be scolding her tenderly. A wave of expectation followed the dispute. The orchestra began to tune their instruments. Faustina went immediately to the mirror, which was a good sign, and Guarini began to talk to Teresa, threatening her with a finger laid on his big nose. Teresa was nearly crying. They whispered for a while, then the Padre cried: '_Pace!_ If you are stubborn, _mia cara_, you might _cader dalla papella nelle brage_. Hasten. The overture should commence. The King is waiting.' At that moment Brühl came behind the stage; he looked at Faustina, nodded to her, then at Teresa, to whom he made some sign, and while the orchestra was playing, all took their places. Father Guarini nodded to Brühl, and they both went through narrow passages in which the managers were omnipotent, making storms, thunderbolts, ruling over heavens and gods, into a small room behind the stage, in which a dressing table and women's clothing indicated that it was the dressing room of one of these ladies, who not long ago quarrelled so passionately, and who were now singing a most harmonious duet. Guarini and Brühl were both tired and silent, they sat beside each other, looking into each other's faces; the Jesuit began to smile. 'Here,' he said, 'nobody can see or hear us, it is the hiding place of that viper Teresa, here we are safe. Let us talk.' He clasped Brühl's knee. Brühl bent to the Jesuit's ear. 'Lichtenstein has the plan; go with him to Vienna.' '_Va bene_,' said Guarini. 'I prepared the Queen. I am certain that Sulkowski threatens that he will drive us from the court, that he will separate the King from the Queen, and that he will give him somebody else.' The Jesuit laughed and shrugged his shoulders. 'He thought of it a little too late!' Brühl's face became gloomy. 'One must know how to act with the King,' said Guarini. 'It is not his fault that he inherited his father's passions and that he must fight against them. The Bible calls it visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children. The Great Augustus in giving him life gave him also a passionate disposition. He will not be able to control it, therefore we must at least guard it from scandal, shield his sins and make them secret, and not allow them to be suspected. If we required from him absolute purity of life, there would be outbursts of this passion. _Cosa fatta capo ha_. What is done is well done. Sulkowski calculated badly, poor thing; the place is taken, the transaction is closed and although the King loves him he will not betray his secret to him. We are the masters of the situation; and I rejoice, for I know that I save a soul--the sin I take on myself.' They began to whisper. 'Sulkowski,' said Brühl, 'is wearied; the King made him a general, and he cannot become famous by knightly deeds during the peace. He mentioned that he would like to make a military excursion on the Rhine or into Hungary. Did the King himself suggest that idea to him? During that time--' Guarini muttered that he understood and approved the idea. 'I will tell the King that Sulkowski needs rest, and everything shall be done.' The Italian made some quick gestures like a magician's pass before Brühl's eyes, rose and continued: 'Go to the King, applaud Faustina in order to please him; do not prevent Sulkowski from being near the King. I have good reason to believe that he is going to criticise the singer; the King will be annoyed, and it will be useful.' He laughed, made a movement with his head, opened the door, and having stepped out into the dark labyrinth of passages behind the stage, disappeared. Brühl presently appeared in the King's box. The opera house was profusely illuminated. The court, as splendid as in Augustus II's time, was gathered there. The Polish nobles, clad in their rich national costumes, shining with precious stones, occupied the first places. The King looked towards them with a friendly smile. Among the ladies one could see the most brilliant stars of the court; the richly dressed Countess Moszynski, proud Frau Brühl, quiet Countess Sulkowski, the wives of the envoys, the Queen's ladies-in-waiting, everybody who had access to the court. The King turned towards the stage every time the beautiful Faustina came upon it, and listening to her voice, closed his eyes as if he dreamed of angels. Sometimes he would applaud _la diva_, and then everybody clapped their hands. The King very seldom looked towards the beautiful ladies and when he did glance their way, his eyes immediately returned to Faustina. His admiration for her was justified by her voice. Frau Brühl, luxuriously dressed, was sitting opposite the King, looking thoughtful. Her great challenging beauty attracted everyone's attention; the King alone remained unconscious of it, or did not wish to see her, and had not Augustus III been a simple-minded man, one might have suspected that he wished to hide something. Beside Frau Brühl, sat, modestly dressed, the Countess Sulkowski, formerly the Queen's lady-in-waiting, née von Stein Jettigen. Her beautiful face had not the irresistible charm so attractive in Frau Brühl. With the Countess Sulkowski was a young girl. Nobody knew her. But being with the Countess as well as by her face and dress, one could guess that she belonged to a distinguished family. The beautiful women of those times, more than any other, were remarkable for their ample, round figures. Small and frail girls found no admirers. Those famous favourites of Augustus II's were almost all bold riders, fond of hunting, of rifles and horses, looking like silvan goddesses, not frightened to meet a wild beast. The unknown young girl, sitting with the Countess Sulkowski, was one of those beauties and looked like a flower blossoming on a strong stem. Pink and white, built like Diana, black-eyed and black-haired, she looked about her boldly and proudly. But in that daring manner there was yet a childlike innocence of any experience of the world. Her eyes looked at everything with childlike enthusiasm and boldness. A black dress with some scarlet ribbons and a few jewels enhanced her wonderful beauty; all eyes were turned inquisitively towards her, and their owners asked feverishly: 'Who is she?' Frau Brühl also looked at her neighbour. The Countess Moszynski did not take her eyes off her, and the young men went in search of the Countess Sulkowski's servants in order to learn something from them; but they learned nothing more than that the young lady was the Countess' relation, and that she came from Vienna. In the meanwhile Sulkowski, having noticed that Brühl went to his wife, bent to the King's ear and whispered: 'Your Majesty, works of art are worthy of admiration, but the work of the Creator also deserves attention. Although the Countess Stein is my wife's relation, I venture to draw your Majesty's attention to her extraordinary beauty. Neither Titian nor Paul Veronese ever created anything like her.' On hearing this, the King turned, as though frightened, to his minister, looked at him reproachfully and in surprise, and plunged into further admiration of Faustina's voice and charms. Sulkowski withdrew. He knew the King so well that he was certain that, struggle with himself as he might, he would play the same comedy as he did with Titian's Venus. He was right in his supposition. The King with great caution, pretending that he looked elsewhere, directed his eyes to the beautiful Countess Stein. Then as though alarmed by her loveliness, he turned his eyes back to the stage. Some time elapsed and the King looked again at her. Augustus III's head still turned towards the stage, but his half-closed eyes gazed on that shining star. As he looked round the King's eyes met Frau Brühl's, whose white finger lay against her little nose as if she were threatening him. At that moment the King began to clap his Hands applauding the singer, and everybody followed his example. A keen observer would have seen how Faustina frowned at the King; how Frau Brühl looked at him impatiently, how Moszynski eyed her husband, and how Brühl smiled maliciously. At last the grand _finale_ resounded with the power of all the voices; the opera was ended. The ladies rose and with them the beautiful Countess Stein, the star of that evening; her graceful figure appeared then in all its splendour. The King dared not look again in her direction. The court, after supper, retired before midnight. Brühl having received the King's orders went home; Sulkowski remained. Frosch and Horch slept in the corners. Augustus III donned _a robe de chambre_ and smoked a pipe in his own apartment, for the smell of tobacco was forbidden in the rooms which he shared in common with the Queen. All those who smoked had separate rooms for the purpose; the ladies, feeling an aversion to the fumes, would not suffer smoking in theirs. 'I don't know' Sulkowski said, 'whether your Majesty deigned to look at Adelaida Stein, but I venture to insist that she is unusually beautiful. If our lord the King, Augustus the Strong, of blessed memory, were alive, I am sure he would admire her extremely.' The King turned, looked at Sulkowski, but said not a word. Sulkowski laughed, took the King's hand and kissed it. 'I am your Majesty's old servant,' continued he, 'and I admire my lord's virtue. Your Majesty lives like a model nobleman, although kings have some privileges. During the performance to-day I noticed with what admiration the women looked towards your Majesty. Adelaida Stein told my wife that she never saw a better-looking man than your Majesty.' He became silent. The King played with his china pipe and did not look at him, pretending that he heard not the tempter. 'Faustina sang like a nightingale,' said the King, changing the drift of the conversation. 'But Faustina looks well only on the stage. If I am not mistaken she is nearly forty and Italian women grow old quickly; Adelaida Stein is lovely.' Augustus III, instead of answering, shrugged his shoulders. 'May it be permitted me to express my admiration? Your Majesty might be a saint, and yet not a happy man. The court is not a monastery.' Augustus III listened, looking at the ceiling. 'Would your Majesty permit my wife to present her relation at court?' asked Sulkowski not abashed at the King's silence. 'Ask the Queen,' impatiently said the King. 'Adelaida Stein is an orphan: her only relation is my wife. We should like to do something for her future. If she were to win your Majesty's favour, here in the court, she might find a husband, and I know that she would like to stay here.' Again he was silent, waiting for a word in reply. The King's reticence led him into an error: he thought he must be more explicit. Therefore he continued: 'If your Majesty should care for Adelaida Stein, nobody would guess your fancy.' He looked at the King, whose face grew pale, his hands trembled and his eyes fell. Sulkowski became frightened and ceased speaking. Augustus III rose. 'Sulkowski,' he said in a suppressed voice. 'I do not wish to be angry with you--but you forget yourself.' He paced up and down, his face flushed; evidently he was struggling with himself, trying to prevent his anger from bursting forth. Never had his favourite seen him so angry with him. He was alarmed and kneeling on one knee put out his hand for the King's hand. Augustus III hesitated, but at length he gave it to him. 'Not a word more; everything is forgotten. Stein must leave Dresden at once.' Thus saying, he turned away. 'To-morrow,' the King said after a moment of silence, 'send hounds and huntsmen to Hubertsburg. I have not hunted for a long time. Brühl and you shall come with me--the Queen also. I wish to hunt for three days. First day reindeer, the second _par force_, the third woodcock.' Sulkowski bowed. 'I shall give orders at once.' 'Yes, have everything ready--we start in the morning.' And having dismissed Sulkowski with a nod of his head, Augustus directed his steps towards the Queen's apartment. The minister followed him, and silently asked for the King's hand. Augustus III seemed to have already forgotten all that had happened, gave it willingly, and smiled as carelessly and cordially as usual. The next and the following days they hunted in Hubertsburg and the forests by which it was surrounded. The King was in a good humour, which was the case every time the hunt was successful. Brühl and Sulkowski accompanied him. The first day the Queen mentioned that she had heard from Padre Guarini, who loved Sulkowski, that the Count would like to make a military excursion on the Rhine and into Hungary. It was attributed to his desire to get military experience in order to be better able to serve Saxony. The King listened to his consort and shook his head. 'He is already a good general,' he said, 'I cannot get along without him.' The Queen did not insist. The third day they returned to Dresden and the same day the King ordered arrangements to be made for target practice in the courtyard of the castle. His usual companions tried their skill against his, but Brühl, although he shot well, took great care not to shoot better than the King. Having rested for one day, the King went to hunt in Klappendorf. The following day he hunted reindeer in Grossenhayn, then in Stanchitz, and passed the night in Moritzburg. Then he returned to Dresden, for Faustina was going to sing. The ladies occupied the same places; Augustus III looked at Faustina alone. Only when he perceived General Bandissin turning towards him, did he look round. Countess Sulkowski occupied her box by herself. The King breathed more freely. He made some remark to the General and when the singing began, turning his eyes towards the stage, he glanced at Frau Brühl, who, sad and thoughtful and more beautiful than ever, was looking with contempt as if the whole world was a matter of indifference to her. CHAPTER XV The King's birthday, the seventh of October, was celebrated at Hubertsburg Castle. Augustus III was very strict about maintaining the etiquette of the court, introduced by the Queen. The whole court was gorgeously dressed at eight o'clock in the morning, waiting in the large hall for the King, whose custom it was at this hour to attend Mass. All the men wore orange-yellow uniforms, but as they were going to hunt immediately after breakfast, they wore jack-boots. Emerging from the chapel, the King and Queen, and everybody from the court who wished to please them, repaired to the so-called Rubenstein Cross. From there the hunt started, and the King rode after reindeer which had been brought to the spot for the purpose. Sulkowski, Brühl, the old General Bandissin and all the men belonging to the court accompanied the King, who was in an excellent humour. In the morning the Queen had prepared a surprise and presented him with her own portrait painted by herself. Having kissed the hand of the august artist, the King ordered the precious picture to be hung in his room. Sulkowski brought from Giustinian's in Venice a very beautiful picture by Palma Veccio, and deposited it at the King's feet. Brühl brought him a picture painted by Rembrandt. Pictures always pleased the King well. Those which he liked, he would order to be hung in his room and would gaze at them in silence, and only when tired of looking at them would he order them to be hung in the new gallery. They killed three reindeer that day and the King became still more good-humoured, he did not speak more, but he smiled, winked his eyes, raised his head, and his face beamed with satisfaction. He smiled several times to Sulkowski, as if wishing to smooth over any impression that he was still angry after that unfortunate evening. The hunt was over early and they went to Hubertsburg, where dinner awaited them. During the hunt the Queen was present, and although her gloomy face betrayed that she was tired, she made an effort to smile and be agreeable to everybody. Even Sulkowski got a few kind words from her. As soon as dinner was over they started for Dresden, where an opera, three ballets between the acts, the smiles of Faustina and a cantata composed by Hasse specially for the day, awaited the King. At five o'clock, the curtain rose in the theatre, lighted magnificently and filled with the court beautifully dressed, and Faustina, dressed more carefully than ever, came forth staring at the King's box. The new King was beaming with joy, quite happy because his life flowed smoothly, not disturbed by anything. He never asked the Fates for more, neither for fame, nor conquests; all he cared for was perfect quiet, during which he could eat, laughing at Frosch and Horch, then smoke a pipe, look at good pictures, listen to Padre Guarini's chatter, enjoy Faustina's singing and go to bed, with no misgivings for the next day. In his quiet life there was however a dark secret. No one knew the King better than Sulkowski, but even from him was hidden one of the corners of his character, in which was hiding a passion ashamed to show itself to the world and the people. Father Guarini alone, as a confessor, knew how strong that passion was, and he alone could entirely subdue the King. Following his directions Brühl assisted by his mother-in-law and his wife took the impregnable stronghold and was master of it before Sulkowski made the attempt. When he took that unfortunate step it was already too late. The place was taken, another was already in possession, even his best friend Brühl, who pretended that he knew nothing and that he did not wish to know anything, never betraying the secret even by the slightest allusion, and was more powerful than Sulkowski who never even suspected that there could be anyone more essential to the King than himself. After the attempt with Adelaida Stein, he felt still stronger, thinking that his failure was the best proof that no one could dominate the King by means of a woman. While he felt so assured he stood on the edge of a precipice which he did not see. Faustina made a great effort that day and sang marvellously. The King raising his eyes was in ecstasies. It seemed that he was looking only at her, although a sharp eye could have detected that from time to time he glanced towards Brühl's wife. Frau Brühl was charming that day. Everybody was astounded that Brühl could afford to pay for all the luxury with which she was surrounded. Frau Brühl evidently wished to be the greatest beauty of that evening and she had put on a gold and white dress in which she looked like a virgin. A very becoming head-dress, with a stream of diamonds, white lace on satin, diamond earrings, that shone like two big stars, made her the queen of the evening. The Countess Moszynski with her severely beautiful features, reminding many of Cosel, was beautiful but in no way did she rival Frau Brühl. All eyes looked at her, she did not look at anybody. Leaning on one arm, she turned towards the stage, but her eyes fixed on one spot were sad. Brühl was envied, at which he smiled. Dressed as gorgeously as his wife, looking fresh and young, he seemed rather to be a dissipated lazy man, than the most hard-working of ministers to whom the fate of the state was entrusted. After the first act, a French ballet followed, conducted by Monsieur Favier, with the famous solo dancer Desmoyers, Mademoiselles Rottier and Vauriaville, who were dressed as ideal peasants. After the opera the elite of the court were invited to a supper, as was the custom in the time of Augustus the Strong. The enormous hall of the castle was illuminated with thousands of candles; the table was set for eighty people; there was a separate table for the King and Queen. According to the etiquette of the Austrian court only cardinals were invited to the King's table. The King was in an excellent humour that night; the Queen was gloomy, uneasy, and sad as usual. The beautiful women, who softened her cold and majestic bearing by their charms, saddened and irritated her, although the King gave her no reason to be jealous: on the contrary he was most attentive to his consort and did not gaze at any of the ladies present. The supper was served very ceremoniously. The dishes were brought in with great pomp, and every toast was announced by trumpet and drums. After ten o'clock all left the table in excellent humour; the King accompanied by Sulkowski and Brühl went to his apartment. Passing the row of ladies Augustus III affected not to see any of them, but when he passed Brühl's wife he exchanged with her a significant look. Sulkowski did not see anything, neither did he guess anything. Taking advantage of the King's good humour he decided to speak to him confidentially and try to overthrow Brühl. Augustus was equally kind to them both. They entered the room where the lackeys were in readiness to undress the King and to give him his much-preferred _robe de chambre_. Both ministers waited till the lackeys were dismissed, when Sulkowski whispered something to the King, smiled and pointed to Brühl. The minister noticed the movement and came near; Sulkowski began to whisper to him. It was evident that Brühl did not like what he said, he looked at the King, hesitated a little as though he regretted leaving them together, then he bowed submissively and left the room. When the door was closed, Augustus III smiled and sitting in a chair, said laconically as was his custom: 'There are only you and Brühl.' Sulkowski did not like the sound of the rival name, but he was obliged to put up with it. The pictures presented to the King that day stood before him, and he looked at them with evident delight. Sulkowski tried to guess the King's thoughts. 'Yes,' said he after a while, 'Brühl is excellent for many reasons; he is modest, intelligent, never contradicts me. I do what I please with him. I am very satisfied with him.' The King only nodded. Perhaps it may have seemed to him strange that Sulkowski should speak in that patronising way about Brühl, but he did not show it. The minister walked to and fro as if he were in his own room. 'I have not the slightest reason, as I said,' continued Sulkowski, 'to be dissatisfied with Brühl; he is intelligent and capable, but has some faults--' The King looked at him sharply; Sulkowski finished imperturbably. 'He is a spendthrift, he will cost us too much.' Having said this the Count stopped before the King, as if waiting for some reply. The King cleared his throat, raised his eyes and was silent. 'He is a good man--' he whispered at length, seeing that the Count waited for his answer. He finished by stroking the arm of his chair and looking at the pictures. 'If my gracious lord will permit me to express my thoughts--' Sulkowski continued. Augustus nodded affirmatively. The minister bent a little and said in a whisper: 'Not now, for we need Brühl, but later on we could get along with small officials and thus save a great deal of money, for it would be very difficult to teach him economy. Although I fear no rivalry, because I am sure of the heart of my gracious lord, why should we make Brühl unhappy by letting his ambition grow? The Emperor would give the Kolowraths some estate in Bohemia, if your Majesty were to ask him. They could not retire there--' Sulkowski looked to see what impression his suggestion had on the King, but he was gazing so intently at the pictures that he seemed not to hear. The Count added--'Later, later!' but Augustus glancing at him replied neither in the negative nor affirmative and got rid of him by silence. After a time he rose to look at the pictures, walked several times across the room and yawned, which was the sign that he wished to retire. Sulkowski, not at all satisfied with the result of his proposal, kissed the King's hand and left the room. While this was going on in the castle, Brühl, sent away on some pretext, gave orders that he was to be carried home. In front of him there was another porte-chaise which he recognised as his wife's. They both alighted almost at the same moment. Brühl, who seldom met his wife, offered her his arm. She was about to refuse it but upon reflection accepted it, smiling ironically, and not saying a word she went upstairs with him. On the stairs Brühl did not speak, but when they reached the first floor, although the lady wished to withdraw her arm, he did not allow her to do so and escorted her to her apartment. They found themselves again in the same room in which the first night after their wedding they held that interesting conversation. From that moment they had met only for a moment and in the presence of witnesses. In the mornings the mother would be with her daughter, would take her to her house and keep her there under some pretext. Brühl's duty was only to satisfy all his wife's fancies, which he already willingly performed; for the rest they lived as strangers, meeting only when obliged, and getting as little in each other's way as possible. Brühl was patient and polite. Sometimes he would meet his wife's inquisitive glance which she withdrew as soon as he noticed it. Frances changed a great deal: she grew still bolder and more fanciful, she learned how to command her household, and required that her will should be obeyed in the twinkling of an eye: sometimes she was unnaturally merry, sometimes mercilessly ironical, sometimes coquettish with strangers, so much so as even to arouse jealousy in such an indifferent husband as Brühl seemed to be; she grew more beautiful every day. Although he was in love with the Countess Moszynski and although it was suspected that he had relations with Abbuzzi, being yet a young man he could not be indifferent to his wife's charms, which seemed to mock his passionate looks. When they entered the dressing room Frau Brühl withdrew her arm and, going to the dressing table, put down her gloves. She expected that her husband would leave her and was surprised to see him standing between a table and a chair. Her look seemed to say: 'You are still here?' Brühl's enigmatical smile seemed to answer: 'Yes, madam, I am waiting.' 'Have you anything to tell me?' asked she. 'Will you not permit me to sit down and rest, and look on your beauty?' Frances turned and laughed, shrugging her white shoulders; then she turned again towards the mirror not without a certain coquettish movement, which Brühl noticed. 'Will you not agree that my position is a very peculiar one?' 'Mine is also peculiar; but neither you nor I need be surprised at that.' 'You made me hope, that sometimes--you might have a fancy even for your husband.' 'Yes! It may be that I said that, I do not remember,' she answered carelessly, 'but it is certain that I have not that fancy yet. Go and play cards with Moszynski or amuse yourself with Abbuzzi, and let me alone. You worry me.' 'I ask you only for a moment's conversation.' 'Let us talk then but about something else.' 'About the King?' said Brühl. 'I do not know if that will be permitted,' answered Frances laughing. 'Between ourselves--we have no sentiments, only a common interest.' 'You are right; then?' 'How is the King disposed towards Sulkowski?' asked Brühl. There was a long silence. Could one have seen within the woman's heart, one would have noticed that the question hurt her. She knew that this man did not care much for her, and because of some strange caprice she wanted to please him, in order to enjoy tormenting him. An indifferent question hurt her but she did not betray it. 'Ah!' she exclaimed. 'You wish me to be sincere? Sulkowski, you and even the King, you worry me horribly! What do I care about your ambitions and your quarrels? I wish to enjoy life! The King is a doll without life!' 'For God's sake!' exclaimed Brühl, wringing his hands. 'Nobody is listening to us,' said she indifferently. 'You told me to amuse myself with the doll, or rather you gave me to understand that he might play with me, but you can't expect me to be in love with him. You know the King best. Good-looking, kind, incapable of anything doubtful, passionate without sentiment, attached without courage to show it, pious and superstitious, lascivious, timid, thoughtless, tiresome--dreadfully so.' 'Madam,' Brühl cried, 'were all that true you should not say it, and I should not listen to it.' 'Then let us yawn,' the woman answered and she opened her mouth: then she threw herself on the sofa as if she were tired, her head hanging down, her arms fallen along her body; in that melancholy and coquettish position she was charming. Brühl looked and sighed. 'You asked me about Sulkowski,' said Frances slowly. The minister nodded. 'Who can guess what that doll the King thinks? Has he a heart? Is he capable of love? Can he love anybody sufficiently to become attached? He is fond of Sulkowski as he is of his two fools, I know nothing more.' 'But if we are to rule, I through you,' said Brühl, 'we must get rid of him.' 'And send him to Königstein as you did Watzdorf?' the woman rejoined frowning. The name fell as a stone between them; the minister grew confused. 'I give you my word, that it was not I, but Sulkowski, who sent Watzdorf to Königstein.' 'The word of a diplomatist?' 'No, of an honest man,' said Brühl, putting his hand on his breast. 'You could not say that I got rid of him on account of jealousy. Till now I have had no right to be jealous--' 'What do you mean by till now? Do you expect to have the right?' 'It seems to me,' said Brühl gallantly, 'if not today then to-morrow you may tire of this, who knows? Perchance you might deign to look at your servant.' 'It seems to me that you will have to wait a long time for that,' the woman whispered. 'I shall be patient,' said Brühl. '_Croyez et buvez de l'eau_,' rejoined the woman. Brühl shivered but said coolly: 'You ought to help me to overthrow Sulkowski.' 'Yes, mother told me the same, implying that he might introduce Adelaida Stein or some other woman to the King. What do I care for that?' 'But are you not fond of diamonds, dresses, luxury, high living?' Brühl asked. They looked into each other's eyes. 'Very well then,' she said, 'we shall overthrow Sulkowski, it will be a revenge for Watzdorf; it will be a distraction. We shall overthrow that boaster.' 'But you must act carefully, slowly, you must--' He wanted to explain to her at length, when Frances rose, as if lacking in patience. 'You think I need some instruction?' she said laughing. 'And what am I a woman for? You think it necessary to teach me cunning, how to pour the poison by drops, how to whisper traitorous words? How to answer suspicions with a double-meaning word? Ah! my dear sir, I was brought up at court. I looked at you ministers, my mother was my teacher, who, while still in the cradle, taught me how to lie, how to love falsehood!' And she laughed strangely, almost desperately. 'Be assured, I shall overthrow him, and when I choose, you also--' Suddenly she became silent, she put a handkerchief to her eyes, and went slowly to her chamber. She locked the door behind her; Brühl remained alone. CHAPTER XVI In a narrow street near the wall of the old city, not far from the river Elbe, stood a small house in a garden surrounded with a wall. One could easily see that it had been recently erected, and care had been taken to make it handsomer than the other houses. On the walls the architect had suspended stone flowers, round the windows were placed ornaments, graceful curves took the place of straight lines, thus making the building very fantastic. On the gate stood two vases brought from Italy in order to remind one of that country. On one side of the house a verandah also reminded one of the Italian _pergole_. The front of the house turned towards the river Elbe. Young trees already gave some shadow, and two old linden trees, which remained from byegone times, spread their branches widely. One autumn evening a woman was sitting on the balcony. She was the personification of wistful longing. She was young, beautiful, but sad as night; her black eyebrows were contracted, in her dark eyes shone tears; she put her elbows on her knees, leaned her head on her hands, and looked into the distance. It was easy to recognise in her an Italian, for such a beautiful form nature grants only to her elect children, growing in air filled with the scent of orange blossoms. On the half-open red lips, between which could be seen her white teeth, there lingered a song. Her thoughts interrupted it, the voice stopped, and after a while flowed on again like a dream, then died away in silence, changing into a sigh. She was alone, her thoughts concentrated on herself, turned into stone by longing, wearied of life. The song flowed from habit, the tears flowed from the heart. Dressed as if she were in her own country, she could dream about the warm Italian autumn, for the day was warm. She wore a light dress, slipping from her shoulders, her black hair was loose, her arms were bare. It was difficult to guess her age--the first years of youth had hardly passed and it was followed by those in which one longs after youth and looks forward to the future, though fearing the latter in the meanwhile. Her eyes were already familiar with tears and the mouth seemed no more to yearn after kisses, for she was already familiar with their sweetness. Her body was near the dreary river Elbe under the sky of the North, but her thoughts were far beyond the mountains and seas. To the left the sun was setting in an orange-yellow sky and she turned her eyes in that direction. Just then steps were heard in the narrow street. The dreamy woman heard them and awoke from her dreams. She became frightened and listened. Someone knocked at the gate. Afraid, she wrapped herself in her gown, gathered up her dishevelled hair and disappeared into the house. Another knock was heard at the gate. An old grey-haired man, wearing only a shirt and a cotton cape opened the door and looked out. At the gate stood a good-looking man, who, without asking permission, walked through. The old man muttered something, closed the door and followed him. The new-comer asked the old man in Italian whether Teresa was at home and received from him an answer in the affirmative. He went quickly towards the house, the door of which stood open. The entrance hall was empty; he went upstairs and knocked at the door; an old, poorly dressed woman opened it and let him in. The guest entered and found only the stool upon which the Italian was sitting a short time ago. The door leading to the balcony was open. The view from here was so charming that he stopped, looked at it and grew meditative. The rustling of a dress was heard behind him, and the same woman whom we saw on the balcony advanced slowly. She now wore a voluminous black dress and her hair was negligently tied. Her face bore the same expression of weariness. She nodded as her guest turned to greet her. They spoke in Italian. 'What is the matter with you?' the stranger asked. 'I am not well! I am dying from longing,' answered the Italian sadly. 'I cannot live here!' 'Where does such despair come from?' 'From the air!' the woman cried, throwing herself on a sofa. The man sat opposite her on a chair. 'From the air!' she repeated, 'I cannot breathe here! I cannot live here! I must die here!' 'But what is the matter?' 'You see----' 'Then again that longing?' 'It has never left me.' 'I am sure Faustina has done something again,' said the visitor. It was Brühl, as one could guess. 'Faustina?' she said looking at him angrily. 'You think and talk only of her!' 'Why do you not eclipse Faustina? Why do you not try to please the King? She is older----' 'She is a witch as old as the world--' interrupted Teresa. 'An abominable comedian. But with that King----' 'Pray, speak with respect about him!' Teresa's mouth twitched. 'I will give you some advice,' said Brühl, 'when you sing, always turn towards the King, look at him, smile to him, be coquettish. If he applaud you, you are first.' 'But in the meanwhile that old Faustina is first. The King is ruled by habit, and has no taste. She has a coarse voice and grey hair. But it does not matter, she is a _diva_, and we _compars!_' 'Teresa, listen,' said Brühl, 'do not despair, it shall be changed, Faustina shall return home, you shall remain.' 'I would prefer the contrary,' Teresa muttered. 'I have not time to-day to talk that matter over with you,' said Brühl. 'At any minute I expect Padre Guarini to rap at the door. Tell old Beppo to let him in. I could not see him elsewhere and I told him to come here. Give him something sweet, but not your lips which are the sweetest, and leave us alone.' Teresa listened with indifference; then as though forced to obey, she rose and moved slowly towards the door calling her old woman, to whom she whispered a few words. Brühl paced up and down the room. Teresa turned, looked at him and went to the sofa, but a muffled knock at the door forced her to rise again to welcome the Jesuit. A swift step was heard on the stairs and the long face of the Padre, smiling kindly, appeared in the doorway. He noticed Teresa as she put in order the things scattered about the room. 'Let that be,' he exclaimed. 'I am not a guest, but one of the family. I feel so happy to be with my countrymen.' Brühl came over to Guarini. 'What news?' he asked. 'Is he going away?' 'Yes,' said the Padre laughing. 'The King himself told him to go and rest after working so hard. Do you understand? Very cleverly done. I never expected the Queen to be so cunning. She said to the King, "I know that you will be longing after Sulkowski, that we shall not be able to find a substitute for him, but he is killing himself with hard work. He is made for the active life of a soldier, let him go and smell some powder, and return refreshed." The King kissed her hand, thanking her for her sympathy for his favourite, and he said: "I shall tell Sulkowski to-day to go and travel, and pay his expenses." We must not stint the money! Let him go! Let him go!' exclaimed Guarini. Brühl accompanied him. 'Let him go!' 'He shall stay a few months,' the Padre continued, 'we shall have plenty of time in which to prepare the King's mind to dismiss him.' Brühl's face brightened. 'During that time you know what you have to do,' added Guarini. 'You must not act against him; that would be dangerous. Leave that to me and the Queen. Sulkowski hurt many by his pride; as soon as they realise that his good luck may forsake him, they will help us. You must remain his friend till the end.' 'That was my idea also,' said Brühl, 'even I shall protest against his departure, arguing that I shall not be able to do everything without Sulkowski.' 'Very well,' said Guarini. '_Al nemico il ponte d'oro chi fuge_--when the King asks for money, give it lavishly.' 'Even to the last thaler,' said Brühl, rubbing his hands; then recollecting that he must show his gratitude, he kissed the priest's hand. '_Lontano dagli occhi, lontano dal cuore_,' muttered the Padre. 'The King will get accustomed to you.' They both walked to and fro, the Padre was pondering. 'He leaves his wife, she will communicate with him,' he said quietly. 'We must have some people round her.' 'One would do,' said Guarini, 'but it seems that she is not so easy to deal with, and it is difficult to find a man for such a function.' They began to whisper. '_A goccia a goccia si cava la pietra_--' added the Padre. Teresa entered from the other room; she was better dressed out of respect to the priest; she brought some fruit which she placed on the table. The priest clapped her on the shoulder in the Italian fashion, she kissed his hand. He took several medals from his pocket, and gave Teresa one for herself, and two for her mother and the old Beppo, for which she kissed his hand again. The dusk was already falling when Brühl and the Padre left the room in which Teresa remained, as sad as before. The old mother came to keep her company, but they both longed so wistfully after their own sun-bathed country that they could not speak. They had not yet lighted the lamp in order not to attract the mosquitoes, when there was again a rap at the door. Teresa did not rise although she was curious to know who was there: who could bring her any consolation? They could hear a conversation being carried on in Italian with Beppo on the stairs; it was a woman's voice. Teresa sprang from her seat, her mother also rose. In the dusk they perceived on the threshold a tall, well-dressed and good-looking woman, and Teresa to her great surprise recognised her antagonist Faustina. The stage queen looked round the room and seemed to be thinking what to say. Teresa stood silent. 'Do you see, I come to you, I!' Faustina said laughing. 'I waited in vain for you to come to me, and I came to make peace! My dear Teresa, we are Italians, both from that beautiful country, where the oranges blossom, and instead of making our life sweet, we poison it. Give me your hand and let us be friends.' Teresa hesitated, then she began to cry and threw herself on Faustina's neck. 'I never was your foe!' she exclaimed. 'I have not taken a lover from you, I never spoke ill of you.' 'Let us forget about the past!' Faustina rejoined. 'Let us not speak of it, let us be friends. Our life is bitter enough, poisoned by others; we need not help them.' Faustina sighed. 'I come to you, for I pity you; but what is the use of good advice and of kind words? They are too late, nobody can stop that which is to be.' She became silent; Teresa's mother left the room; the two women seated themselves. 'The people mar our happiness,' said Faustina, 'and we must swallow our tears. It is not our world--and at their court one must walk as cautiously as on ice, in order not to slip or fall. Fortunately I have the King, and he will be faithful to my voice. He is a good creature, who goes to his box as a horse to his stable, and I furnish him with his food of songs.' She laughed and bent and kissed Teresa's forehead. 'I pity you, you are in that man's hands.' Teresa looked timidly round and said: 'I am afraid of my own mother.' 'And I am not afraid of anybody,' said Faustina. 'But tell me do you know him?' Teresa shivered. 'He is a dreadful man!' Faustina said. 'He is sweet, kind, but his laughter hisses like that of a serpent; he smiles but he has no heart. And so pious, so modest--' Faustina shook herself and continued: 'I have come to tell you, that soon he will rule absolutely over us all, and then woe to any of us if we resist him. _Poverina_!' Teresa was silent. Faustina continued: 'Perhaps he is good to you, but if you could hear complaints, as I do everyday, about his oppression, you would hate him.' 'My dear Faustina,' Teresa at last replied, 'I am 80 glad you came to see me. I am so miserable! I dream continually of the Adriatic sea: it seems to me that I sit on the threshold of our cottage--_lucciole_ fly in the air, Andrea plays the guitar--the song resounds, the wind brings the scent of flowers. I wake up, listen: the wind rustles, but it brings snow, and the strange tongue resounds and the people laugh and their irony wounds and their love humiliates.' Teresa covered her face with her hands. '_Cara mia_,' said Faustina kissing her, 'therefore let us not tease each other but help each other on this thorny path.' And she put out her hand whispering: 'Be careful of that man, for he is dreadful, and may the Madonna take care of you.' Teresa rose and accompanied her to the door. '_Addio_!' she said. 'May God reward you for your good heart; you came when I was sad--I am happier now that we are friends.' Thus they separated and the thoughtful Faustina, whose _porte-chaise_ was waiting in front of the house, told the men to carry her home. She was obliged to pass the castle. The dusk was not yet as dark in the street as it was in the houses and one could recognise people's faces. Faustina looking distractedly in front of her recognised, in a _porte-chaise_ passing hers, Sulkowski's pale face and black moustache. She rapped at the window and cried: '_Fermate_!' Sulkowski leaned out. Both _porte-chaises_ stopped so that their windows were opposite each other and their occupants could converse. Faustina dropped the glass; the minister, a little surprised, looked at her. 'I must have a word with your Excellency,' she said in Italian. 'Beautiful _diva_!' said the Count, 'if it is a question of some quarrel, Padre Guarini is for that; if about some favour, our gracious King never refuses you anything, but I have no time to listen to you!' 'Count! the question is not about myself, not about a favour, but about you and the King,' said Faustina boldly. 'I am at your service and I listen to you,' said the Count smiling. 'Ah! if you would also believe me!' The Count was silent and tried to control his impatience. 'Count,' said Faustina, 'is it true that you are going away, that you leave the place to your foes?' Sulkowski laughed. 'I have no foes,' he said quietly, 'and were I so fortunate as to have them, (for I should consider it an honour to gain enemies by serving the King), I should not be afraid of them.' 'Do not mistrust me,' rejoined Faustina. 'But from behind the stage one sees the world well and one knows people better than in the drawing-room. Count, I am a friend of yours, for you love the King and you wish for the welfare of this country which I consider my second fatherland. You wish that others also loved the King but they think only of themselves and do not care about the country at all.' Sulkowski frowned. 'But who? Who?' 'Are you blind then?' Faustina exclaimed. 'Do you not see anything? Have I to open your eyes? The Queen is jealous of the King's favours towards you, the almighty Padre Guarini is your foe and Brühl your rival. They made a plot secretly, they send you away in order to take from you the King's heart. And you do not see it! That man will take your place!' Saying this she wrung her hands; Sulkowski listened; his pale face flushed. 'My dear Signora,' he said, 'these are dreams and visions. I am going, but I myself asked for leave of absence; I have no enemies and I am sure of the King's heart. Be assured it is gossip, flying round the court like mosquitoes about the marshes. Believe me, I am not blind and it is difficult to fool me and still more difficult to get rid of me.' He began to laugh. He wished to withdraw when Faustina exclaimed: 'Count, is it possible that you are so blind? Your noble character does not admit of treachery which everybody sees.' 'Because all that has no sense. Brühl would not dare, even had he such allies as the Queen and the venerable Padre.' Faustina lowered her head and said slowly: 'Therefore that which is destined is unavoidable. _Chi a la morte è destinato, muore santo o disperato. Addio, signor conte_ and may Providence guide you and bring you back. Do not stay long away. You may recollect Faustina's warning, but it will be too late.' The Count took hold of her hand. 'Beautiful and good-hearted signora,' he said, 'I am very grateful to you, for that which you have done is the proof of a good heart. I know how to appreciate it. But things are not as bad as you imagine. I can call the King my best friend; I trust him and shall not be disappointed! Be easy about me!' Faustina said nothing more; the Count saluted her. But he changed his plans and ordered his men to bear him to Brühl's palace. It was a time at which he had a good chance of finding him at home. He did not need to ask to be admitted, for before the almighty Sulkowski all doors were thrown open. Brühl was at home. Sulkowski rushed upstairs and did not notice that a page preceded him through another door to tell his master about the visitor. Brühl was with Henniche whom he dismissed, and before Sulkowski, who was obliged to pass through several drawing-rooms, reached his study, he fell on his knees before a crucifix and began to pray. The easy manner in which he assumed that position proved that it was not for the first time that he found it advisable that a visitor should come upon him unexpectedly praying. The contemporary writers assure us that Brühl was very often found praying. Sulkowski entered the room without knocking at the door and stood there in surprise; it was the first time he had seen Brühl praying and he could hardly believe his own eyes; he stood motionless, while Brühl with his back turned, as though he had not heard the door open, knelt, sighing. At length he beat upon his breast, bending his head as low as a beggar in front of a church asking for alms. Sulkowski could not have suspected that all this was a comedy, for he entered unannounced and in the dusk the _porte-chaise_ could not have been noticed. The farce lasted quite a long time, and every time Brühl lifted his hand Sulkowski could see a rosary-round his wrist. At length the Count coughed slightly. Brühl started as if frightened, and having perceived Sulkowski covered his eyes: 'Ah! dear Count! You must excuse me--I am ashamed--but sometimes one needs to pray--so much time do we give to the pleasures of life and it is only right that some should be given to prayer--' 'It is I that must beg your pardon,' said Sulkowski advancing slowly, 'and I am edified by your piety. Forgive me that I have interrupted you.' 'I was just finishing,' Brühl said pointing to the sofa. Two candles were burning on the table. 'A man who prays like that,' thought Sulkowski, 'cannot be bad and perverse; it is impossible.' A heavy weight fell from his breast. He looked at Brühl who seemed to be still in pious ecstasies. 'Well,' said Sulkowski, seating himself comfortably on the sofa, 'you know that I am going away.' Brühl's face became melancholy. 'You must do as you please,' he said slowly, 'as for me I neither approve your voyage, nor do I advise it. Speaking frankly, I was against it and I am still. In the first place nobody can be a substitute for you with the King. I can and I must be frank with you. The Queen is a saint, but she is a woman. If you go her influence will increase and the King will fall under her and Guarini's influence. You know that I am a good Catholic but I should dislike to see the King's mind too much under the influence of the priests. Our gracious lord hearkens too much to them already and hurts the feelings of his Saxon subjects.' Sulkowski listened very attentively. 'My dear Brühl,' he said, 'you are right and I endorse your opinion. All that you say is true. You blame me for going away, but I am a soldier. The King made me commander of his army. I expect a war and I persuaded the King that war is inevitable, that Saxony must take advantage of the situation of Austria. That is the reason why I wish to acquire military experience; I go, but not to satisfy my fancy--' 'I would prefer that you stayed,' Brühl rejoined, 'And do you know what they say?' asked Sulkowski. Brühl's face expressed surprise. 'It is very curious,' said Sulkowski slowly. 'They warn me not to go, for you and Guarini have made a plot against me, to send me away purposely, in order to overthrow me.' Brühl wrung his hands, sprang from his chair and said angrily: 'Show me that slanderer! They dare to say that against me! I and Father Guarini! I who fear him as a pestilence! I would dare to attack you whom the King calls friend! It is stupid and ridiculous!' 'Calm yourself,' said Sulkowski laughing. 'I told you this to show you how stupid people are. I hope you do not think that I distrust or fear you.' And he added after a while: 'It is possible that a foolish man might make such an attempt, but it would cost him dear; I am sure of the King's favour, he has no secrets from me.' He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. 'In that case,' Brühl rejoined, 'I shall still more insist that you remain.' 'Excuse me, but exactly for the same reason I must go, in order to prove to the idiots that I am not afraid of anybody.' Brühl waved his hand. 'I am sure it came from Berlin, where the gossip about Saxony originated,' he said. 'I am going to Prague to-morrow,' said Sulkowski, for I must look at Prague from a strategical points of view, as we are going to take it. Can I take leave of your wife?' Brühl rang the bell. The lackey entered. 'Is your mistress at home?' 'Yes, your Excellency.' 'Announce the Count Sulkowski and me.' The lackey left the room; there was silence; then he returned and said: 'My lady is ready to receive your Excellencies.' Sulkowski rose from the sofa and went to the drawing-room; Brühl followed him, smiling notwithstanding the emotions he had just experienced. In the drawing-room Brühl's beautiful wife was waiting for them. She had just returned from the Queen's _cercle_, which was usually held from four to six o'clock. She was dressed and radiant in her beauty which astonished more than attracted. There was something wild in her eyes, something cruel in her mouth, those who looked at her became uneasy. It was the reflection of the disquiet raging in her soul. She looked at Sulkowski. 'I have come to take leave of you.' said Sulkowski with indifference, bowing slightly. 'I am sure you know I am going away. I am sorry to leave such a charming court, but there are duties--' 'Ah, yes,' said the beautiful Frances, 'I heard at her Majesty's _cercle_ that you are leaving us. I was very much surprised.' 'Did your husband not tell you about it?' asked Sulkowski. 'My husband!' said Frau Brühl, making a funny face, 'he is so busy that sometimes I do not see him for a month. I have to learn his whereabouts from other people.' 'You ought to scold him for it.' 'Why?' said Frances ironically. 'He is free and I am free also. Can there be anything more agreeable in matrimony? We have not time to be saturated with each other and we are happy.' She looked scornfully at her husband, who took it as mirthfully as he could and laughed in the most natural way. 'Does the countess remain?' the lady asked. 'Unfortunately, I must leave her!' rejoined Sulkowski. 'Although I should like her to accompany me on the campaign.' 'Then you think of fighting?' 'Yes! Pray wish me good luck that I may bring you a Turk's head.' 'I do not wish for that,' she said maliciously. 'Bring back your own head safe, that will suffice. With a wreath of laurels on it, it would look very well on a medal.' Her own allusion to a medal recalled Watzdorf to her memory and made her eyes burn with fire. 'I wish you good luck,' she said, making a curtsey. Her eyes said something else. Sulkowski bowed carelessly. The hostess turned towards her apartment. The host took Sulkowski by the arm, and whispering something confidentially, led him back to his study. CHAPTER XVII One winter evening, several months after Sulkowski's departure, Father Guarini entered the King's room. It was the hour which Augustus III was accustomed either to spend in the Queen's apartment, or in the opera, or shooting at a target. That day Augustus III remained closeted in his room. Twice a chamberlain came to tell him that the Queen was waiting for him, but he sent him away. It was a sign that the King was in a very bad humour. So they told Father Guarini about it and he rushed to the rescue. He alone could improve his temper. The old priest entered smiling as usual. The King looked at him gloomily and turned away his head. Notwithstanding that, the Padre sat on a stool and said: 'May I ask your Majesty what makes my lord so sad? His faithful servant is sorry.' Augustus III moved his head, muttered something and took a pipe. 'It would relieve your Majesty,' continued the Jesuit, 'if your Majesty would tell me.' 'A trifle,' said the King. 'Then it is not worth while to be sad about,' rejoined the Padre. 'A trifle!' the King repeated, and having risen, he walked to and fro, sighing, as was his custom when angry. Guarini watched him attentively. 'It is bad,' he said, 'that your Majesty, working so hard, does not try to find some amusement. Distraction is necessary to a man. St John in Patmos had a tame partridge.' 'Partridge!' the King repeated thoughtfully. 'I prefer hunting for woodcock.' He resumed his walk, sighing. 'We must have either an opera, or hunting, or pictures.' Augustus III waved his hand. 'Where is Brühl?' asked the Padre. 'Ah! Brühl! Only Brühl! But he is busy, poor man, let him rest. Brühl is a good man.' 'Excellent!' affirmed Guarini. 'But it is not with him that your Majesty is angry?' 'The idea! Brühl--capital fellow, Brühl!' said the King, but lowered his head. 'Well, I do not suppose that your Majesty is craving for Sulkowski.' The King stopped suddenly, and Guarini recognised that he had discovered the cause of the King's bad humour. 'Yes, Sulkowski,' said the King, 'just imagine, Josephine does not like him. How can anyone help liking Sulkowski? Tell me that.' Guarini became silent. The question was straight but he did not answer it. The King repeated: 'Father, how can one help liking Sulkowski?' The Jesuit thought for a long time. The moment was decisive, it was necessary that the attack should be skilful, and he thought how to do it. 'Your Majesty,' said he, 'personally I have nothing against Sulkowski. As a Catholic he is indifferent, that is true. Then it seems to me that he does not show sufficient respect to our saintly Queen.' 'Oh! Oh!' broke in the King. 'At least people think so,' said Guarini imperturbably. 'It is certain that your Majesty's favour made him very proud.' As the King listened he grew gloomier. 'Your Majesty,' said Guarini with ardour, 'we are alone, nobody but God hears us. Pray tell me, as on confession, did Sulkowski never lead the King into temptation?' At this Augustus III blushed, turned his back and continued to perambulate the room. His silence was an answer in the affirmative. Guarini laughed. 'Is it not too daring? I can understand that a servant and friend might sometimes like to take something on his own conscience for his master's sake, but he might at least wait until a sign is given him to act so.' The King went on with his walk. 'The Queen has a presentiment,' said the Padre. 'And no wonder! But _satis_ of this. It is well known that he has some plans against Austria, against the house from which we have our Queen, and against our promises--' Augustus sat in an arm-chair as if he were tired and looked at the priest. 'His worse fault is his pride which makes him believe that he can do anything he likes with the King. There are people who have heard him say so. A little humiliation would do him good, for it is not well that people should say he rules over Saxony and not our gracious King.' 'Eh! Eh!' said the King, 'who says so? Whoever it is, hang him!' 'Those who heard Sulkowski boast.' 'Boast! That is bad!' rejoined the King. 'I shall scold him for that!' Guarini saw that the King was already tired of the subject, and he tried to find something to amuse him, certain that the seed would take root and grow. At that moment a chamberlain entered again and announced that the Queen was waiting for the King to have some music. 'Let us go!' said Augustus III sighing. Guarini bowed and they went. The lackeys preceded them with candelabras. The Queen's apartments were furnished according to Josephine's taste. There was no luxury, but in the severity one could trace the majesty of the emperor's palace. The pictures were all religious. Instead of _bibelots_ there were plenty of relics and crosses. The court was composed of elderly ladies and so chosen that their beauty would not prove distracting to the King. That day, John George Pisendel, the most famous violinist of those times, was going to give a concert in the court music hall. Besides him Pantaleon Heberstreit was going to play on an instrument invented by himself and called a _clavicembolo_. Buffardia and Quanz were to play the flute. The Queen, already a little annoyed, walked to and fro waiting for her consort. When he entered she came up to him and tried to read his humour in his face and she understood that he was displeased. Music was the best remedy. As soon as the King sat down and Buffardia began to play the flute, the clouds dispersed and the forehead became serene. The Queen remained behind the King for a moment and made a sign to Guarini. The Jesuit had only time to whisper: '_Poca roba_--Sulkowski.' The Queen hastened her pace and reached her chair beside that of the King. The orchestra struck up an overture and the King listened to it with great attention. During the concert it was evident that the Queen was thinking about something more important than the music. Pisendel in vain did his best, the Queen did not seem to hear him. Brühl's wife was also present at the concert; she was sitting beside her mother; the minister stood behind the King and looked as modest as if he were not prime minister and also the only minister. Padre Guarini passing by him, whispered: 'The war has begun, the enemy defends himself, we must concentrate all our forces, be on your guard.' Brühl stood quiet as though he had not heard anything. Buffardia and Quanz played a duet. The King closed his eyes and enjoyed the music. Anyone seeing the scornful looks of Brühl's wife directed at the King, would have been surprised and frightened at the contempt with which she dared to look at him. Behind her chair stood the minister's retinue who were admitted to the concert, and among them might have been seen a young man looking so much like Watzdorf that he might have been taken for his ghost. Frau Brühl's eyes often wandered in that direction, rested on the beautiful face of the youth and tried to meet his eyes; their glance met and the youth blushed. After the concert supper was announced, with a separate table for their Majesties. The King had such a famous appetite that he seemed to forget about everything else: but after supper he asked Brühl to follow him to his apartment. The greater part of the court dispersed; the ladies remained for evening prayers, for there was a custom that on certain days they recited prayers conducted by Father Guarini. That day the spiritual _exercitia_ took place in the Queen's little chapel and then only was the rest of the court dismissed. Guarini was also going when the Queen called him. 'Father, how was it? The King--' 'Began to talk about Sulkowski of his own accord. He is very sorry that there are people who are against Sulkowski. As I was asked I could not be silent and I began the war.' 'But what? what?' the Queen asked inquisitively. 'I said as much as I could without wearying the King,' said Guarini. 'I told him everything I had in my heart.' 'And the King?' 'He listened in silence.' 'Do you think it will make any impression on him?' 'Undoubtedly, but we must repeat the attacks. Sulkowski will return, we must press the matter, he must find the King cool; otherwise the old friendship would assert itself, he would take his old place and nobody would be able to move him from it. We must not ask too much; we cannot ask to be allowed to act with him as with Hoym. One cannot prove much against him. It would do if he were dismissed.' 'But you know how fond the King is of him,' said the Queen, 'would he not take advantage of that? A godless man as he is would be ready to use any means. Did you ever see him in a church? And you know that he never observes Lent.' The Queen shivered and became silent for a moment. 'I shall not give in,' she added, 'you must act also. Brühl cannot.' 'I will act, only at the last moment,' said Guarini, 'and very carefully. For good work one must use all possible means. God will help us. When does he return?' 'His wife expects him every day; he wrote to the King that he would be back this week. We must hasten,' said the Queen. Guarini bowed humbly and went out. The next day in the morning, Brühl was in the King's room. His duties were not fatiguing but tiresome. Usually Augustus was silent; one was obliged to stand looking at him and to bow when he smiled or cleared his throat. Brühl had additional trouble in watching the King so closely that no one could unexpectedly approach him; at all audiences, without any exception, Brühl was present. If the King was going to Mass the way was cleared of all persons who did not belong to the court. Nobody could approach him without the minister's permission or in his absence. It seemed that Augustus III, who above all things was fond of quiet and afraid of surprises, was glad of this, for he never tried to get free and was grateful to his guardians. After the Mass and audiences, during which the silent King did not waste many words, Brühl remained with him alone. He could guess that the King wished to converse about something, for he walked uneasily about, stopped opposite him, blinked his eyes, smiled sadly, but could not begin the conversation. At length he stopped, put his hands on the minister's shoulders and asked: 'Brühl, what do you think of Sulkowski?' Although Brühl was prepared, he could not answer at once and dropped his eyes. 'Sire,' he answered, 'I am sure I think the same as your Majesty.' 'And do you know what I think of him?' 'I do not know, but I am my lord's faithful servant and thus I retain those whom he likes as friends, and as foes those whom the King dislikes.' The King's face brightened. 'Brühl! I love you!' he exclaimed. The minister bent to kiss his lord's hand. 'Brühl, I love you very much,' added Augustus, 'and that is why I ask your advice. Listen, they frighten me about him----' He looked into Brühl's eyes solemnly. 'Speak frankly----' 'I have nothing against Sulkowski, but my lord's favour, which makes me humble, arouses great pride in him; it may be that he boasted that he can do anything, not only in the state affairs, but also with your Majesty.' 'H'm! You say it may be! Yes, it may be!' said the King. 'Between ourselves, he knows nothing of music, and does not understand much about pictures: he is satisfied when the subject is nude! What a Venus he brought here once, and what trouble I had with the Queen about it! She ordered the picture to be burnt. Well, it is true also, that he takes too many liberties----' Augustus III, not finishing his sentence, looked out of the window, became dreamy and yawned. 'What do you think,' he asked 'is it an authentic Ribera, sent yesterday from Venice?' Brühl shrugged his shoulders. 'I am of your Majesty's opinion.' 'It might be Ribera.' 'Yes, it might be Ribera,' Brühl repeated. 'But it might be _il Erote_----' 'There is no doubt that it looks like _Frate_----' 'Brühl, you are an expert.' 'I learn from your Majesty.' Augustus well-satisfied came to Brühl and whispered to him. 'The Queen wishes me to send him away, for somebody told her that he induced me to have some amours--' 'Nobody could suspect your Majesty of that!' cried Brühl. 'Everybody knows your virtuous life.' 'I shall never give cause to be suspected,' the King whispered. 'Never, never! I prefer----' He could not finish. Brühl whispered. 'Nobody, not a soul could suspect your Majesty.' 'It must be so,' whispered Augustus. 'Do you think that he knows something? Does he suspect me? He?' 'I am sure he does not know anything yet, but if he is here continually, spying--he could--who could foresee----' The King, alarmed, drew himself up. 'If it is so, then I must dismiss him: yes, yes, it will be better. You shall take his place with me.' Brühl again kissed his lord's hand. Augustus was still sad, he sighed, his eyes filled with tears--it distressed him to part with his friend. 'Brühl,' said he, 'it is decided; the Queen wishes it to be so, Guarini advises it, you have nothing against it; but tell me, how can it be done? How?' The minister drooped his head and assumed an embarrassed mien. The King looked at him awaiting his decision. 'Your Majesty,' said Brühl raising his head, 'there are good reasons for disgrace, but I would not advise you to be severe with him; it will suffice to dismiss him, and not to let him see his lord's face. Banishment from the court is the worst of punishments.' 'Yes,' the King muttered, 'but I shall leave him a small pension.' He looked at Brühl who nodded in the affirmative. 'Then banishment,' Augustus added, 'and I leave the execution of it to you. Do what you please, but save me any annoyance. Let him go----' Augustus having shunted his trouble on to somebody else's shoulders, was already serene again. 'Brühl,' he said, 'announce to the Queen that I should like to see her; the Queen either prays or paints; if she paints I can see her.' Brühl went out; five minutes later, the King, preceded by a chamberlain, went to his consort's apartments. He found her painting. A young artist stood respectfully behind her. The august artist was painting a head of Christ. The fact was that very little was done by her, for the artist, when the Queen was absent, corrected and improved that which was badly done; but the next day the Queen thought it was her own work and was satisfied with herself. That way the picture progressed; when it was finished it was said that it was painted by the Queen and the court admired her talent. When the King entered, the Queen did not rise, but pointed at the work. Augustus stood behind her and admired the picture, which having been recently improved by the artist was not at all bad. The King, having complimented the Queen, made a sign to the artist to retire for a time into the next room, which he did as quickly as he could, bowing humbly. Augustus III bent to the Queen's ear and said: 'It shall be as you wish; we shall dismiss Sulkowski; I came to tell you this.' The Queen turned quickly and smiled at the King. 'But not a word!' said the King. 'Brühl will arrange the matter, I do not wish to trouble myself about it.' 'You do not need to,' said the Queen. 'Guarini and Brühl will do everything.' The King did not wish to prolong the subject and began to talk about the picture. 'I congratulate you on your colouring,' he said, '_très fin_, and very fresh. Listarde could not paint a better pastel; you paint beautifully--only do not permit that artist to spoil your work and do not follow any advice.' 'He only sharpens my pencils,' said the Queen. 'Beautiful head! I shall hang it in my room if you will make me a present of it,' and he smiled. As the dinner hour had not yet arrived, the King bowed, kissed the Queen's hand and went to his apartment; on his way he nodded to the artist to go and help the Queen with her artistic effort. The King's face beamed with satisfaction now that he had got rid of his trouble. To-day he was altogether a different man from yesterday; his forehead was serene, there was a smile on his lips, he breathed more freely and could think of something else. He cared less for Sulkowski than for his disturbed peace and few unpleasant days. He was ready to sacrifice a man in order to get rid as soon as possible of any difficulty in his own life. Brühl was waiting in the King's apartment. The King, having glanced at him, laughed and said: 'The affair is finished: after dinner shooting at a target, in the evening a concert, to-morrow an opera.' He drew near the minister and added: 'Nobody must mention his name; all is over.' He thought for a moment. 'Employ anybody you wish, provided I do not know anything more about the affair.' He became thoughtful and ended with: 'Listen Brühl, it is Ribera--' 'Yes, your Majesty, it is Ribera,' affirmed the minister. CHAPTER XVIII The carnival promised to be brilliant that year. In Saxony everything was satisfactory; the noblemen, who dared murmur, were sent to Pleissenburg; in Poland quiet was assured by the last Sobieski. Faustina always sang marvellously, and there was plenty of game in the forests round Hubertsburg. Day after day, arranged in advance, passed very pleasantly. The blessed peacefulness was disturbed by the news that Sulkowski was returning; it hastened the Queen's attack and sealed his sentence. It was not expected that the favourite would be admitted to see the King. Henniche and his accomplices gave orders that all roads were to be watched; the guards were at the gates, private detectives watched Sulkowski's palace. The general-minister's carriage came. His wife had intended to go towards Prague and meet him, but they were afraid of that, and the Countess Kolowrath told her that the Queen desired her to be in readiness in case she was called to the castle, and that she must not leave Dresden. The Countess was obliged to obey. On the first of February, 1738, the Count Sulkowski arrived at Pirma, where he stopped to feed and water the horses before proceeding to Dresden. In the inn a courier sent on ahead prepared everything for the minister's reception. Nobody yet could even suspect his downfall. The whole borough, the officials, burgomasters, in gala uniforms, were awaiting, notwithstanding the intense cold, the man whom they thought to be almighty and before whom all trembled. The courier announced the arrival of his Excellency for four o'clock; but as that day there was a heavy fall of snow, he did not arrive at the appointed hour. While all eyes were looking down the road in the direction of Prague, a cavalier wrapped in a mantle came from the direction of Dresden and stopped his tired horse before the inn. The owner of the inn called 'The Crown,' Jonas Hender, a very resolute man, having perceived the stranger, who at any other time would have been very welcome, rushed to tell him that there was no room for him. 'Excuse me, sir--we expect his Excellency the Count Sulkowski; I have no room either for you or your horse; but at the 'Palm Branch,' an inn kept by my brother-in-law, the accommodation is not bad.' The stranger hardly listened to Jonas. He threw the reins on the horse's neck and looked towards the inn. He was a middle-aged man, as one could judge by the wrinkles round his eyes, for the rest of his face--it must have been done on account of the cold--was wrapped in a shawl and his cap was drawn over his eyes. 'Exactly,' he muttered, 'because his Excellency is going to stay here, I must find a room, because I am sent to him.' The innkeeper bowed and took hold of the horse. 'That alters the case,' he said, 'pray come in and warm yourself. Hot wine with spices is ready, and there is nothing better than _glükwein_ for the cold. The horse shall be taken to the stable.' A groom took the tired grey horse. The innkeeper conducted the stranger to a room; he looked at him in order to guess who he was, but he failed to do so either by his dress, or his mien. The dress was an ordinary one, the speech pure but not Saxon; his manner full of assurance betrayed a courtier, but not one of great importance, since he came on horseback without a servant and he wore jack-boots. For such a great lord as Sulkowski, every room was engaged, as his retinue was large; there remained only the innkeeper's room, into which the stranger was shown. The room was clean and bright and a good fire was burning in the fireplace. Hender helped the stranger to take off his large mantle and the shawl, from under which there appeared the thin, bony face of an official. His eyes were piercing and his mouth twitched. Hender looked at him, and as he was very shrewd at reading character, he said to himself: 'He is a dangerous man.' But it was necessary to be overwhelmingly polite to such a dangerous-looking messenger from the capital. Therefore he placed a chair near the fireplace and asked the stranger, who received all civilities very indifferently, to sit down. Several times when the host ventured some remark he received no answer. He brought a glass of hot wine and handed it to the traveller, who accepted it, but did not even thank him for it. 'This must be a man of some importance,' said Hender to himself. He became even more civil, and told his two children to keep away; at that moment a trumpet resounded, Sulkowski was coming. The innkeeper rushed out to receive him. The stranger remained motionless, deep in thought. The minister was brought triumphantly to the room assigned to him; the servants brought the boxes, Hender returned to his room and found the stranger sitting before the fire and drinking the wine. He did not appear to hear the host, who felt it his duty to say aloud: 'His Excellency has arrived!' The guest made a grimace; he finished his wine, shook his head, took his cap and went out. Had Jonas Hender been acquainted with Dresden and had to do with higher officials, he would have recognised in his guest, Ludovici. The councillor slowly opened the door and entered the room in which Sulkowski was resting. The table was set, the servants were busy, a young aide-de-camp stood in the window, Sulkowski was lying on the sofa. When he perceived Ludovici, he sprang up, beaming with joy. 'It is you!' he exclaimed. 'How good of you to come to meet me! I am very grateful to you, for I shall get some news; the last letters were very insignificant. How are you?' The councillor's face was not indicative of good news. He was silent and looked askance at the aide-de-camp. Sulkowski passed to the other room and nodded to Ludovici to follow him. He was surprised at the councillor's long face. The Count was in an excellent humour. On the Rhine and in Hungary he had been well received, thanks to letters of introduction and to his position. He returned happy and still more proud, with a greater supply of self-assurance than ever. No sooner had they entered the room than the Count begun to ask questions, to which the answers were scanty, Ludovici seeming to lack courage to speak. He looked sadly at the Count's joy, which he was about to destroy or perchance change into despair. He let the Count speak, who laughing told him of his success, of the honours with which he had been received, of the experience he had gained. It seemed that he thought he would become as famous as Maurice de Saxe. Ludovici looked and shook his head. 'What is the matter with you?' asked Sulkowski. 'Are you cold? Why don't you speak?' Ludovici glanced round. 'I do not bring good news,' he said, 'that is why I do not hasten to talk.' 'Is my wife well?' 'Yes, thank God.' 'Is the King well?' 'Yes, but--' Ludovici looked at the Count and said sadly: 'But you will find him changed. A great many things are changed. I was against your travelling.' 'What has happened?' said Sulkowski carelessly. 'The worst that could happen. Your enemies accused you; the Queen is at their head, then Guarini, and the cunning Brühl. We are lost.' Sulkowski looked at him as at a madman, shrugged his shoulders and laughed. 'You must be dreaming.' 'I should like to dream,' said Ludovici gloomily. 'There is no time for illusions, we must try to save ourselves, if there is still time for that. I came, risking my life, to warn you. The gates are guarded, the houses are surrounded by spies: if you come to Dresden, so that they recognise you at the gate, they will not admit you to the King; such are the orders.' 'But it cannot be,' the Count cried passionately. 'It is a stupid hoax, someone has told the King some nonsense, and you believed it. There is no man in this world who could take the King's heart from me. It is impossible, it is a lie! I laugh at it! They would dare not to admit me to the King? Ludovici, you have lost your senses--' Ludovici looked at the minister with a kind of commiseration. Sulkowski walked to and fro, laughing to himself. 'Where did you get that stupid gossip from?' asked he. 'From the best source. I gave my word that I would not reveal the name of the person who told me and ordered me to warn you. That which I say is true.' 'But how could it come to that?' asked Sulkowski a little alarmed. 'The King is weak,' said Ludovici, 'the Queen is a stubborn woman, Father Guarini is the most cunning of men, and Brühl is master of the art of using other people to achieve his aims. Your Excellency never tried to hide his aversion to priests, and such is the result of their work. Everything is arranged. They forced your dismissal upon the King. You will be banished from the court with a small pension, so that you will not hinder Brühl from making millions. They are afraid of your influence over the King and they will not permit you to see him.' Sulkowski frowned. 'Are you sure of it?' he asked. 'Very sure! the guards at the gate have orders not to let you in; the castle is also guarded.' 'And the King does not even wish to see me!' burst out Sulkowski. 'The King is a slave,' said Ludovici. Sulkowski relapsed into thought. 'If you intend to go with all your retinue to Dresden,' Ludovici continued, 'you will fall into their hands. If there is any means you could use to see the King, don't hesitate to act. You have some influence, take advantage of it, but it will be a fight for life or death, with the Queen, confessor and Brühl.' Sulkowski paced to and fro, frowning, then he asked: 'Are you sure of what you say?' 'As I live.' 'Then be it so, but--I am not afraid of them; they cannot crush me as they did Hoym and the rest. We shall see. Let us now have something to eat. I shall leave my retinue here and we shall go to Dresden on horseback. I should like to know who would dare to bar my access to the King to-morrow. We shall see! Can we not reach town without being recognised? 'We must!' answered Ludovici. 'Come then and let us eat well, that they may not guess anything here.' Having said this he returned to the other room in which the meal was ready. They spoke very little and only of extraneous matters as they eat. Ludovici had a very good appetite, while Sulkowski seemed only to be thirsty, he drank so much. The Count said to his aide-de-camp: 'Count, you and the horses are tired; stay over night at Pirma. I wish to take my wife by surprise and go to Dresden on horseback with the Councillor Ludovici.' The aide-de-camp seemed to be very much surprised, for Sulkowski was fond of travelling in comfort, with much pomp and ceremony: such an _incognito_ during bad weather, on the road covered with snow, in the night, seemed very strange. Sulkowski noticing his astonishment said with a smile: 'There is nothing extraordinary in my project, sometimes one must satisfy a fancy although one is not very young.' Having said this, he took his aide-de-camp aside and gave him secret orders. The aide-de-camp left the room at once. Sulkowski stood silent and pensive. Soon two saddled horses stood at the door of the inn; the minister was advised at least to take a groom, but he refused. The journey for Ludovici, who had already made it coming from Dresden and who was not accustomed to riding on horseback, was more painful than for the Count; but he did not wish to let him go alone. Fortunately for both of them the weather improved, the snow ceased to fall. The horses were accustomed to the road on which they travelled often and followed the highway. The sun was setting, they pushed on at a smart trot, the Count ahead, the councillor behind him, both silent. They quickly passed villages, houses and inns. The night was quite dark and the numerous lights in the distance presently announced that they were approaching Dresden. Here the road was less lonely. Several sledges passed, men on horseback and pedestrians. Against the bright sky could be seen the dark towers of the churches. Sulkowski slackened the speed of his horse until Ludovici came up with him. 'If they guard the gate,' he said, 'we must use some precautions.' 'Your Excellency will wrap himself in the cloak and will follow me. It is true that they guard the gates, but they look for the equipages and retinue with which they expect you.' 'You said that they watch my house also?' 'Yes,' Ludovici answered. 'I must go there on foot and enter without being noticed.' 'I would not advise you to do that,' said Ludovici, 'in our times one cannot be sure of the servants, some of them might betray us.' Sulkowski laughed bitterly. 'It is very amusing,' he said, 'who could have told me this morning that I should not be able to pass the night in safety in Dresden?' He shrugged his shoulders. 'If my position is so dangerous,' he said proudly, after a while, 'then I do not wish to expose any one else. Take care of the horses, and I shall find a place to pass the night, and then do what I have to do.' Thus saying he turned his horse, covered his face with the mantle, let Ludovici pass in front, bent to the saddle, and having assumed the mien of a groom, following his master, followed the councillor. They approached the gate. In very truth the guards were there, but Ludovici gave them some name and as they did not pay much attention to two men on horseback they entered the town. A soldier rushed after Ludovici. 'Do you come from Pirma?' 'Yes,' answered Ludovici. 'Did you hear anything of the Count Sulkowski, who is expected to-day?' 'The inn called the Crown,' said Ludovici, 'was engaged for his Excellency, but a courier came to say that he would not be leaving Prague for two days.' The soldiers returned, glad that they would not be obliged to watch very closely during the night and the Count with the councillor proceeded. In the town there was still much stir as was usual during the carnival. Sulkowski dismounted near the post office, gave the horse to Ludovici, and went towards his palace. He no longer doubted that what Ludovici had lately told him was true, and tried to enter his house unperceived. Even he hesitated whether it would not be better to pass the night elsewhere; but his pride prevented him from hiding like a culprit. The question was how to enter unnoticed by servants whom he distrusted. Not being accustomed to subterfuges he did not know how to act. A strange feeling was aroused in him at the sight of the people, many of whom he recognised, of passing carriages, of all that merry carnival movement. Smaller officials passed him without recognition of the man wrapped in the mantle; before whom, not long since, they almost kneeled. His situation seemed to him like a dream, the danger a nightmare. He was angry that he could have believed it. He measured the position he occupied with the menace of downfall, and could not imagine it possible. Under the influence of these thoughts he went more boldly. At about the distance of a furlong, he noticed several dark figures walking about and apparently awaiting someone. Those figures, hiding stealthily in corners, were the best proof that the house was watched. Sulkowski entered a side street, uncertain what to do. At that moment he recollected a man whom he could trust. It was Father Vogler, a Jesuit, the King's former confessor, an old man, who apparently left the court of his own will, giving way to Father Guarini. He lived quietly, seldom showing himself in the court, and entirely engrossed in his books. Formerly the King's favourite, now almost forgotten, for he did not know how to amuse him. Father Vogler was a silent retiring man. He was Sulkowski's chaplain and confessor and had gained his esteem. Although Vogler apparently lived far from the intrigues of the court, even Guarini seemed to fear him and was very respectful towards him. Vogler did not hide his dislike of Brühl and although he said little, one could see that he disliked the court and everything that was going on there. Sulkowski remembered that Vogler had warned him before his departure that he should not stay away long, that he should not be too confident of the King's favour, and should not trust those who were apparently his best friends. If anyone was well informed it was certainly Vogler. The Count, being obliged to steal through the old market and a much populated street leading to the castle in which the Jesuit lived, wrapped the cloak very carefully around him and walked in the shadow of the houses in order that he might not be recognised. Carriages were going towards the castle and he recognised Brühl's _post-chaise_ and smiled bitterly. The street scene with Erell led by on a donkey recurred to his mind, and it seemed to him that he had met with a similar fate to that of the editor. The house, in which Vogler lived, belonged to the castle, and the entrance to it was from a small dark street. He knew that Vogler occupied the second floor. He passed the dark stairs, and rang the bell at the door which he found with difficulty in the darkness. He waited long. A small boy with a candle in his hand opened the door. 'Is Father Vogler at home?' The boy looked timidly at the stranger and hesitated as to what to answer. 'I wish to see Father Vogler on urgent business,' he said. The boy left the door open and disappeared into the room. He returned shortly and showed the Count into a small room full of books and bookshelves, and a large table on which was an abundant supply of papers. A reading lamp was burning. From an old chair, upholstered with leather, rose a tall, thin, bent, bald-headed man. He seemed to be surprised at such a late call and turned his feeble eye on the visitor, whose face was still half covered with the mantle. Only when the boy closed the door, did Sulkowski uncover his face and head and come near Father Vogler, who seizing him by the hand cried out with astonishment. 'Hsh!' cried Sulkowski. Vogler embraced him and made him sit down on a chair, then he went to the ante-room and gave some orders to the boy. The Count leaned thoughtfully on the table. 'I see,' said the Jesuit, coming back, 'that you know all, although nobody here knows yet. Has anybody seen you?' 'I came here straight from my journey,' answered the Count. 'In Pirma I learned about the plot, and by your manner I see that it is true. Is it true? Then they dread--' Vogler shrugged his shoulders. 'Yes, your good friends await you with this surprise,' he said slowly, 'they will not admit you to the King.' 'It is I who will prepare a surprise for them and see the King notwithstanding them all,' cried Sulkowski. 'They are mistaken; the King under pressure would give in in my absence, but if I get half an hour's conversation with him, I shall regain my influence and then--Then,' cried Sulkowski rising and clenching his fist, 'it will not be I that will be sent away, but those who dared to intrigue against me.' He became silent. Vogler wrung his hands. 'The question is where I can pass the night and wait till to-morrow, so that they may not know that I have arrived. I am sure that they will not give orders that I am not to be admitted to the court; by my right and my rank I have free access to the King at any hour. At eleven o'clock the King is alone; Brühl is not with him.' The Jesuit listened attentively, not showing what he thought of the Count's plan. 'You have nothing to lose, you must try to win,' he said. 'Will you have the courage to let me sleep here?' asked Sulkowski with a smile of doubt. 'You are welcome; my humble dwelling is at your service. You are safe here, for nobody calls on me.' Sulkowski's eyes shone. 'If I am able to see the King, I am sure of winning--' 'May God help you,' whispered Vogler. The next morning Brühl heard through Henniche, that Sulkowski was not expected to arrive for two more days. In the court the whole plot had been kept in great secresy; the Countess Sulkowski, whom the Queen always received very kindly had not the slightest suspicion. The King was in an excellent humour. Early in the morning Brühl came to the King for his orders, and having left Guarini with him, returned to his palace. Here he changed his clothes, because the etiquette required him to do so several times during the day, and ordered his _porte-chaise_ to carry him to the Countess Moszynski. He now felt at home in her house, for her husband had died a few months previously, and Brühl was certain that she was too much in love with him to marry anybody else. His relations of tender friendship with the beautiful widow were no secret. Every day he would take counsel with her, every morning the Countess Moszynski would visit him. It was known that she did what she pleased with him. Very often when they had something very urgent to communicate to the minister, for he did nothing without her advice, they would go to the Countess to find him there. That day Brühl also went to her house as though it were his own. The Countess on seeing him said: 'Has Sulkowski arrived?' 'Not yet! I had news from Pinna; they do not expect him for two days.' The Countess Moszynski shook her head with evident dissatisfaction. 'It is not natural,' she said, 'it is suspicious. His wife told me that at the latest she expected him last night. Somebody must have warned him.' 'Impossible! Nobody knows!' The Countess laughed. 'Let us count up how many people know the secret,' she said, counting on her fingers. 'The Queen, the Countess Kolowrath, the King, Guarini, you, I, and to be sure, your wife. If she was not told she would guess: let us add Henniche. Have you ever heard of a secret being kept by eight persons?' Brühl shook his head carelessly. 'Even if he had learned, it would not help him at all. The Queen wearied the King so much about Sulkowski, that for the sake of his beloved peace he must give him up.' The subject of conversation was soon changed. Brühl, however, notwithstanding his apparent calm, was thoughtful and gloomy. Towards noon, just as he was about to take leave of the Countess, there was a rap at the door, and Henniche rushed in. His changed face and hurried entrance into the drawing-room announced bad news. The Countess sprang from her seat. Brühl ran to him. Henniche could not speak. 'Henniche, what is the matter? Come to your senses!' exclaimed Brühl. 'What is the matter with me? Sulkowski has been in town ever since last night, at eleven o'clock he came to the castle, and asking no permission, entered the King's room. Father Guarini, who was with the King, said that his Majesty became white as marble. The Count, as if not aware of anything wrong, greeted the King in most tender words and kneeling he said that his first step was to fall at his Majesty's feet. The King became tender and embraced him. The Count began to talk about his travels and made the King laugh--and thus he resumed his former duties. At this moment Sulkowski is with the King; everybody is alarmed in the castle: the Queen weeps, Guarini is pale--everything is lost.' Brühl and the Countess looked at each other. Brühl did not appear to be frightened but very much annoyed. 'Henniche, listen!' he said, 'Sulkowski cannot remain with the King for ever; I do not wish to meet him; let me know when he leaves the castle. They watched well at the gates and fulfilled my orders nicely!' added the minister drily. He went to the Countess, kissed her hand, whispering a few words, and went out with Henniche. The scene described by Henniche was very interesting indeed. A ghost would not have been more alarming in the castle than the sudden appearance of Sulkowski. When he entered the King's room. Augustus III was struck dumb with surprise, for the things he most disliked were reproaches and quarrels. Father Guarini, notwithstanding his usual self-composure, could not conceal his confusion. Sulkowski kneeling greeted the King with apparent joy, telling him how happy he was to look on his lord's face again. This calmed Augustus a little. Guarini noticed, however, that he only smiled, but said not a word. The Padre's first intention was to remain to the end of the interview, but later on it occurred to his mind, that it was his duty to communicate the incident to the Queen in order that some precautions might be taken at once. In consequence, having listened to Sulkowski's narration for about an hour, he was obliged to leave the room. Sulkowski spoke merrily and quickly as though in a fever. Although he did not, even by the slightest allusion, let it be known that he knew what was going to happen to him, one could guess by his agitation and daring that he was playing his last card. The King glanced round as if he were afraid and grew more and more stiff: one moment his face grew brighter, the next it became cold. As long as Father Guarini was in the room, the Count confined his conversation to his travels; when Guarini left the room he changed both the tone and subject. 'Your Majesty,' he said, 'I was longing to see my liege: I had a sad presentiment, although thank God, it is not realised, and your Majesty's heart is the best guarantee that it could not be realised. I have served my lord since childhood, I sacrificed my life to him, and I am ready to sacrifice the rest of my days; I was able to gain my lord's favour and confidence, my conscience does not reproach me with anything; I am not afraid of the plots of my enemies, even if I had any, and I do not believe I have them, for I have done no harm to anybody.' The King listened with forced dignity, which did not promise well. Sulkowski asked to be permitted once more to kiss the King's hand; Augustus gave it to him muttering, changing uneasily from one foot to the other, but not saying one intelligible word. The Count's enthusiasm increased and he spoke with growing fever. 'Sire, my lord, I believe in your heart as I believe in God. Only may the intriguers not take it from me by their calumnies!' 'Oh! Oh!' interrupted Augustus, 'there are no intrigues here.' 'Into what court are they not able to penetrate? What dress must they assume?' said Sulkowski laughing. 'Sire, I am a soldier and I speak straight. There are bad people and those who are the sweetest, the most humble, the most useful, they are the most dangerous. Sire, and my lord, I do not wish to name the others--but Brühl must be dismissed, otherwise he will get all into his own power and deprive your Majesty of his best friends, in order that he may rule absolutely.' Thus saying he looked at the King's face, which became crimson and then pale, his eyes assumed a wild expression, the result of suppressed anger. Sulkowski, knowing well that it was necessary to conquer the outburst in order to dominate the monarch, favoured peace above all things; the anger never lasted long. Several times the King had wished to break the chain of dependence, but every time he had shirked the effort necessary to effect it. The Count had seen him several times in that state of mind and became still bolder. 'Sire,' he said, following the King, who went to the window, 'your Majesty respects the memory of his great father; may he serve as an example! He never permitted anyone to domineer over him, neither the Queen, nor favourites, nor ministers, nor priests. He ruled supreme. Your Majesty has only to wish, to command, and those who murmur will become silent; the chain shall be broken. One must have courage to live and to rule, and for that one must break all chains.' The King listened but grew more and more frightened; he stopped up both his ears and instead of answering retreated further and further towards the window. Sulkowski having gone so far could not retreat, and determined to strike the iron while it was hot. 'I know,' he said, that I attempt a great thing, but I do so out of love for my lord, whom I wish to see as great and as happy as his father was. Your Majesty wishes for a peaceful life, and it will come as soon as your Majesty asserts his authority. Those tutors, Guarini and Brühl, must be sent away. The Queen is a saint, let her pray for us and edify us by her virtues, and we, sire, shall go and conquer Hungary, for the Emperor Karl VI will not live long. Your Majesty will breathe more freely in the camp.' Sulkowski laughed. The King looked sullenly about him: not a movement, not a word betrayed his thoughts. He was evidently tired. Happily a movement in the corridor announced the dinner. Augustus made a movement as if he wished to go. Sulkowski seized his hand and kissed it. The King blushed. At that moment the Grand Marshall of the court entered and perceived Sulkowski taking leave of the King in such a tender way, that he did not doubt that the Count had returned to his former favour. Unfortunately the last part of that conversation was overheard by the Queen and Guarini, who stood at the door. Sulkowski went out, assured that he would be able to change everything and that no danger threatened him. He greeted the courtiers and officials whom he met in the castle with his former pride, and after a short conversation with them, he ordered a _porte-chaise_ to be brought for him and was borne home. He was persuaded that all trouble was over and that he had conquered all obstacles. He believed in the King's heart. He received his wife with a serene face and told Ludovici to prepare all documents accusing Brühl of false accounts, showing his abuses, etc. Ludovici having received these orders went out immediately to see that they were fulfilled. While this was going on, the King had no appetite at the commencement of his meal. His attendants knew him well and immediately used the most effectual remedy. Frosch and Horch were soon before him, looking at each other challengingly. Frosch with his hands in his pockets did not wish to look at Horch, while the latter having contorted his mouth, and half-closed his eyes, pointed at his adversary with his finger and slowly advanced towards him. When he was near he gave him a ferocious kick. Frosch shrieked, the King looked and his face brightened. Then the two fools began to abuse each other. 'Traitor,' cried Frosch opposite Horch, 'you have not the courage to challenge such a hero as I am, for you know that I could crush you! You take me by treachery and you shall be punished for it.' Horch pretended to be frightened, kneeled, clasped his hands and seemed to beg for mercy. But Frosch rushed upon him, but it happened that he passed over his adversary's head and found himself mounted on his shoulders. Horch had risen and holding Frosch by his feet began to race round the room with him. In the meantime Frosch pounded Horch on the back with his fist and seized him by the ears and both then rolled on the floor. The King, having forgotten all his troubles, began to laugh; the entertainment restored his appetite and he ate voraciously. The Queen, although it did not amuse her at all, pretended to laugh also. In addition to this a few glasses of good wine improved the King's humour so much that Josephine did not doubt that after dinner she would be able to renew her attacks upon Sulkowski. Brühl and Guarini were waiting in the King's apartments. The minister did not hesitate on his own responsibility to give orders that in the event of Sulkowski appearing he was to be told that the King could not receive him. The chamberlains were told to excuse themselves as best they could, but not to admit the Count. It was a serious fight in which it was difficult to foresee who could win, because Sulkowski's speech would have made a great impression on the King but for the fact that the Queen overheard some of the Count's insinuations and his advice to the King to try and recover his independence. After dinner, Augustus as usual hastened to his apartment to smoke his pipe and enjoy his _robe de chambre_; he was already taking leave of the Queen, not having mentioned a word about Sulkowski, when she stopped him: 'Augustus,' she said, 'I heard what Sulkowski was advising you.' 'Where? How?' 'I was at the door,' answered the Queen, 'and I am glad I was there though it was by an accident. You are as kind as an angel and a King cannot be kind. That audacious fellow offended the King's majesty, he has offended you and me; he dared to advise you to lead a bad life. Augustus, if this man remains in the court, God's punishment will descend upon us. How could you suffer--' 'Well? What?' said the King. 'It worries me. I need rest. Drive him away then.' 'Give orders!' Augustus nodded in the affirmative. But mistrusting him the Queen sent for Guarini and told him to act immediately. Apprehensive and confused Brühl waited for the King. Seeing him Augustus did not say a word and sat down in an arm-chair. Almost at the same moment Guarini entered laughing. 'Sire, we have at last found what we lost. Sulkowski has come back; evidently he must have come to the conclusion that it is useless to hunt after happiness. _Chi sta bene, non si muove_. Evidently he was not satisfied here, but he has come back just the same, for elsewhere must have been worse.' Augustus began to smoke and pointed at Brühl with his pipe. 'He is at fault,' he said. 'Why did they let him in? The Queen listened--he talked nonsense--phew!' 'Sire, I am not guilty, somebody betrayed our secret,' said Brühl. 'Do what you please,' said the King with asperity. 'I do not wish to know anything. Write a warrant, I will sign it--' 'There is no reason for your Majesty to be in a bad humour and spoil your health,' Guarini said. 'Faustina is going to sing to-night with Abbuzzi, they now love each other very tenderly.' Augustus looked round and muttered: '_Amor quel che piace!_' It was the beginning of a song which he was nearly humming. Guarini, taking great pains to disperse the king's gloomy feelings, ordered a magnificent portrait painted by Giorgione, and recently purchased in Venice, to be brought. The King on seeing it said enthusiastically: '_A, che bello!_' He again forgot about everything. 'What softness of the brush, what colouring, what life!' he exclaimed, delighted with the picture, and his eyes smiled. Half-an-hour later Faustina asked for an audience on important theatre affairs, and it was granted. All withdrew and she entertained the King for about half-an-hour with a very animated conversation; when she left, Augustus was beaming with delight as if there were neither ministers, nor state affairs, nor any sorrows in this world. The clouds were entirely dispersed. It was not so easy a matter to calm the anxiety of the Queen and her accomplices in the plot. They knew how daring Sulkowski was, how he loved the King, how many friends he had at the court, and how, as he was familiar with the habits of the King, he could easily reach him. Consequently guards were stationed all round the Count's palace, round the opera, at the side door of the castle, at the entrance leading to the King's apartments. Guarini did not leave the King for a moment, the Queen was watchful; Brühl and the Countess Moszynski took counsel together: Henniche, Globig, Loss, Hammer, and the whole crowd of officials employed by Brühl, scattered through the town and took up their appointed stations. Their movements were a matter of the most perfect indifference to Sulkowski, as, sure of his victory, he drew up a report with which he proposed to overthrow his adversary. The Count was persuaded that his speech had made a deep impression on the King, and that it would counterbalance everything else. His wife, less confident, went to pay a visit to the Queen. She was not received. Alarmed by this she insisted on obtaining a short audience and at length it was granted. The Queen received her very coolly, but following Guarini's advice she pretended not to know anything about the affairs of the court and that she did not wish to be mixed up in anything. The Countess Sulkowski, upon entering the room in which the Queen was reading a pious book, did not know what to say. With a smile, she told the Queen, that she came to share her happiness with her beloved lady, that her husband had arrived. From that she passed to the rumour, that her husband's enemies wished to injure him. 'My dear Countess,' said the Queen, 'pray, let us talk about something else; I am occupied with my children, prayers and art, but I do not mix in the affairs of the court and I do not wish to know anything about them.' Once more the Countess attempted to explain, but the Queen repeated: 'I know nothing. The King does not ask for my advice, I do not interfere with his affairs--' After a short conversation the subject of which was a newly converted Israelite, and Lent prayers, the Countess took leave of the Queen. It would be difficult to guess whether she believed in the Queen's ignorance about the intrigues of the court. But accustomed to trust her husband, she calmed herself and went home. Ludovici appeared late in the evening but his manner indicated nothing good. He came to tell the Count that he found insuperable difficulties in finding documents, that the officials did not want to obey him, and that consequently it was impossible to have the papers ready for the next day. CHAPTER XIX There are people like Sulkowski, who do not wish, to see or to believe when there is danger. Neither what his wife told him, about her very cool reception by the Queen, nor what Ludovici communicated to him, took one iota from the assurance the Count had in himself or from his faith in the future. It seemed to him that the King was so fond of him, that he could not get along without him, and he was perfectly confident. His wife, a timid and modest lady, well knowing the life of the court and the value of that which is called the King's favour, was very much afraid although she did not show it. She was aware that disgrace in Saxony, especially when it was trumped up by one's antagonists, did not end in a simple dismissal and banishment. It was usually followed by the confiscation of the estates and very often by imprisonment for life without trial. Sulkowski, in disgrace, could be threatening to his enemies through his connections with the courts of France, Austria, and Prussia; what then could be more natural than to imprison him for safety? The Countess spent the night in fear, hiding her tears from her husband, for she did not wish to discourage him. Her husband, on the contrary, was in high spirits, repeating to his wife what he had said to the King, and what impression it made on him. He flattered himself, that he had broken the snares which his foes had set for him; that everything would be as it was before, that he would overthrow the whole of that clique, and so surround the Queen, as to render her harmless for the future. The next morning, the fifth of February, the Count was up very early, dressed, and, according to his old habit, went to the castle. Had he possessed more penetration and less confidence in himself, he would easily have noticed that everyone in the court, on perceiving him, became grave; some of the courtiers drew aside and those, who could not avoid meeting him, were very cold and spoke but little. Sulkowski being privileged to see the King at any time he liked, went straight to his room, but the Baron von Lowendhal barred his way and told him very politely, that the King being very busy had given orders that no one was to be admitted, without any exception. 'But this order cannot apply to me,' said Sulkowski smiling. 'I do not know about that,' answered Lowendhal, 'perchance it may be cancelled later, but for the present you must excuse me for executing my orders.' Sulkowski not wishing to condescend to a quarrel, sure that later he would be able to avenge such improper behaviour, saluted, turned and went off. He determined to come again at eleven o'clock, when the King used to receive everybody. Coming down from the stairs, he perceived Brühl's _porte-chaise_ and it angered him. 'Patience,' he said to himself, 'these are their last efforts, for they would not dare to shut the door in my face. We shall see--' He went to Ludovici's office and found him pale and confused. 'The papers? Have you the papers?' asked the Count. 'I have not got them up to the present; there is something mysterious about the way the officials treat me--it does not portend anything good to us.' 'I understand,' said the Count laughing, 'they see their near downfall and lose their heads. I have not yet seen the King; they told me he was very busy. They must hold council what to do with Sulkowski, who ruins all their plans.' He laughed; Ludovici sighed but did not dare to tell him that he was mistaken. The Count hesitated as to whether or not he should call on Brühl, who ought to have already paid a visit to him. That was also a kind of a declaration of war. 'His conscience is not clear,' he said to himself, 'he does not dare to see me, he is packing his baggage, sure of dismissal.' Ludovici that day was not communicative, he sighed, became pensive, paced the room and moaned. It made Sulkowski laugh. As he had nothing to do he determined to pay a visit to the Countess Moszynski in order to see whether he would be received, and to enjoy the Countess's fright. Accordingly he went to the Countess, but she begged to be excused, as the hour was early and she not dressed. He returned home where he found his wife very uneasy. Joking at her useless fears, he told her that he was going again to the King. It was a quarter to eleven when Sulkowski went again to the castle. There were very few people in the ante-room. As Sulkowski approached the door leading to the King's apartments, a page rushed out and told him that the King was in the Queen's apartments. He had no desire to go to the Queen, for there he would not be received without being first announced. Not knowing what to do with himself, he went to his _porte-chaise_. His first idea was to return home, but thinking that such an early return would frighten his wife, he preferred to go elsewhere. The second failure to see the King made him thoughtful; naturally there was some intrigue but he did not believe it could have any result. He determined to overcome all difficulties by patience and constancy, not to show any impatience; and he was sure that he would conquer. Faustina's house was on his way, and he determined to call on her. He knew how much the King admired the singer and he hoped to be able to learn something from her. Already in the ante-room he heard such a noise that he thought of withdrawing, not wishing to find himself in improper company. All at once the door opened and out came Amorevoli, Monticelli, Abbuzzi, Puttini, Pilagia and a few Frenchmen, talking very loud and quarrelling. Catching sight of Sulkowski, they became silent, giving way to him and bowing humbly. Faustina, who drove them out, stood on the threshold; she became confused at sight of the Count, but smiling she asked him to come in. 'When did your Excellency return?' she exclaimed, 'for I did not know you were back.' 'Well, up to the present I am half incognito,' said the Count smiling. 'Just imagine, my beautiful lady, that since yesterday I have not seen the King. I!' said he pointing to himself. 'Twice they would not admit me to his Majesty. I began to believe that my absence made me forget the customs of the court, and I came to beg you for some explanation.' 'The Count is kind enough to joke with me,' the singer replied, looking at him with a mixture of commiseration and fear. 'I only know the stage court. On the stage I am either a Queen or a goddess, but when I am off the stage I know nothing of what is going on in the world.' 'But,' said Sulkowski in a low voice, 'tell me, have you heard anything? Am I really threatened by your friend Guarini?' 'I do not know anything,' said Faustina, shaking her head. 'I have enough of my own theatrical sorrows. It is very probably that they are plotting against you, but you, Count, you need not be afraid.' 'Neither am I afraid, but I would like to _tirer au clair_ and to know what it is.' 'It is jealousy and competition,' Faustina rejoined, 'In theatres they are very common, we are well acquainted with them.' 'And the remedy?' Faustina shrugged her shoulders. 'Some people would withdraw; those who wish to fight it out, must stick to their guns, for they will never find peace.' Sulkowski did not dare to remind her of the warning she had given him; her speech and manner were now quite different; she was afraid. Seeing that he would not learn much from her, the Count asked about the new opera, about Hasse, and took leave of her. He determined to go straight home. Notwithstanding the confidence which had not yet left him, he was depressed and obliged to keep a close watch on himself, lest the impatience which was taking hold of him should show itself. In front of his palace he found a court carriage. The Baroness von Lowendhal, daughter of the Grand Master of Ceremonies was with his wife. Sulkowski entered the drawing-room. The two ladies were sitting on the sofa and chatting with vivacity. The Baroness von Lowendhal, a very lively though not very young person, and always the best informed about everything, sprang from the sofa and greeted the Count as he entered. On her face one might discern much distraction and nervousness. 'Count, you will be able to tell us the latest news, she said shaking hands with him, 'what is going on at the court? Some changes are expected, and we do not know what they may be.' 'But where does such a supposition come from?' asked the Count. 'An hour ago,' said the lady animated, 'the King sent for old General Bandissin, who is suffering with gout and commanded him to come to the castle. The general who could hardly walk across the room with a stick, begged to be excused, giving his illness as his reason; notwithstanding that they sent again for him and I saw him going to the castle.' 'I do not know what that means,' answered Sulkowski quietly. 'I went twice to the castle and could not see the King; it's extremely amusing.' He began to laugh, while the Baroness prattled on. 'They say that Bandissin, who has already asked several times to be pensioned, will get his release at last. He needs rest. But the worst thing is, it seems that my father is going to be dismissed.' 'I do not believe it,' said Sulkowski, 'but as I was absent from Dresden for several months, I am not _au courant_ of affairs just now.' The Baroness looked at him. 'It is very easy to guess. The positions are required for others.' 'Better not talk of these things,' said the Countess 'I am afraid to say a word.' The Count shrugged his shoulders. 'Vain fears,' he said, 'all that will soon be changed.' A lackey rushed in. 'His Excellency the Grand Master of Ceremonies, Baron von Lowendhal and His Excellency General Bandissin,' he announced. All looked at each other, the Countess grew pale. 'Show them in,' said the Count advancing towards the door. The guests entered, and Lowendhal, having noticed his daughter, looked at her as though in reproach at finding her there. The greeting was stiff, Sulkowski received them coldly, not being able to explain their visit. He motioned to them to be seated, when Bandissin said: 'Count, we wish to speak to you without witnesses, we are sent by the King.' Sulkowski's face did not change, he pointed to the next room. The ladies, who could not hear the conversation, remained seated, frightened and curious. The Countess trembled, feeling that this boded no good. The Baroness wished to leave, but the Countess retained her by force, and she had not the strength to resist. When the men entered the other room, Bandissin, an old and obedient soldier, took from his pocket and with evident pain a warrant signed by the King. He handed it in silence to Sulkowski, who, in passing the threshold of that room, seemed to have strayed into another world, and stood pale and as though thunderstruck. He took the paper with trembling hands, read it, but did not understand. Lowendhal, who pitied him and wished to get it over as soon as possible, seeing that the Count did not understand what it was all about, passed behind him and read the warrant aloud. It was very short and ran as follows: 'His Majesty the King, having noticed that the Count Sulkowski has several times, and especially at the last interview forgotten himself and lacked the respect due to His Majesty, has determined to take from him all the appointments the Count has held at the court, and dismiss him from all duties. In consideration of his long service, however, His Majesty leaves him the pension of a general.' Sulkowski expected something worse from the fate which other men had met; therefore as he now understood the meaning of the warrant, he recovered. 'His Majesty's will,' he said, 'is sacred to me. Although I feel unjustly hurt, evidently by the machinations of my rivals, I shall bear my lot. If I have ever forgotten myself towards his Majesty, it was because of the love I have for my King, and not from any lack of respect.' Neither Bandissin nor Lowendhal replied. Sulkowski, before whom not long ago they had almost kneeled, noticed the effect of his disgrace first upon them. Their former affability was gone. Bandissin looked at him as on an inferior. In the faces of both gentlemen one could see that all they desired was to get rid of him as soon as possible. Both bowed coolly, and distantly. Sulkowski returned their bow and conducted them back to the drawing-room. Here they saluted the ladies from a distance and went out as soon as they could. The Count politely escorted them to the ante-room and returned so serene, that his wife could not read in his face what had happened. The Baroness Lowendhal waited hoping to be enlightened, and dared not ask him. Sulkowski looked at his wife whose face betrayed anxious curiosity. 'Thank God,' said he, in a voice which trembled slightly, 'we are free. His Majesty has pleased to dismiss me from my duties. Although I regret to be obliged to leave my beloved lord, I do not feel at all hurt. It would be difficult for an honest man to remain at the court under existing circumstances.' His wife covered her face. 'My dear,' said the Count, 'be calm, pray. The reason for my dismissal is this. It seems that I forgot myself in the respect due to his Majesty, in that I spoke the unadvisable and unpleasant truth; the King is kind enough to leave me the pension of a general and give me precious liberty--we shall go to Vienna.' The Baroness Lowendhal looked at the Count with admiration. She could not understand the equanimity with which he received the news of his downfall from his former high position. The fact was that Sulkowski's pride permitted him neither to feel nor to show that he was hurt. After the first shock he pulled himself together and accepted his fate in a truly lordly way. It was possible that he still had hope. The Countess cried. The Baroness understood that her presence was superfluous, for she could not offer consolation and her presence prevented them from consoling each other; she silently pressed her friend's hand and slipped from the room. The Countess continued to weep. 'My dearest,' exclaimed the Count, 'I pray you to be brave. It is not advisable to show that we are hurt. We have to be thankful to the King that I was not sent to Königstein, and that instead of confiscating my estates they leave me a pension. The banishment to Nebigan is not very dreadful and does not exclude all hope--of overthrowing all that scaffolding built by my honest, sweet, faithful friend, Brühl! Pray, be calm--' But the woman was not easily consoled. Sulkowski looked at his watch, offered his wife his arm and whispering gently, conducted her to her room. CHAPTER XX If there is anything that can arouse the greatest contempt for mankind it is the sight of the sudden downfall of the favourite of fortune, who, not long since, was idolised by his fellows. There is in that something so vile and degrading, that the heart shudders; but in such situations a man learns to value others at their right price and tests his best friends. No one who has not passed through a similar crisis, can understand how bitter is the feeling that arises in the heart. Sulkowski, who from childhood had been with Augustus and who was accustomed to be treated as his friend, bore his fate with dignity; he could not, however, restrain the scorn excited in him by the two gentlemen dispatched to him by the King. He at once sent for Ludovici. The councillor owed him everything; but fear for his future, for his position, prompted him not to come, excusing himself on the plea that he was very busy. 'It will be necessary,' the Count said quietly, 'for me to pay the knave a visit and get my papers back, if he has not already given them to Brühl, in order in that way to purchase his pardon.' In the afternoon of the same day, the Count went to the Castle. On his way he endured a veritable martyrdom. The news of Sulkowski's downfall was already known in town, and although he had never wronged anybody, and could have sinned only by his pride against his subordinates, being even too good to many of them, all felt it their duty to show him how glad they were to hear of his disgrace. He passed by Brühl's offices; the clerks noticed him through the windows, and, putting their pens behind their ears, with their hands in their pockets, they rushed out into the street in order to sneer at their former master. Sulkowski saw and heard what was going on around him, but he exercised so much self-control that neither by sign nor glance did he betray that he saw or felt anything. He passed on slowly, hearing their ironical exclamations. At every step of the way he met those who only yesterday bowed humbly as they passed him, but to-day they pretended not to see him, or looked at him impertinently, in order to show that they might disregard him. Carriages passed by from which heads would be stretched and eyes follow him. In the castle the apparition of a ghost would not have caused greater fear. They dared not shut the doors in his face, but even the lackeys would not make way for him. Sulkowski seeing this would perhaps have withdrawn but he determined to see the King once more. Being familiar with the King's regular habits, he knew that he passed that hour in the Queen's apartments. It was possible that the servants would warn the King but he determined to take his chance. He entered a certain room in which fortunately there was no one, and this man, whose orders were formerly obeyed by the whole court, stood modestly in a corner, thinking over his situation. At that moment the King entered with a chamberlain; when Sulkowski kneeled the King was frightened and wished to retreat. The count seized his legs. 'Sire!' he exclaimed, 'do not send your servant away, without a hearing. 'Ever since childhood I have been fortunate in faithfully fulfilling my duties towards your Majesty.' The King's face depicted the greatest alarm. 'Sulkowski--' he said, '--I cannot--I do not wish to hear anything--' 'I beseech your Majesty,' rejoined the Count, 'to listen to me; I ask for nothing, except that I may go away cleared, for my conscience is clean. Sire, kindly remember the years we spent together; have I ever forgotten myself or overstepped the boundaries of respect? Those who wish to get rid of me, are afraid that someone watching over them might discover their deeds, and they send me away because I am faithful to your Majesty--Sire--' Augustus covered his eyes with trembling hands and tapping the floor with his feet, repeated: 'I do not wish to hear--' 'I only want to justify myself.' 'Enough!' cried the King, 'my firm resolution is to part with you; that cannot be changed. Neither to yourself nor to your family shall any evil befall--be at ease, but go, go, go!' The King said this with evident fear, afraid lest he might give way should no one come in. 'Sire,' cried the Count desperately rising from the ground, 'may it be permitted me to thank your Majesty for the favours I have received from the King, and to kiss his hand for the last time?' The King was near to tears, but there was a chamberlain present, a witness and spy in one; therefore he put out his trembling hand, which the Count covered with kisses. 'Sire!' he cried, 'that hand repulses an innocent man! I repeat that I am innocent, because I could have sinned only by the excess of my love towards your Majesty.' The uneasiness and alarm on the King's face increased. 'Enough!' he exclaimed, 'I cannot listen to you, I command you to leave.' Sulkowski bowed in silence and withdrew--Augustus rushed to the door leading to the Queen's apartment. The count needed a few minutes to collect his thoughts and gather strength; he leaned against the wall, pressed his forehead with his hands, and stood there for some time; he was about to go when a chamberlain entered and told him in the most impertinent tone to leave the room. 'His majesty commands you by me,' he said, 'to leave the castle at once and not to show yourself at the court. His Majesty's will is that you live at Nebigan.' Sulkowski glanced proudly at the man, made no reply and went out. His last effort was frustrated, and there remained nothing, but to drink the cup without shrinking. A craving for revenge arose in his heart, but he quelled it, for he knew that his enemies had the advantage. He returned home in order to tranquillise his wife and assure her that she need fear nothing worse. The banishment to Nebigan, situated near Dresden, permitted the hope of meeting the King and of justifying himself. To this his wife replied: 'Brühl will not be satisfied with banishment, we shall be in his hands! He will find some reasons to renew his attack; let us leave this cursed Saxony immediately: let us go to Vienna, to Poland, anywhere you please, except remain here!' During the whole evening, the people gathered round Sulkowski's palace, looking in at the windows, anxious to see the ashes of the sacrifice. From time to time Sulkowski came to the window and looked at the vile crowd. Nobody called on him that evening. But an official document was handed to the porter, in which the King dismissed the Count from his duties of Grand Chamberlain and Grand Equerry of the court. The Count laid the paper on the table. The same evening there was a reception at Brühl's palace. The minister's face expressed uneasiness; he was tired after the fight. He threw himself into an arm-chair when his wife came into the drawing-room. She looked at him scornfully. 'I ought to congratulate you,' she said, 'you are master of the situation, king of Saxony and Poland; Henniche is the lieutenant general; Loss, Hammer and Globig viceroys.' 'And you are the queen,' rejoined Brühl smiling, '_à double titre_.' 'Yes,' she said laughing, 'I am beginning to get accustomed to my situation, I find it quite bearable.' She shrugged her shoulders. 'Provided it lasts longer than Sulkowski's reign.' 'I should add, that you are very clever, having laid your throne on women's shoulders. The Queen, I, the Countess Moszynski, and Fräulein Hernberg--not counting Abbuzzi, for she is a supernumary.' 'It is your fault that I must seek for hearts outside my own house.' 'Ah! hearts! hearts!' interrupted his wife, 'neither you nor I have any right to speak about hearts. We have fancies, but not hearts; we have senses, but not sentiments, but--it is better so.' She turned from him. 'One word,' said Brühl, 'later the guests will arrive and I shall not have a chance of talking to you.' 'What is it?' Brühl bent close to her ear. 'You are compromising yourself.' 'The idea!' 'That young employé from my office--' She blushed and said angrily: 'I have my fancies! Nobody can stop them. Pray do not mix yourself up in my affairs, as I do not mix in yours.' 'Madam!' Here the Countess Moszynski entered: she was beaming with animation. She put out her hands to Frau Brühl and said: 'There is victory _sur tout la ligne!_ In town they speak of nothing else; they wonder, they tremble--' 'They rejoice,' added Brühl. 'I am not certain of that,' the Countess interrupted, 'but we are pleased at the downfall of that proconsul. Once and for all we are _en famille_ and are not required to bow to that proud lord.' 'What news? What does he intend to do?' asked Brühl. 'If you know him,' the Countess said, 'you should readily guess. Naturally he will go to Nebigan, where he will shake his head as he used to do and try to see the King, and to intrigue in order to regain his favour.' Brühl laughed. 'Yes, it is very probable; but, dear Countess--from Nebigan it is not far to Dresden, neither is it far from Königstein--I doubt--' At that moment a new-comer, Countess Hernberg, the wife of the Austrian envoy, entered. She was a beautiful, black-eyed Viennese, with aristocratic features, who was also Brühl's Egeria, and said without any greeting: 'I make a wager that they go to Vienna.' Brühl made a grimace. The two ladies began to converse together and the Countess Moszynski took Brühl aside. 'You make a mistake,' she said. 'Never do anything by halves; you ought to have shut him--' 'The King would never consent,' said Brühl, 'by asking too much, we might make him resist, and Sulkowski would have our heads cut off. Then, I know the Count too well, and that is why I do not fear him, he is a weak-minded man, he cannot make a plot. Before he leaves Nebigan I shall find proofs that he appropriated two million thalers and then Königstein will be justified--' 'Brühl!' laughed the Countess, 'two million thalers--and you--' 'I do not have one single penny for myself,' exclaimed Brühl, 'only for the receptions, by which I endeavour to do honour to my King. I am in debt.' Then he whispered: 'Do not think that I am so stupid as to let the prey go before it is killed; but I was obliged to do it with two blows. I shall get him away from Nebigan as soon as I wish. In the meanwhile I gather proofs. In a few weeks' time the King will consent to anything.' He laughed strangely, when the Grand Minister of Ceremonies, entering, obliged him to leave the Countess, who joined the ladies. 'How did he receive the news?' asked Brühl. 'At first he was dismayed, but after a time, bravely and proudly.' 'But the Chamberlain Frisen told me,' hissed Brühl, 'that having surprised the King in the castle, he crawled to his feet.' 'It is possible,' said Lowendhal, 'But--' He did not have time to finish the sentence, for the butler made signs to Brühl from the door, and he was obliged to leave his guest and go and find out why he had been called. He passed through the drawing-room with some uneasiness, for although the King was carefully watched, he feared that the former favourite had succeeded in stealing into the castle. Henniche was waiting in the study, sitting comfortably in an armchair. Although he made some movement as the minister entered, one could see that he played with him, knowing that he was more necessary to Brühl, than Brühl to him. 'What is this urgent business you have to communicate?' said Brühl reproachfully. 'The people will think that something has happened.' 'Let them think,' said Henniche impatiently. 'Your Excellency amuses himself and I work; I cannot satisfy your fancies.' 'Are you mad?' 'I?' asked Henniche quickly. 'You forget yourself,' said Brühl. Henniche laughed. 'Let us drop that; to others you may be a great man, but not to me.' He waved his hand. 'To what would you amount without me?' 'And what about you, without me?' cried Brühl vehemently. 'I am a fork, with which every minister must eat; it's quite different.' Brühl quieted down. 'Well, tell me, what news?' 'Instead of thanking me, your Excellency scolds me. It is true that Henniche was a lackey, but precisely for that reason, he does not like to be reminded of the fact.' Saying this he unfolded some papers. 'Here is what I have brought; I made Ludovici drunk, I have assured him that we shall appoint him a councillor in the secret department, and I guarantee that he shall keep it in such secrecy that nobody shall learn about it! I have already some accusations. There are sums taken from the custom house, there are receipts of money not paid to the army. Ho! ho! plenty to accuse him of. How could he buy estates otherwise?' 'You must have proofs,' said Brühl. 'Black and white,' Henniche returned. 'When could you have them ready?' 'In a few days.' 'There is no hurry,' said Brühl, 'the King must rest after his first effort. Faustina shall sing, Guarini shall make him laugh, we shall shoot; the incident in the corridor will be forgotten, then we shall be able to act. The essential thing is to keep all in secrecy; he must not suspect anything and run away.' Henniche, who looked attentively at his master, added: 'We must watch him at Nebigan; we must tell some of our lackeys to enter his service; they will act as spies.' 'Very good,' said Brühl. 'I should think it is very good, as I never suggest anything bad,' rejoined Henniche. 'If he escapes to Vienna, or to Prussia, even to Poland,' said Brühl thoughtfully, 'it would be a very unpleasant and dangerous occurrence.' 'Yes, dangerous,' said Henniche fixing his wig, 'for although he is not very cunning, it is never wise to despise an enemy.' 'Then it is understood,' whispered Brühl, 'you collect proofs of guilt. It would not be proper for me, who succeed him, to act openly against him.' Before leaving he added: 'Listen, Henniche, you cannot go away, it will be better to send Globig. Such a man as Sulkowski cannot be put in one room, especially when it is probable that he will remain there a long time. Do you understand? Tell Globig to go to the commandant and let him choose a few good rooms for the Count, that he may be quite comfortable. They might clean the rooms and have them ready, but they must not know for whom they are destined.' Henniche laughed. 'Your Excellency forgets that for such a game I must be rewarded.' 'When he is in the cage,' Brühl said. 'And it seems to me that you do not forget yourself.' 'We are both alike,' rejoined Henniche folding the papers. 'Why should we cheat each other? We know each other well.' Brühl, although the ex-lackey treated him so brutally, did not dare to answer; he needed him. The minister returned with a serene face to the drawing-room, where the card tables were quite ready. The Countess Moszynski, tapping the table with her fingers, waited for him. 'Sit down,' she said, 'at this hour all business goes to bed.' CHAPTER XXI The last days of the carnival were more merry than in former years, because everyone tried to make the King cheerful, on whose forehead could often be seen something like sadness and yearning. He yawned very often during the afternoon, and Guarini's jokes could not make him laugh. They asked Faustina to sing the King's favourite songs. Frosch and Horch were promised a reward for good tricks. They induced the King to shoot every day at a target. The entertainments at the castle were very brilliant. Brühl would hardly leave the castle; he would stand at the door trying to guess the King's thoughts. Sometimes Augustus would be in a better humour and would smile; but very often too, during the laughter, a cloud would come and the monarch's face would become suddenly gloomy; then he would turn to the window, and appeared not to see or to hear anything. The next day Sulkowski received an order to go immediately to Nebigan. He was obliged to leave Dresden. The people were waiting for him on his way in order to jeer at him. His little dog Fido was running after his carriage, someone shot him. It was done in the day time, in the town, and no one said anything. The Countess cried, the Count said not a word, he bore it stoically, pretending to know nothing about it. The vile mob accompanied him beyond the bridge, running and shouting after him. The coachman urged the horses, the Count looked into the distance and did not even move--he felt superior to it all. Brühl was told all about this; he only smiled. At last the new minister learned through his spies that Sulkowski's downfall aroused in the court rather regret and fear than pleasure. They murmured everywhere. The only remedy for that was to isolate the King so that no unauthorised word could penetrate to him. During the next few days, immediately the new officials were appointed, Brühl's brother became the Grand Marshal of the court, the pages and lackeys whom they suspected of having any relations with Sulkowski, were changed. Augustus got everything he was fond of, but he was strictly watched. He felt happy, since he could satisfy his habits and besides that, desired nothing else. It was impossible immediately to think of restraining the Queen's influence, but it was in Brühl's plans to do so. He determined to act through his wife alone, for he feared that Guarini would not consent to use such radical measures. Brühl felt omnipotent, and his viceroys, as they called his councillors, grew more and more arrogant. They were still afraid of Sulkowski and it was necessary to finish with him once and for ever. Henniche collected proofs of money appropriated. The action that now had to be put through was, to confiscate the Fürstenburg Palace, given to him by the King, to take from him Nebigan Castle, and lock him up in Königstein. As there had been many similar examples in the reign of Augustus the Strong, Brühl expected to be able to carry out his plans very easily. Sulkowski, free, was dangerous. Sulkowski in Vienna would be threatening. Brühl was still more alarmed that the Count did not seem to be crushed by his misfortune. He ordered his furniture to be brought from Dresden to Nebigan, and the beautiful situation of the castle made sojourn in it quite bearable. From his window Sulkowski could see the tower of the King's castle, in which he had been such a powerful man. The carnival drew to its end, the Count did not leave Nebigan. Every day his steps were dogged by spies, but they could not learn anything. Nobody visited him from town. Every day the Count's servants would go to Dresden for provisions, but they had no intercourse with anyone except the shopkeepers. The Count would spend whole days reading, conversing with his wife, and writing letters, but the spies never learned how they were sent. One morning Brühl entered the King's room with a pile of papers. The King hated the mere sight of papers, and talk about intrigues. One word would make him sullen. Brühl would shorten the disagreeable duty by handing to the King documents ready for his signature. Augustus III would sit at a table and would sign them like a machine, not looking at the documents; his signature was always the same, clear, precise, majestic and quiet. That day, the King, having noticed the papers, was preparing to perform his onerous duty, but Brühl stood motionless, and did not unfold the documents. An enquiring look made him speak. 'Sire,' he said, 'I have to-day such a disagreeable affair that for the sake of my lord's peace I should like not to speak about it.' The King twisted his mouth. 'I would have preferred that somebody else should have done this, but nobody would take my place,' said Brühl sighing. 'Consequently I must speak myself.' 'H'm?' said Augustus. 'Your Majesty knows well,' Brühl continued, 'that I am not mixed up in Sulkowski's affairs.' 'It is over! Enough of it!' interrupted the King impatiently. 'Not altogether,' rejoined Brühl, 'and that is why I feel so unhappy. I took his duties, I am an honest man, I was obliged to investigate everything.' The King stared at Brühl; there was something alarming in that look. 'Among his papers were found some letters accusing your Majesty's ungrateful servant; there were many abuses; deficits in the accounts--' The King cleared his throat. 'But I still have money?' he asked with energy. 'Yes, but not as much as there ought to be,' said the minister. 'But the worst is this, that the letters exchanged between Sulkowski and some foreign courts condemn him as a most dangerous man. If he goes to Poland he will be protected by the laws of the republic; should he go to Vienna, he might be a menace to us there. In a word, wherever Sulkowski might go--' Brühl looked attentively at the King's face as he said this, but although he knew his character well, he could not guess what impression he had made on Augustus by his speech. Augustus looked surprised, gazed round the room, grew red and pale by turns, appeared confused, but did not say a word. The minister waited for the answer. Augustus cleared his throat, coughed loudly and looked challengingly at Brühl. 'Your Majesty,' Brühl continued, 'knows that I am against severe measures. I also loved that man, he was my friend as long as he was faithful to my lord. To-day as a minister, as a faithful servant, I must act against my heart.' It was evidently an understood thing between Brühl and Guarini, that the Padre was to enter during this conversation, and in he came. But the King made quite a different use of his presence and asked after Faustina. 'She is very well,' answered Guarini laughing. '_Chi ha la sanita, è ricco, e se no 'l sa_.' But Brühl stood there like an executioner. 'Will Your Majesty permit me to finish my unpleasant business?' he said. 'Father Guarini knows all about it.' 'Ah! He knows! Very well!' said the King and turning to the Padre asked him: 'And what do you think of it?' The Padre shrugged his shoulders. 'I hold the same opinion as my gracious lord,' he said laughing. 'I am a priest, it is not for me to judge these things.' There was a pause; Augustus looked at the floor; Brühl was frightened. 'During the reign of Augustus the Strong, Sulkowski would by this time have been in Königstein,' said Brühl. 'No! No!' said Augustus, looking at Brühl and growing pale; then he rose and paced to and fro. Guarini stood sighing. 'I never insisted on treating anyone severely,' rejoined Brühl. 'I was and I am for clemency, but there are proofs of such ingratitude--' The Jesuit raised his eyes and sighed again. He and Brühl both watched the King's every movement and did not know what to think. Never before had he been a riddle to them, knowing him they were sure of being able to make him give in, but the question was, how to do it without wearying him, for then he would be angry with them for tiring him. Brühl looked at Guarini as though urging him to finish the matter. The Padre looked back at the minister with the same silent request. Augustus directed his gaze steadily to the floor. 'What are your Majesty's orders?' asked Brühl persisting. 'What about?' muttered the King. 'About Sulkowski.' 'Ah! yes--yes--' And again he looked down at the floor. At length he turned to Brühl, and as it seemed with a great effort, pointing to the table, said: 'Leave the papers until to-morrow.' The minister grew confused, for he was not willing to leave the papers. Although he was sure that the King would not read them he was cautious, and being afraid that something unexpected might happen, wished to finish the business at one blow. He looked at Guarini. 'Sire,' said the Jesuit softly, 'it is such a bitter pill that it is not worth while to taste it twice. _Alcun pensier no paga mai debito_. Why think it over?' The King did not answer; presently he turned to Brühl and said: 'In the afternoon shooting at the target in the castle.' The order was significant, Brühl was confounded. 'The last reindeer tired us,' added the King, 'but it was worthy of our efforts.' He was silent again. 'And the last died,' he added sighing. The clock pointed to the hour at which the King was accustomed to go to the Queen; he ordered a chamberlain to be called. Brühl was dismissed, having gained nothing, and his efforts were frustrated. He did not know why the King resisted him. The King hastened off. They were obliged to leave him, and Brühl called the Padre into the next room. He threw the papers on the table. 'I am at a loss to understand it!' he cried. '_Patienza! Col tempo e colla paglia maturano le nespole!_' answered Guarini. 'Wait till to-morrow; you could not expect to do it so soon. The King must grow accustomed to the idea, and as he dislikes every fresh attack, you will succeed.' The minister relapsed into thought. 'At any rate, it is bad,' he said, 'that he is still so fond of Sulkowski.' They began to whisper, taking counsel of each other. The Jesuit went to the Queen, Brühl returned home with the papers. The King being fond of regular habits, while smoking his pipe in the afternoon, would never see anyone except those who could amuse him. Even Brühl was then obliged to forget his duties as prime minister and assume the rôle of one of the King's fools. But, as there was no danger on those afternoons, the minister showed himself very seldom. The King amused himself with his fools, and was not permitted to send for anybody outside the court, for even if Brühl's creatures received such an order, they would find some pretext for not fulfilling it, until they had consulted the minister. From the time of Augustus the Strong there remained in the court the famous fool Joseph Frohlich, who wore a silver chamberlain's key on his back containing a quart of wine. Brühl, who distrusted him as much as the Baron Schmiedel, tried to get him dismissed, but Augustus would not permit him to drive off all his father's faithful servants. Frohlich had his own house beyond the bridge, was well to do, and seldom appeared at court; but every time he came, Augustus would laugh as soon as he caught sight of his round face. That afternoon Brühl was not with the King. Frosch had a swollen face, the result of a blow from Horch, and could not come to amuse the King. Therefore no one was surprised when the King told the page to go and bring Frohlich. The fool was very much surprised when he received the order to go to the castle. He quickly donned one of the three hundred dresses purchased for him by Augustus the Strong, hung his famous key on his back, and rushed through the bridge thinking by what joke he could best amuse the King. Even fools have hours in which they do not care to laugh. Frohlich, _semper nunquam traurig_, as the motto ran on a medal struck in his honour, was in such a mood that day that he was not _fröhlich_ but sour as vinegar. He would not confess it, but he liked the times of Augustus II better than those of his son. But the habit of being amusing to order enabled him to be merry when he appeared before the King. Besides being witty, Frohlich was a very able conjuror, and it was just then more easy for him to begin by some trick than a witticism. Kneeling before the King, Frohlich said that he ran so fast that his throat was dry. He took off his key and asked if his Majesty would be kind enough to permit him to strengthen his forces by a draught of wine. The King clapped his hands and told a page to bring a bottle. In the meantime Frohlich employed himself cleaning his key which was a little rusty, and from which he was going to drink, complaining that he seldom used it now. The page stood with the bottle ready to pour in the wine, when Frohlich looking at the bottom of his key, grew frightened at seeing something in it. 'Who would have expected,' he exclaimed, 'that a bird would build a nest in it?' And a canary flew out of the key. The King laughed; but that was not all; there was still something more in the key, and the fool took out a pile of ribbons, six handkerchiefs, a candle, and a handful of nuts. Then he said that not being certain that there was not an enchanted princess in the key, he would prefer to drink the King's health from a glass. After some refreshment, the fool began to amuse the King by imitating well-known actors. The entertainment lasted about half an hour. The King laughed, but Frohlich noticed that in spite of his apparent mirth, he was uneasy, perplexed and distracted. He wondered what the cause could be, when, to his surprise, the King went to the farthest window, and motioned to him to follow. There was something so mysterious and unusual in this that Frohlich was alarmed. He followed the King, however, to the window, where he was standing, looking round undecided and alarmed. The fool could not solve the riddle. 'Frohlich, listen,' said the King in a whisper, 'h'm! laugh aloud, laugh, but listen to what I am going to say, Do you understand?' As yet the fool did not understand, but he began to laugh so loudly as to deafen the loudest conversation. The King took hold of his ear and drew it almost to his lips. 'Frohlich is faithful, honest, will not betray me,' he said. 'To-day, go secretly to Nebigan. Understand? Tell him, understand, to escape at once to Poland.' Frohlich could not understand why the King should use him as a secret messenger. It did not strike him to think of Sulkowski. He made a gesture that he did not understand. The King bent again over his ear and said one word only: 'Sulkowski!' Having said this, as though frightened at having mentioned a name forbidden to be spoken at the court, he drew aside, Frohlich could not laugh any more. He was so frightened that he did not yet comprehend. His face must have expressed the doubt, for the King told him again to laugh, aloud, repeating the order precisely. He spoke quickly, incoherently, but at length the fool understood that the King told him to warn the Count of his danger, and bid him escape to Poland. In order not to arouse suspicion Augustus continued for a time to listen to the fool's jokes and then taking a handful of gold pieces from his pocket, put them into Frohlich's hands. 'Go!' said the King. Frohlich, after being permitted to kiss the King's hand, went out and ran home as fast as he could. He hardly grasped what had happened to him. It was necessary to collect his thoughts and take counsel with himself, how he could best fulfil the King's order, for he was afraid of his _entourage_. He fell into deep thought, and sighed. The task was difficult. Even had he been less familiar with the life of the court and the fate of favourites, he could easily guess that there were plenty of spies round Nebigan and probably also in the castle. Frohlich was a well-known person, but happily the frequent fancy-dress balls, given during the reign of Augustus the Strong, accustomed most people to the art of disguising themselves. Frohlich closeted himself in his room and without losing time commenced to work at his transformation. It was early in February, the river Elbe was covered with strong ice, and it seemed to Frohlich that access to Nebigan was easiest and safest from the river. It was too late to travel on foot, so he hired a sledge at Briesnitz, and having promised the driver high pay, was driven swiftly to an inn in the village of Nebigan. Telling the driver to wait, he went out through, another door and walked towards the river. He felt that only by some good luck could he fulfil his dangerous mission. On arriving at the castle he hesitated, then he entered the courtyard and ran as fast as he could to the hall. It was dark and no one was about. Sulkowski never kept many servants and now he had still less. The stairs were dark, and only on ascending them did he hear voices. In the anteroom the servants were quarrelling over their game of cards. At the sight of a strangely dressed man, coming at such an unusual hour, they sprang to their feet, asking him what he wanted. Frohlich said that he must see the Count at once. The butler first searched his pockets, fearing that he might carry arms, or might have come with some evil design, then went to the Count to announce the stranger. There was some stir in the castle: the wig, the clothes and the handkerchief with which his face was covered did not permit them to recognise Frohlich. They showed him into a drawing-room, just lighted for the purpose. Sulkowski was pale but quiet and as proud as if he were still prime minister. The visitor requested that the servant might be dismissed. The request aroused some suspicion and alarm, but the Count did not betray his feelings. As soon as they were alone, Frohlich uncovered his face. 'Two hours ago,' he said, 'I was called to the King; I shall repeat his own words: "To-day, secretly, go to Nebigan--tell him to escape at once to Poland."' Sulkowski listened indifferently. 'The King told you this?' he asked. 'Yes, and with fear lest he might be overheard, as though he were a slave and not a king.' 'He is a slave and will remain so for ever,' sighed Sulkowski. He became pensive. 'May God reward you,' he said presently, 'for the trouble you have taken for me, or rather for the King. How can I show you my gratitude?' 'Only by this, that your Excellency fulfils the King's will to-night.' The Count stood as if riveted to the ground. Frohlich went out to find his sledge, while the Count still stood undecided as to what to do. He knew enough of Brühl to understand that his wisest course was to follow the King's advice. The next day as the King was returning from chapel, Guarini came to him to wish him good morning. To this the King would usually answer by sounds similar to those produced by clearing his throat, laughter or hiccoughs. The King's face indicated excellent health, which he inherited from his father, and as he did not abuse it, it served him admirably. Guarini with other courtiers accompanied the King. The King looked at him inquisitively several times, as if trying to learn something from the expression of his face; at length he said laconically: 'Cold.' 'I feel it, for at best I am an Italian,' said Guarini, 'but notwithstanding the cold,' he continued in a whisper, 'there are people who do not fear to travel. A certain Count whose name I will not mention, for he was unfortunate enough to fall into disgrace--started last night, so I heard, to an unknown destination.' The King as though not hearing made no answer. Brühl was waiting in the King's room with the documents, but he was distracted and morose. Augustus came to him quickly. 'Brühl! those papers of yesterday; we must finish with them.' 'All is over,' answered the minister, sighing. CHAPTER XXII Brühl conquered, but for many years he was afraid of the revenge Sulkowski might take, which, however, the latter never attempted. Sulkowski, having purchased a large estate from the King Leszezynski, and also being occupied in administrating his other estate in Silesia, being moreover created prince by the Emperor of Austria, enjoyed his life and did not trouble to recall himself to Augustus III, now so completely dominated by Brühl. The present story is only a preface to Brühl's life who until the death of Augustus ruled over Saxony and Poland; he became a Polish nobleman and, as he himself said, played a most interesting rôle as a favourite, whom good luck never deserted till the day of his death. It would be unsatisfactory to give a mere synopsis of this curious drama. Brühl is a historical figure as well as a remarkable type of his epoch; in Brühl's life, that of Augustus III appears as in a mirror. Here the story might close, had not tradition left an interesting incident which may form a fitting epilogue to the tale. In 1756, during the war with Prussia, when Brühl was in the height of his power, he was obliged to fly to Poland with Augustus III, who left to the victor all his property--his palaces, libraries, galleries, collections. It was late in the autumn and the court carriages, on account of bad roads and the scarcity of horses in Silesia, were divided into several groups. It so happened that the King was in the first of these and his minister in the last. Brühl greatly feared capture by the King of Prussia who hated him, and in consequence endeavoured to reach Augustus in whose company he felt safer. But misfortune pursued him; the horses dropped dead, the wheels broke, and haste was impossible. The rain rendered the roads so bad that double teams for the carriages were insufficient. Brühl was obliged to accept his fate. Recent events had much depressed him, he had lost millions and was obliged to fly to Poland where he could not rule so absolutely as in Saxony. No wonder then that the pet of fortune was gloomy, frightened and impatient. Sometimes he was so absent-minded that he did not even understand what was said to him. Evening was approaching, it was raining hard, the horses could hardly drag themselves along, when the steeples and lights of a small hamlet appeared through the grey curtain of rain. Brühl expected to find the King here, but at the posting station he was told that his Majesty was going to pass the night about twenty miles further on, and it was impossible to get horses. Brühl promised to buy the horses but nobody would accept his offer and he was forced to seek a lodging in the village. His numerous attendants, for he had lately been made a Count, dispersed to find him decent accommodation. There was only one inn called 'Ye Old Horse,' which was occupied by a Polish nobleman and his retinue. The minister thought that at the sound of his name the inn would be immediately vacated in his favour, for the Polish nobles were very polite, outside their house of parliament, and Brühl was omnipotent and could reward the courtesy with the gift of some state property. Count Brühl's major-domo hastened to 'Ye Old Horse' where he found the numerous and lordly retinue of someone whom they called prince. Without asking the name of the nobleman he preferred his request, or, as he thought, command, that they should vacate it in favour of his Excellency the Count Brühl. The prince, on hearing the name made a grimace, pondered a while, and answered in very good German, even betraying the Saxon accent, that he would not give up the inn, but would share it with the minister. In the meantime the sleet was beating so effectually against the windows of the Count's carriage that it found its way inside. The messenger returned with the answer and Brühl, not apprehending any inconvenience from meeting a stranger ordered them to drive to the inn. He expected that someone would come out to meet him, but he was mistaken. It was Brühl's custom to double his civility when he was slighted, and he alighted from the carriage with a determination to put the proud nobleman to shame by his amiability. The butler threw open the door, and the minister hastened into a large room, in which there was a fire in the grate, and two lighted candles on the table. Looking round for the prince, he perceived, standing at the further end of the room, not in the least embarrassed at the meeting, only a little older, but still more proud than ever--Sulkowski. The prince stood silently looking down on his adversary, without greeting him. Brühl grew pale and wanted to withdraw, thinking that he had fallen into an ambush. His face changed so strangely, that Sulkowski could not help smiling. Evidently recollecting Guarini and his Italian proverbs, he said: '_Si rincontrano gli uomini, e non le montagne_.' Brühl stood astounded 'I am sure you know the fable,' said Sulkowski, 'about a storm, during which a wolf found himself in a cavern with a lamb--it is something like that with us! During such bad weather it would not be right to refuse hospitality even to a foe.' Brühl was silent. 'Count, you may rest assured that I shall not take advantage of the situation, in order to annoy you,' added Sulkowski. 'Our meeting amuses me very much, especially when I think that I am avenged by your fate after fourteen years.' 'Prince!' said Brühl very sweetly. 'Count!' Sulkowski rejoined, 'had it depended upon you, I should have had a lodging in Königstein instead of a principality.' 'Prince!' retorted Brühl, 'you attribute to me greater power than I had. The reasons of your downfall were, in the first place, your own lack of foresight, secondly, right or not, the King's anger, and lastly, his Majesty's will, of which I was merely the executioner.' 'Count!' said the Prince, 'you should put it as it will be written in history, namely, that the King was and is the executor of your fancies--' 'Prince, you are mistaken--' 'I hope you do not think me so stupid,' rejoined Sulkowski, 'that knowing your character and the situation, I could be persuaded that you were innocent.' 'I call God to witness!' cried Brühl, clasping his hands. 'That is very comfortable,' answered Sulkowski, 'for that witness never comes on earth. The best proof is the fate you have met with. The fruits of your policy are: the Prussian invasion, and the King's shameful flight.' Brühl was indignant. 'It is only a beginning and not the end,' he said, 'we shall see what will become of the invaders and of us.' 'Yes,' said Sulkowski smiling, 'the King and you, that is to say, you, are going to make another country happy, and do with Poland as you have done with Saxony.' 'In the administration at Saxony,' Brühl said sarcastically, 'I had no need to introduce anything new, it sufficed to follow the steps of my worthy predecessor.' Sulkowski's eyes shone. 'Your predecessor planned quite differently for the future of Saxony,' said Sulkowski proudly, 'and the best proof of that was the plan you gave to the Austrian Court through the Prince von Lichtenstein.' Brühl was confused. 'I? I know nothing about it,' he muttered sulkily. Sulkowski laughed, and paced to and fro. 'Brühl, listen; I speak as formerly, without giving you your title,' he said, 'do not play the fool with me, for it is useless.' 'I have nothing to reproach myself with,' said Brühl, 'and I forgive you. Prince, you are talking like a competitor who failed to accomplish what good fortune gave to me.' 'How can you call that good fortune?' said Sulkowski laughing. 'Padre Guarini, or--' Brühl blushed, the prince shrugged his shoulders. 'Upon my honour, Count, I admire you from a distance, but you must not tell me that I would have done the same in your place! I most humbly avow that I could not use so much falsehood as you did for your plans. I wanted to see Saxony powerful and Augustus III famous; he was noble but weak and lazy; I wanted to supply him with my energy. What I possess I owe to the King's munificence and not to dishonest calculations.' 'Prince!' exclaimed Brühl, 'that is too much!' Sulkowski turned to him and continued:--. 'But we can be honest and laugh at this comedy behind the scenes as the Roman augurs did. You may be to others as innocent as Ephraim, but to me you will always remain Brühl, whom I remember wearing the uniform of a page and saluting the lackeys.' With these words, Sulkowski took his fur cap, and taking no further notice of Brühl, walked out. The wind was still howling, the rain pouring down, but the prince ordered his carriage to be brought round. The servants were amazed but ventured no remark. 'Not a word! We go to the next village, but we leave here and at once.' He did not return to the room in which he had left Brühl; even the icy cold was preferable to that, and when after a long delay the carriage came to the door, he sprang in, and answered the servant's enquiry where to drive to, with: 'Anywhere you please.' Against the lighted panes of the window there appeared the shadow of a man, as of one peering into the darkness. The carriage rolled away into the night and the shadow of the man at the window disappeared. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: Joannis Maldonati Summula. Colomæ, 1605, p. 5.] [Footnote 2: Two court fools.] 
37623	----	1. Pages scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/countesscoselar00krasgoog 2. Alternate spelling of author's name: Józef Ignacy Kraszewski [Illustration: Frontispiece. The Countess Cosel.] The Countess Cosel A Romance of History of the Times of Augustus the Strong By Joseph J. Kraszewski Translated and Edited by S. C. de Soissons _WITH PORTRAITS_ LONDON DOWNEY & CO. Limited 12 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN 1901 LONDON GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LIMITED, ST. JOHN'S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL, E.C. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS The Countess Cosel _Frontispiece_ Augustus II. of Saxony (the Strong) The Princess Teschen The Countess Denhoff The Countess Orzelska INTRODUCTION Joseph J. Kraszewski was born in Russian Poland in 1812. He came of a noble and once wealthy family. His parents quitting their estates during the war between France and Russia, the boy was left in the care of his grandparents on his mother's side. From these he first acquired a taste for literature and art. In his eleventh year, Kraszewski was sent to the College at Biala, where he remained until 1826. He then entered the College at Lublin, and in 1829 he proceeded to the University of Wilno, where he gave his attention principally to the study of languages, especially of Old Slavonic, Russian, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and Arabic. He spent much of his time in reading old documents and manuscripts, and the materials thus gathered he subsequently utilized in his historical romances and monographs. The novel had at this period begun to be the most popular form of literary expression in Western Europe. Kraszewski read and admired the works of Le Sage, Voltaire, Jean Paul, Hoffmann, and even Washington Irving. His first literary efforts were in close imitation of his own countryman, Count Skarbek, and of Laurence Sterne. He began to write in 1829, and at this early period of his life he produced several noteworthy novels. In 1831 he was arrested by the Russian Government for his connection with the revolutionary movement; but through the influence of his aunt--an intimate friend of Prince Dologoruky, the Governor-General of Wilno--he was subjected only to arrest at home, instead of being deported to Siberia. Complete freedom of movement was not restored to him until 1833. In this year he became the leader of a considerable literary movement in Wilno. He edited there a weekly newspaper, and from his pen flowed poetry, dramas, novels, and historical studies. His literary activity was indeed amazing. In 1836 Kraszewski left Wilno, and took unto himself a wife. He retired to his estates in the country, where he endeavoured to reconcile the life of a country gentleman with that of a _littérateur_. In 1855 he came to Warsaw, and established in the Polish capital two periodicals, a monthly and a daily. At this time the Marquis Wielopski was, on the Czar's instructions, endeavouring to find a _modus vivendi_ between Russia and Poland, but his policy was fiercely attacked by Kraszewski in his daily newspaper; and when the insurrection against Russian rule broke out in 1861, he was obliged to fly from Poland. He settled in Dresden, where he passed the remainder of his life in continuous literary effort, enriching Polish literature with an astonishing number of works in all branches of _belles-lettres_. In 1879 the Polish nation celebrated at Cracow, in a solemn and imposing fashion, the fiftieth anniversary of Joseph Kraszewski's literary _début_. After his death he was laid to rest in the Pantheon set aside by the Poles for the sepulture of their literary celebrities. As an instance of the importance of Kraszewski's personality, it is related that Bismarck signalled him out as the man through whom he might best strike a blow at the Polish members of the German Reichstag. He was tried for "Attempted Treason," and, on the very slightest evidence, was sentenced to four and a half years' imprisonment in the fortress of Magdebourg. As a mighty reformer of Polish literature, Kraszewski deserves the highest esteem of his countrymen: as a diligent worker and social reformer he stands an example for any nation. He has left us a gallery of pictures, of historical episodes, and characteristic studies of interesting historical personages. During his long residence in Dresden, he devoted himself specially to a study of men and manners at the Courts of Augustus the Second ("the Strong") and Augustus the Third. In "The Countess Cosel" he gives us views of Augustus the Second and his courtiers which are almost unique as pictures of Court life. The story of the Countess has all the air of a dramatic romance carefully planned by an ingenious novelist; yet it is a faithful narrative of events, illumined by the light of Kraszewski's genius. S. C. De Soissons. [Illustration: Augustus II. of Saxony (the Strong)] THE COUNTESS COSEL CHAPTER I. All was silent, dark, and sad in the King's castle, in the capital of Saxony. It was an autumn night, but at the end of September, the leaves are only beginning to turn yellow, cold winds are very rarely felt, the days are usually bright, and the nights warm. But on this evening the wind was blowing from the north; long black clouds followed each other in quick succession, and if a star made its appearance for a moment in the lead-coloured sky, it was quickly covered by the thick clouds. Before the gates of the castle of Georgenthor, and in the court-yards, silent sentries were pacing to and fro. The windows of the King's apartments, usually so brilliantly lighted, were dark. This was a most unusual event during the reign of Augustus, surnamed the Strong, because he was wont to break horse-shoes, men, sadness, and ill-fortune--but nothing could break him. Throughout the whole of Germany, indeed, throughout the whole of Europe, he was famed for the brilliancy of his court. There were none who could surpass him in magnificence, refinement of taste, and lordly prodigality. This year, however, Augustus had been defeated. The Swedes had taken from him the electoral crown of Poland, and the almost dethroned King, chased from the kingdom, had returned to the Kurfürsten-neste, to weep over the millions he had spent in vain, and the fearful ingratitude of the Poles. The Saxons could not understand how anyone could fail to admire such a good and noble lord, or how anyone could be unwilling to die for his sake. Augustus understood this still less than they did. The word "ingratitude" now accompanied every mention he made of Poland, and at length his courtiers avoided talking about it, about the King of Sweden, and about those things that Augustus the Strong had promised himself to set right. When Augustus returned to Dresden, that city made every possible effort to distract its lord, and it was only on this evening that everything was quiet within the castle. But why? The King had not gone to any of his other castles; the Leipsic fair had not yet begun; and besides, it had even been rumoured in the court, and throughout the city, that Augustus intended to order a series of balls, and carousals, to spite the Swedish monarch, and to prove to that august personage that he cared nothing for the temporary defeat he had sustained. The few passers-by who wended their way along the streets surrounding the castle, gazed at the windows in astonishment, wondering why, at this early hour, everything should be so quiet in the King's apartments. But anyone who penetrated further, and passing through the first large gate, crossed the courtyard, would have discovered that it was only on one side of the castle that silence reigned supreme, and that the interior of the building was seething with life and animation. Despite the keen north wind that was blowing, the windows on the first floor were wide open, and through the curtains poured forth streams of light, reflected from many mirrors; whilst from time to time there issued from the depths of the hall, peals of boisterous laughter, which, ringing through the spacious courtyard, startled the watchful sentries, and echoing against the grey walls, gradually died away in the distance. This laughter was accompanied by more or less noise, which alternately increased, subsided into murmurs, or died away into silence. At times there was loud clapping of hands as though after a speech, and then again was heard deep, sonorous, full-toned, king-like laughter, the laughter of a person not afraid of being heard, or of being answered in shouts of derision. At each fresh outburst of merriment, the guard pacing, halberd in hand, beneath the castle windows, paused in his walk, raised his eyes, and then with a deep sigh looked down on the ground. There was something awful in this midnight feast, held while the wind was blowing fiercely, and the capital lay wrapt in sleep. Here the King was making merry. Since his return from Poland, such evening debauches, with a few intimate courtiers, had been more frequent. Augustus the Strong, defeated by Charles XII., was ashamed to appear at great feasts; but as he needed some distraction from the sad thoughts that oppressed him, he gathered round him a few courtiers to whom he was attached. For these he ordered his servants to bring out the golden wine that was yearly imported from Hungary for the King's private use, and of this they drank until daybreak, by which time every one had fallen from their seats. Then Hoffman came, and conducted the King, still laughing heartily, to bed. To these select assemblies of the priests of Bacchus only a few persons were admitted, only those, in fact, in whom Augustus had entire confidence; for it was said that after drinking a few bumpers the King was dangerous. His strength was the strength of Hercules, and his anger the anger of Jove. If he were made angry in the morning, he said nothing, but his face grew crimson, his eyes glittered, and his lips trembled. He would turn away, and would not look at the person who had offended him. But after a few draughts of wine it was a different matter; at such times he had thrown many a one through the window, who had fallen on the pavement to rise no more. His anger was rare, but it was terrible as a thunderbolt. In ordinary life there could not be found a more affable or benevolent lord. It has even been remarked that the more he disliked a man, the more sweetly he smiled on him; and the day before they were imprisoned in Königstein, where his favourites had sometimes had to remain for several years, Augustus would embrace them as though they were his dearest friends; so noble was his nature, so wishful was he to soften the hard lot of his people. As it was necessary for the lord to have some amusement, it was nothing remarkable that two bears should sometimes be brought to the castle, or two enemies made drunk, and then induced to fight. This was a sport in which the King especially delighted, and when two drunken Vitzthums, Friesens or Hoyms, began to quarrel, he used to split his sides with laughing. This was such an innocent recreation. The King could make them quarrel very easily, for he knew everything--he knew who was in love, and with whom; which man hated the other; how much money they had taken from his treasury without his permission; he even knew what each of his courtiers was thinking, and if he did not know, he guessed. Who the spies were who betrayed them, the courtiers could by no means discover; and the result of this was that each one suspected his neighbour; brother was afraid of brother; the husband distrusted the wife; the father had no confidence in his son; and King Augustus the Strong looked on, and laughed at the mob! Yes, from his exalted position he looked down on the comedy of life, not disdaining to play in it the rôle of Jove, Hercules, and Apollo--and in the evening the rôle of Bacchus. On the evening in question, being very sad and weary, the King determined to make all his ministers and favourites drunk, and then make them confess for his amusement. The select companions of the King's feast were seated in a brilliantly lighted room, one side of which was occupied by an enormous sideboard, bright with silver and cut glass. Amongst those present were: Count Taparel Lagnasco, who had just arrived from Rome; Count Wackerbarth, from Vienna, Watzdorf, called the peasant of Mansfeld; Fürstenberg, Imhoff, Friesen, Vitzthum, and Hoym; and last, but not least, Friedrich Wilhelm, Baron Kyan, famous for his wit, who made every one else laugh, whilst he remained perfectly serious. The King, with dress and vest unfastened, sat leaning on one elbow--he was very sad. His handsome face, usually so bright, was veiled in a mist of sorrow. Several empty bottles bore witness to the fact that drinking had already continued for some time, yet on the King's face no results of the goodly wine were visible. The golden liquid had not been able to make his gloomy thoughts more bright. The courtiers jested with each other, endeavouring to make their lord laugh, but without avail. Augustus sat silent and thoughtful, as though he heard not a word that was spoken. This was most unusual; the King was so seldom sad, indeed he was ever eager for mirth and distraction. His companions grew uneasy and looked at him askance. At the opposite end of the table sat Kyan, gloomy, and unassuming. As though to mock the King, he also leaned on one elbow, stretched out his legs, and looked up at the ceiling with a deep sigh. His melancholy air gave him an absurd appearance. "Hark you," whispered Fürstenberg, nudging Wackerbarth with his elbow--they were both tipsy by this time--"do you see our lord? Nothing makes him smile--and it is already eleven o'clock--he ought to be in a good humour by now. This is our fault." "I am here as a guest," replied Wackerbarth, shrugging his shoulders. "It is none of my business; as you know him better than I do, you should find the proper way to amuse him." "He is tired of Lubomirska--that is clear," added Taparel. "And then it is difficult to digest those Swedes," whispered Wackerbarth. "I do not wonder at him." "Eh! Eh! We have forgotten all about the Swedes; some one else will defeat them for us, we can be sure of that, and then we will go and gather the fruits," said Fürstenberg. "He is not bothered about the Swedes, but he has had enough of Lubomirska--we must find him some other woman." "Is that such a difficult matter?" whispered Wackerbarth. Then they began to whisper together, but so low that they could not be overheard, for, as though suddenly awakened from slumber, the King was looking round on his companions. His glance wandered from one to another, until it rested at length on the tragic pose of Baron Kyan, and on seeing this the monarch burst into a hearty laugh. This was quite sufficient to make every one else laugh. "Kyan," cried the King, "what is the matter with you? Has your sweetheart betrayed you? Have you no money? You look just like Prometheus, with an invisible eagle devouring your liver." Kyan turned slowly round, much after the fashion of a wooden doll, and drew a deep sigh; so deep was it that it extinguished a six-light candelabra that was standing near him. "Kyan, what is the matter with you?" repeated the King. "Your Majesty," replied the Baron, "personally, there is nothing the matter with me. I am neither hungry, nor in love, nor in debt, nor jealous; but I am in despair." "Why? What has happened? Speak!" "I am grieving over our beloved monarch!" answered Kyan. "Born to be happy; endowed with a godlike face, with Herculean strength, with a generous heart; created to have the world lie at your feet--and yet your Majesty is sad!" "Yes, that is true!" said Augustus, frowning. "I am sad!" "Fifteen of us are sitting here, and none of us know how to make you merry; the women betray you, and grow old; the wine turns sour; your money is stolen; and when in the evening you wish to enjoy yourself in merry company, your faithful subjects meet you with death's-head faces. What wonder, then, that I, who love my King, am in despair?" Augustus smiled; then, seizing a goblet, he knocked with it on the table. Immediately two dwarfs stepped forth from behind the sideboard, and stood before the King. "Iramm," said the King, "order a big-bellied bottle of Ambrosia to be brought here! Kyan, I make you cup-bearer." Ambrosia was the name given to the Hungarian wine furnished to the King, and pressed out for him specially by Count Zichy. It was the wine of wines, thick like syrup, treacherously smooth, but strong enough to make a giant dead drunk. Iramm and his companion disappeared, and shortly afterwards a negro entered, bearing a silver tray, on which was an enormous bottle. All the guests rose at once and greeted it with low bows. "Kyan, do your duty!" cried the King. Kyan rose. The dwarfs brought another tray with glasses; but on the cup-bearer whispering something to them, they withdrew behind the sideboard, from whence they emerged a few moments later, bringing glasses of various sizes. With the dignity of an official who is fully conscious of the importance of his position, Kyan began carefully arranging the glasses. In the centre he placed a large and beautiful glass for the King, this he surrounded by smaller glasses destined for the favourites, and outside these was another row of glasses, much smaller than the last, so small indeed that they looked like thimbles. All watched him with curiosity. Then, taking the large bottle, Kyan began to pour out the wine, being careful not to shake it. First he filled all the smallest glasses. It is true that these did not hold much wine, but there were so many of them that before they were all filled, the bottle was half empty. The cup-bearer next filled the larger glasses. The wine in that large bottle grew speedily less, and by the time he came to the King's glass there was no wine left. Then Kyan poured into it the lees that remained at the bottom of the bottle, and looked at Augustus. "What a splendid cup-bearer you are," said the King, laughing. "I am the last. What does that mean?" The courtiers also laughed. "Your Majesty," said Kyan, placing the empty bottle on the table, "this is nothing new. What I have done to-day with the wine is only what your officials do every day with the income of the state. In the first place, every small employé fills his own pockets, then the superiors, of course, do not forget themselves, and after that there remains nothing for the King." The King clapped his hands, and looked round on those present. "Kyan, your health! The parable is worthy of Æsop. But order another bottle for me." The negro brought a second bottle of Ambrosia. All laughed because the King laughed, but they looked askance at Kyan, who, having taken the smallest glass, was drinking to the health of the Hercules of Saxony. Then they all fell on their knees, and, raising their glasses, shouted acclamation. The King emptied his glass, and said,-- "Let us talk of something else." Fürstenberg was the first to rise. "Your Majesty," said he, "at this hour one should only speak of that which rules over both the night and the day; and that is Woman." "Good!" exclaimed the King. "Let every one describe his favourite. Fürstenberg shall begin." The King smiled maliciously as he said this, and Fürstenberg made a grimace. "The precedence has been given to me," said the young favourite, "but this is only a proof that his Majesty sees everything. The King knows that I cannot lie, and this is why he exposes me to such a humiliation. But I entreat your Majesty to excuse me from drawing a picture of my favourite." "No, no!" exclaimed several voices. "It is not necessary to give the portrait a name, but the King's commands must be obeyed." All knew, more or less, why the young Prince was reluctant to speak. This was a critical moment of his life, for he was playing a love comedy with a widow over forty years of age, and famous for the fact that, owing to the thickness of the paint she put on her face, it was impossible for any one to see the colour of her skin. The widow was rich, and Fürstenberg was in need of money. When they became too noisy, the King commanded silence, and said,-- "You must depict this painted love of yours." To gain courage to perform the task imposed on him, the giddy young courtier emptied his glass. "My love," said he, "is the prettiest lady in the world. Who can deny it? Who can tell what is hidden beneath the mask which she puts on in order to prevent common mortals from looking at her?" A loud burst of laughter here interrupted him. Beside him sat Adolf Hoym. He was a well-made man, but his expression was disagreeable and his small eyes had a timid look. Hoym was famous for his love adventures, but for several years he had kept them so secret that it was thought they no longer had an attraction for him. It was said that he had married, but no one had seen his wife. She was hidden away at his country house. Hoym was already tipsy, that could easily be told by the strange movements of his head, and by the efforts he made to raise his arms by dropping his eyelids. It was the best fun possible for the King and his companions to catch the Secretary of the Treasury in a state when his mind could no longer control his tongue. "Hoym's turn now," said the King. "You, Hoym, can have no excuse. We all know that you are a connoisseur of female beauty, and that you cannot live without love; nothing ever goes beyond these walls. Come, now, confess!" Hoym turned his head, and played with his glass. "He! he! he!" he laughed. Baron Kyan filled up his glass. Hoym seized and emptied it with the stupid avidity of a drunken man consumed with a burning thirst. His face grew crimson. "He! he! he! You wish to know what my love looks like," he began. "But you must know that I have no need of a mistress, for I have a wife beautiful as a goddess!" All burst out laughing, but the King looked at him inquisitively. "You may laugh," continued Hoym, "but the man who has not seen her, has not seen Venus, and I think even Venus herself would look rather like a country washerwoman, if placed beside her. Can I describe her? In her eyes alone there is so much power that no mortal could resist her. Praxiteles could not have shaped a more perfect form. It is impossible to describe the charm of her smile, and yet the stern goddess does not smile every day." They nodded, but without believing what he said. Hoym would have stopped here, but the King said,-- "Describe her better, Hoym." "Who can describe perfection?" said Hoym, raising his eyes. "She possesses every good quality, and has not one single drawback." "I am quite ready to believe that she is beautiful," exclaimed Lagnasco, "for fickle Hoym has been constant to her for three years." "He exaggerates! He is drunk!" interrupted Fürstenberg. "Would you dare to say that she is more beautiful than the Princess Teschen?" Hoym shrugged his shoulders, and glanced timidly at the King, who said quietly,-- "There must be no consideration, except for the truth. Is she more beautiful than Lubomirska?" "Your Majesty," exclaimed Hoym enthusiastically, "the Princess is a beautiful woman, but my wife is a goddess. There is not another woman anywhere, at the court, in the city, in the whole of Saxony, or indeed in the whole of Europe, who is as beautiful as my wife!" The hall re-echoed with a gigantic peal of wild laughter. "Hoym is very amusing when he is drunk!" "How funny the Secretary to the Treasury is!" "What a very droll man!" The King did not laugh. Hoym, under the influence of the Ambrosia, had evidently forgotten where he was, and to whom he was talking. "Yes, laugh!" he exclaimed. "You all know me! You call me Don Juan; you acknowledge that I am a judge of female beauty. Why should I lie?" Here he looked at the King and was terrified at the expression of his features. So terrified was he that he almost became sober. He would have liked to withdraw, but, being unable, he stood there pale and trembling. In vain the others tried to make him talk further; Hoym only looked down at the floor and became thoughtful. The King nodded to Kyan, who filled Hoym's glass with Ambrosia. "We have drunk the health of our divine Hercules," cried Fürstenberg, "now let us drink to the health of our godly Apollo!" Some drank kneeling, others standing; Hoym, who had risen tottering, was obliged to lean on the table. The effects of the wine, that fear had checked for a time, returned. His head swam--he emptied his glass at one draught. Behind the King's chair stood Fürstenberg, whom that monarch caressingly called Fürstchen. To him Apollo now turned,-- "Fürstchen," said he quietly, "Hoym has not lied; he has been hiding his treasure from us for several years, we must force him to show it to us. Do what you please, no matter what the cost, but we must see her." Fürstenberg smiled; he and the others were much pleased at this. The King's present mistress, Princess Teschen, had against her all the friends of Chancellor Beichlingen, whom she had succeeded in overthrowing, and after whose downfall she had inherited the palace situated in Pirna Street, and although Fürstenberg had served her against the other ladies who had laid siege to the King's heart, yet he was ready to serve Augustus against the whole world. Lubomirska's beauty was not very great; to tell the truth, she was somewhat _passée_, and her manners of a fine lady had begun to weary the King, who liked his mistresses to be of a more daring and more lively temperament. Fürstenberg had guessed all this from the King's conversation. Rushing across to Hoym, he leant over his chair, and said aloud,-- "My dear Count, I am ashamed of you! You have lied most impudently, and in the presence of the King too. You have been practising a joke on him and on us. I admit that the wife of such a connoisseur as you are may, perhaps, not be a scarecrow, but to compare her to Venus, or even to the Princess Teschen, that is a wretched joke." Again the wine began to act on Hoym's head. "What I have said," exclaimed he angrily, "is nothing but the truth! _Tausend Donner-wetter Potz und Blitz!_" All laughed at the rough exclamation, but at such friendly reunions the King forgave all such liberties; and, while he was drinking, even common mortals were allowed to throw their arms round his neck, and kiss him, and were not afraid that their Hercules would turn and strangle them. "I bet a thousand ducats," shouted Fürstenberg, "that your wife is not more beautiful than any of the other ladies of the court." They poured more wine into Hoym's glass, who now drank from despair. "I accept!" said he, speaking through his clenched teeth. "I will be the judge," said Augustus. "And we cannot postpone sentence; Hoym must bring his wife here immediately, and introduce her at the Queen's first ball." "Write at once, Hoym! The King's courier will carry the letter to Laubegast," said Fürstenberg. "Yes, write; write!" resounded from all sides. Paper was laid before him in a moment, and Fürstenberg put a pen into his hand. The unfortunate Hoym, in whom the fear of the husband was aroused, as often as he remembered the gallantry of the King, could not tell how he ever wrote to his wife, commanding her to come to Dresden. But in the twinkling of an eye, the paper was snatched from his hand, and some one had rushed with it into the courtyard, and ordered the King's courier to ride with it at once to Laubegast. "Fürstenberg," whispered Augustus, "I can see by Hoym's face that, should he become sober to-day, he will send a counter order. We must make him dead drunk." "He is so drunk already, that I fear for his life!" returned the Prince. "I do not," replied Augustus quietly, "I hope I should be able to find some one to fill the office that would become vacant by his death." The smile with which the King accompanied this speech had such an effect on those present, that they all crowded round Hoym, pouring wine into his glass, and suggesting toasts, with the result, that within half-an-hour Hoym fell asleep on the table, his face, pale as a corpse, his head hanging, and his mouth open. For the sake of security, they did not convey him home, but placed him instead in one of the King's rooms, where he was watched over by the giant Cojanus, who received orders not to let him return home, should he unexpectedly come to his senses. Having got rid of him, they continued their carouse. The King was now in an excellent humour, and the radiance of his countenance was reflected in the faces of his courtiers. Day was already dawning when two lackeys carried Augustus the Strong to bed. He had succumbed last of all, except Fürstenberg, who, taking off his wig to cool his head, grew thoughtful, and muttered to himself,-- "So we shall have a new ruler, then. Lubomirska meddled too much with politics. She wished to subdue the king, but he does not require a mistress with brains! She has to love him, and amuse him; that is all her business. Now we shall see the Countess Hoym!" CHAPTER II. Laubegast is situated on the banks of the river Elbe, two hours' ride from Dresden. It is a small village, containing only a few better-class dwellings, and these are hidden from view among old linden trees, and tall, black pines. Count Hoym's villa was built in the French style, and ornamented as well as its modest size permitted. It was evident that its owner bestowed great care on the beauty of his house. The small courtyard was surrounded by an iron railing. Seen through the sheltering trees, the house looked like some lordly residence, but it was as quiet as a monastery. There were no signs of gaiety about it. Two old lackeys and a few servants might be seen from time to time, walking near the house, and occasionally, towards evening, a lady would come forth, on whom the population of Laubegast would gaze with admiration, but always from behind the shelter of the bushes. In truth, no one in the neighbourhood had ever before seen such a beautiful woman. She was young, and tall, and a pair of bright, dark eyes gave animation to her pale face. There was something majestic in her movement as she walked. But she was sad, like a figure taken from a sarcophagus--she never smiled. She had dwelt here for several years, visited by no one save Hoym's sister, the Countess Vitzthum. It was thus that Count Hoym guarded his wife from the intrigues of the court, and he did not even like to see his sister too frequently visiting his wife's retreat. The Countess Vitzthum, however, only shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. The Countess Hoym's only distractions were the pious books of Protestant dreamers, which she read with great avidity. Occasionally she took a walk under the surveillance of the old butler. Life here was monotonous, and quiet as the grave, but at the same time passions never entered to cause disturbances. It was only when the King and court were absent, that the Countess Hoym was permitted to visit the capital for a short time. This long seclusion had made her proud, sad, and bitter; she despised the world, and was full of strange asceticisms. She thought that her life was ended, and that she was awaiting death, although she was very beautiful, and not more than twenty years of age; but all who saw her could scarcely believe she was older than eighteen, so remarkably youthful was her appearance. The Countess Vitzthum, who in the turbulent life of the court had lost all her freshness and half her beauty, was provoked at the unfading charms of her sister-in-law. She was also irritated by her other good qualities; her noble pride of virtue; her indignation at corruption; her contempt for intrigue and lying; and last, but not least, by the majestic manner in which the Countess Hoym looked upon her lively, laughing, and fickle sister-in-law. Countess Hoym, on her side, did not like the Countess Vitzthum; she felt an instinctive repulsion towards her. For her husband she had a cold contempt, having learned through her sister-in-law that he had been unfaithful to her. By one tender look, she could bring him to her feet; she knew her power, but she had no wish to use it. He seemed to her too villainous to care for. She received him coldly, and parted from him with indifference. Hoym was furious, but he felt feeble in the presence of his wife, and all quarrels were stopped by his taking his departure. Thus the sad monotonous life at Laubegast went on. Sometimes Anna thought of returning to Holstein, and taking up her abode with her family who dwelt at Brockdorf; but she was not on good terms with them. Her father and mother were both dead, and her sister, the Countess of Brunswick, _née_ Holstein Plön, would not have cared to see her at court. She remembered only too well the behaviour of the sixteen-years old Anna, who had slapped the face of Prince Ludwig Rudolf, when, attracted by her marvellous beauty, he had tried to kiss her. Thus it was that the beautiful but unfortunate Anna had no place to which she could turn for comfort. Notwithstanding the corruption of the court, and the nearness of Dresden, in which it is difficult to hide such a beautiful being from the gaze of the people, Anna had been so carefully concealed in her retreat on the shores of the Elbe, that despite the continual movement of the lazy gang surrounding the Sovereign, no one had noticed her. Except one. That one was a young Pole, who lived at the court, which he had been forced to enter quite against his inclination. The first time Augustus the Strong visited Poland after having been elected King of that country, he wished to show his strength to the Polish nobles. With this intent, he began one evening, after dinner, to break horse-shoes and silver plates. The Poles regarded this as a bad omen for their country, and one of them, wishing to break the spell, said he knew a lad who could do the same. The King felt the sting conveyed in the remark, still he expressed a wish to see his rival. Thereupon the Bishop of Kujawy promised to produce the noble referred to, who dwelt at Cracow. His name was Zaklika, and he came of a powerful family, though at present he was very poor. Then the incident was forgotten, and the Bishop would never have mentioned it, being conscious that he had committed an indiscretion, had not the King reminded him of it, and asked to see Raymond Zaklika. The youth had just ended his studies at a Jesuit convent, and was uncertain what he should do. His wish was to enter the army, but he had no money with which to purchase a commission, and, being a noble, he could not enter otherwise. After long searching, Zaklika was found. The Bishop was obliged to purchase him a decent suit of clothes, before he could present him to the King. Then he was kept ready to be brought forward at the first favourable moment, for the King usually rose to display his strength after he had feasted, and was in a good humour. At length one day, when the King was breaking silver cups and horse-shoes, which his courtiers always kept in readiness for him, he turned to the Bishop, who was quietly looking on, and said,-- "Father, where is your Hercules?" Zaklika was summoned. The youth was straight as an oak, good-looking, and modest as a girl. Augustus smiled on seeing him. He could only converse with him in Latin, for as yet the youth knew neither French nor German. Still there was no need for many words. Two new silver goblets stood before the King; Augustus took one of them, and, pressing it between his fingers, bent it as though it had been a leaf. Smiling ironically, he pushed the other towards Zaklika, saying,-- "Now you try. If you can bend it, it is yours." Timidly the youth approached the table, and, taking the bumper, he pressed it so hard that the blood rushed to his head; but the cup was broken in pieces. The King's face was expressive of great astonishment, and still greater discontent. The lords who sat round, tried to persuade him that the cup was thin. The King then turned to the horse-shoes--they broke beneath his fingers like dry branches--but Zaklika could do the same with perfect ease. Augustus took out a new thaler and broke it. A thicker piece of Spanish money was handed Zaklika. For a while the youth remained thoughtful, then he grew eager on the matter, and eagerness lending him fresh strength he broke the coin. A cloud rested on the King's forehead, and his court grew sorry that such a trial had been permitted. To reward Zaklika, the King ordered the two cups to be given him, then, after a moment's reflection, he told the youth to remain at the court. A small post was assigned to him, but the next morning he was told quietly never to dare to show his strength in that way again, or some evil thing might befall him. Thus he remained hanging about the court; a splendid livery was provided for him; he was allowed a few hundred thalers by way of salary, and plenty of liberty, his only duty being to follow the King wherever he went. Augustus did not forget him, and gave orders that he should be provided with every comfort, but he never spoke a word to him. Having plenty of time at his command, Zaklika began to study French and German, and within two years spoke both languages fluently. Being unable to spend all his time in study, he used to wander about Dresden, visiting all the adjoining villages and forests on foot. He was also of a very inquisitive turn of mind, and climbed all over the rocky shores of the Elbe, yet he never met with any accident. During one of his rambles he visited Laubegast, and finding the shade of the linden-trees very pleasant, lay down on the ground to rest. Unfortunately for him, it was about the time when the Countess Hoym used to take her walk. On seeing her the youth was petrified with admiration--he could not breathe. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he must be dreaming; that so lovely a being existed in the flesh, he could not imagine. Poor fellow! Thus he sat until nightfall, gazing continually, yet being unable to satisfy his eyes. He thought one look at the lovely woman would have satisfied him, but the longer he looked, the more he desired to gaze on her. In short, such passion and longing arose within his breast, that every day he rushed to Laubegast like a madman; his head was completely turned. As he did not confide in any one, he could obtain no advice, nor learn that the best cure for such an illness is to avoid the danger. Soon the youth was so much in love that he grew pale and thin. The Countess's servants having noticed him, and guessed what was the matter, told their lady about him in jest. She also laughed, but afterwards she looked on him in secret. It may be that she took pity on the youth, for she ordered him to be brought before her, and having scolded him severely for tramping round about her house, she forbade him ever to show himself there again. There being no one present at their interview, the youth grew bold, and replied that he committed no sin in looking at her, that he did not come for anything else, and that even should they stone him, he must still continue to come, so great was his longing to see her. Then the Countess grew angry, and threatened to complain to her husband, but this threat likewise was without effect. For several weeks she avoided the paths on which she was accustomed to see him, and, changing the direction of her walks, wandered along the banks of the Elbe, until one day she noticed Zaklika, standing up to his neck in the river, so that he might be able to see her. In great wrath she summoned the servants, but with one plunge Raymond had disappeared. For some time after this she saw nothing of Zaklika, for he had found a new hiding-place; thus all question about him ceased; and no one noticing him at court, he acted just as he pleased. Only once was he summoned before the King. In an access of rage, Augustus the Strong had cut off a horse's head, and now that powerful monarch desired to show that Zaklika was incapable of performing this feat. An old, strong-boned horse was brought, but at the same time the youth was given to understand that if he valued the King's favour, he had better let the animal alone. But Raymond was so carried away by the desire to show his strength that he cut off the horse's head as with a razor. The King shrugged his shoulders, and drowned the memory of his defeat in wine. No one looked at Zaklika, but those who were kindly disposed towards the youth found opportunity to whisper to him that he had better go away somewhere quietly, because on the slightest excuse he would be sent to Königstein. But Raymond was not in the least alarmed at their words, and continued his excursions to Laubegast. His love had made quite a different man of him. It is needless to say that Countess Anna Hoym never said anything to any one about this young man. At Laubegast the gates were always shut at dusk, and the dogs released from their chains; the servants retired early, but the lady of the house would sit reading until late into the night. That same night, when they were all drinking at the castle, and the wind was blowing keen and cold across the open fields, the beauteous Anna, having undressed, sat reading the Bible, of which she was very fond. It was already far on into the night, when the tramping of horses' feet was heard, and the dogs began to bark so terribly that the usually fearless lady grew alarmed. Robbers did not often attack houses in those times, especially near the capital, still such things did happen occasionally. The Countess, therefore, rang the bell, and aroused all the servants. Some one was shaking the gate violently, and the barking of the dogs grew fiercer and fiercer. The armed servants went to the gate, where they found the King's messenger waiting impatiently, with a carriage drawn by six horses. The dogs were chained up, the door opened, and the messenger delivered the letter. At first Anna thought some misfortune had occurred--she grew pale--but recognizing her husband's handwriting, her calmness returned. At that moment there recurred to her mind the sad fate of the Chancellor Beichlingen, who one night fell into disgrace, and was sent to Königstein. Count Hoym had frequently told her that he did not believe in the King, and that he should never feel safe until he had crossed the borders of his own principality. When she had read her husband's letter, ordering her to come to Dresden immediately, she was greatly surprised. She could not refuse to go, for she did not wish to expose herself to the comments of the servants, and besides she was drawn thither by curiosity. She therefore ordered the necessary preparations to be made, and in less than an hour she had left quiet Laubegast behind for ever. But strange thoughts took possession of her during her journey. She was afraid of something, and this made her so sad that she nearly wept. She could form no idea of the danger which she felt was threatening her, but she was afraid nevertheless. She knew that the King had returned, after an absence of several years, and that with his return to Dresden, the court was full of intrigues and races for favour, in which every possible means, good or bad, were employed. Many of the things that happened there, though apparently light and trivial, were, in reality, tragic. At the very moment when those who were sacrificed were thrown into dark and terrible prisons, lively music was being played at the ball given in honour of those who had been victorious. Often and often Anna had gazed on the mountain of Königstein, so full of mysteries and of victims. The night was dark, but the carriage, which was preceded by two men on horseback, carrying torches, rolled swiftly on its way. She scarcely noticed when it stopped before her husband's mansion, which was situated in Pirna Street. Although the Count was expected, the servants were all asleep, and it was impossible to awake them immediately. No apartment had been prepared for the Countess, and she shuddered at the thought of being obliged to enter her husband's room. The office of the Secretary to the Treasury adjoined the large hall, which, although richly furnished, looked gloomy and sad. On finding that her husband was from home, the Countess's astonishment increased still more, but the servants explained that this was the King's night, and that the entertainment was usually continued until daybreak. Being obliged to remain and rest, the Countess chose a room situated at the opposite side of the office, and separated from all the other apartments. In this she ordered a camp-bed to be placed, and having shut herself in with a servant as companion, she tried to sleep. But the beautiful Countess sought sleep in vain; she only dozed, waking up at the slightest sound. The day was already bright, when, having fallen asleep for a few moments, she was aroused by hearing footsteps in the office. Thinking it was her husband, she rose and dressed. The morning toilet she put on only made her appear the more beautiful, while fatigue, uneasiness, and fever increased her charms. She entered the office, but instead of meeting her husband as she expected, she perceived a stranger, whose bearing, combined with the expression of his features, made a deep impression on her. The man was attired in the long, black dress of a Protestant minister. He was no longer young; he had a massive head, and deeply sunk, dark grey eyes. His mouth wore a bitter smile, in which quiet contempt for the world was curiously blended with serenity and gravity, and this gave to his face an expression so striking that it was impossible to help gazing at him attentively. The Countess looked on him in astonishment, but he, as though alarmed at the apparition of a woman, stood silent and motionless, with widely-opened eyes, in which could be clearly seen involuntary admiration for this marvellous masterpiece of God. Thus he stood, his lips trembling, and his arms raised in silent surprise. The two strangers looked at each other, examining one another attentively. The man retreated slowly. The Countess looked round for her husband. She had just made up her mind to retire, when the stranger inquired,-- "Who are you?" "It is rather I who should ask who you are, and what you are doing in my house?" "In your house?" repeated the man in surprise. "Then are you the Count's wife?" Anna bowed. The old man gazed on her with eyes full of pity, and two large tears rolled slowly down his dried and yellow cheeks. On her side Anna regarded him with extreme curiosity. This unassuming man, broken by the cares and hardships of life, seemed to be animated by some unknown sentiment; he became grave and majestic. In his presence that proud lady felt almost humble. The features of the silent old man glowed with a secret inspiration. Suddenly coming to his senses, he glanced round timidly, and then advanced a step. "Oh, you!" he exclaimed, "whom God has created for His glory, you beautiful vase of virtue, a being full of light, and like unto an angel in purity, why do you not shake from off your shoes the dust that now clings to them from their contact with this unclean Babylon? Why, oh why, do you not flee from this place of corruption? Who was so perverse as to cast such a beautiful child into this sordid world? Why are you not afraid? Are you not aware of your peril?" Anna listened to the old man, whose voice intimidated her for the first time in her life. She was indignant at such daring on the part of the minister, but she could not feel angry with him. Without giving her time to reply, he continued: "Do you know where you are? Are you aware that the ground on which you stand shakes beneath your feet? Do you realize that these walls open; that people disappear if they prove an obstruction; and that here human life is a thing of nought, when it interferes with a single drop of pleasure?" "What fearful things you are telling me," exclaimed the Countess at length, "why do you wish to terrify me?" "Because I see that you are innocent and pure, and that you know not what you may expect here. You cannot have been here long." "Only a few hours," replied the Countess. "And you did not spend your childhood here, or you could not look as you do now," continued the old man. "My childhood was spent at Holstein; I have been Count Hoym's wife for several years, but I have lived in the country." "Then I suppose you do not know much about your husband?" said the old man, shivering. "I pity you, for you are beautiful and innocent as a lily, and now a herd of savage beasts are going to trample on you. 'Twere better had you bloomed and shed forth your perfume in God's desert." He became silent and thoughtful. Anna moved a few steps nearer to him. "Who are you?" she inquired. The old man appeared not to hear her, so she repeated her question. "Who am I?" he repeated. "I am a sinner; a wretched being, the laughing-stock of all. I am the voice crying in the wilderness. I am he who predicts downfall, annihilation, and days of misery. Who am I? I am God's messenger, sent to point out to His people the path of virtue, but to whom none will hearken. I am an outcast to the rich--I am despised--but I am true and pure in the sight of the Lord." The last words were spoken quietly, then he became silent. "How strange it all is!" said the Countess. "After years of tranquillity, passed in the country, I am summoned here by my husband, and here I meet you, who are to me as a voice of warning. Surely in this there must be the finger of God!" "Yes, verily!" rejoined the old man, "and woe to those who heed not God's warning. You ask who I am. I am a poor preacher, I have spoken against powerful lords, and therefore their vengeance pursues me. My name is Schramm. Count Hoym knew me when I was a mere lad, and I have come here to ask his protection, for my life is threatened. This is the reason I am here; but who brought you hither?" "My husband," replied Anna briefly. "Ask him to let you go away," he whispered, looking timidly round as he spoke. "I have seen all the beauties of the court, and, taken all together, they cannot compare with you in beauty. Woe be to you if you remain here. They will entangle you in a net of intrigues; they will intoxicate you with songs; they will still your conscience with fairy-tales; they will accustom you to shame. Then one day, intoxicated, weary, feeble, you will fall over the precipice." Anna Hoym frowned. "Never!" she exclaimed. "I am not so feeble as you think. I am aware that I am surrounded by peril, but I have no desire for a life of luxury. No, the life of the court has no attractions for me. I despise it!" "You must not trust in your own strength; flee, flee from this hell!" As he spoke, he stretched out his arms, as though he would have liked to drive her away. But Anna stood motionless, and smiled scornfully. "But where could I go?" she inquired. "My fate is bound up with that of my husband. I cannot break the ties that unite me to him. I am a fatalist. I believe what will happen will happen--only never will they be able to conquer me. It is rather I who shall rule over them." Schramm looked frightened; Anna stood before him full of strength and pride, the smile still on her lips. At that moment the door opened, and there entered, confused and hesitating, Count Adolf Magnus Hoym. He never looked very attractive amid the elegant company of the King's favourites, but after a night spent in revelry, his appearance was still worse. There was nothing noble in his features, and his face, which was commonplace, was only remarkable for the quick, convulsive changes it underwent. His grey eyes were either hidden beneath his bushy eyebrows, or glowing with fire and animation; his lips were now smiling, now contorted; now his forehead frowned, but the next moment it was clear and unruffled. It seemed as though some secret power were continually struggling within him, and changing the expression of his features. Even at the moment when he perceived his wife, it seemed as though some hidden influence were at work within him, giving rise to the most contradictory feelings. First he smiled at her, but the next moment his anger seemed about to break forth. With a violent effort, however, he controlled himself, and entered the room. But on perceiving Schramm, his eyebrows contracted, anger was clearly visible on his face. "You madman, you fanatic, you clown!" he shouted, without waiting to speak a word to his wife. "You have been doing some fresh mischief, and again you come to me to help you out of your difficulty. But I cannot help you. You act as you please. You think that a minister may do anything; and that you can declare what you call God's message to every one. You fancy you can play the part of an apostle. But I tell you again, as I have told you a hundred times already, that I cannot help you." The minister stood motionless, gazing into the Count's eyes. "But I am God's servant," he rejoined. "I have sworn to bear witness to the truth, and if they desire to make a martyr of me, I am ready." "A martyr!" laughed Hoym, "that would be too great a favour, they will kick you out, that is all!" "Then I shall go," said Schramm, "but so long as I am in Dresden I shall speak the truth." "And you will preach to deaf people," retorted the Count sarcastically, shrugging his shoulders as he spoke. "But enough of this, do what you please, I should be glad if I could protect myself. I told you to keep quiet. In these times you must flatter or you will be trampled on, and perish. Sodom and Gomorrah indeed! Good-bye, I have no more time." Schramm bowed without a word, cast a pitying glance on Hoym's wife, and then, after gazing on the Count for a moment in silent surprise, he turned to leave the room. Hoym pitied him. "I am sorry for you; go! I will do my best to help you; but read your Bible and say nothing. This is the last time I shall advise you." Schramm went, and husband and wife were left alone. CHAPTER III. Even now Hoym did not greet his wife, evidently he was at a loss what to say, and was in consequence embarrassed and angry. Seizing his wig, he began to pull at it. "Why did you summon me so hastily?" said the Countess proudly, with reproach in her tones. "Why?" exclaimed Hoym, raising his eyes, and rushing to and fro across the room like a madman. "Why? Because I was crazy! Because those scoundrels made me drunk! Because I did not know what I was doing! Because I am an idiot and an ass!" "Then I can return?" asked Anna. "You cannot return from hell!" shouted Hoym. "And thanks to me you are now in hell!" He tore open his waistcoat as he spoke, and sank into a chair. "Yes," he continued, "I shall go mad! but I cannot make war against the King!" "What do you mean?" "The King, Fürstenberg, Vitzthum, all of them, my own sister too, for aught I know to the contrary, all have conspired against me. They have learned that you are beautiful; that I am an idiot; and the King has ordered me to show you to him." "Who told them about me?" inquired the Countess quietly. Hoym was silent, he could not say that he himself had done it; he gnashed his teeth, and sprang from the chair. Suddenly his anger changed to cool and biting irony. "Let us talk reasonably," said he, lowering his voice. "I cannot undo what is done. I asked you to come here because it was the King's wish, and you know that Jupiter launches his thunderbolts at anyone who thwarts his will. Everything and everybody must contribute to his amusement--he tramples other persons' treasures beneath his feet, and then casts them on the dung-hill!" Again he began his walk up and down the room. "I have laid a wager with the Count von Fürstenberg that you are more beautiful than all the ladies at the court. Was I not an idiot? I allow you to answer me that. The King is to be the judge, and I shall win the thousand ducats." Anna frowned, and turned from him in the greatest contempt. "You villain!" she exclaimed angrily. "First you keep me shut up like a slave, and now you bring me forward like an actress on the stage, to help you to win your wager, by the brightness of my eyes and the smiles of my lips. Could any one conceive deeper infamy?" "Do not spare me; you may say what you please," said Hoym, full of grief and remorse. "I deserve everything you can say. I possessed the most beautiful woman in the whole land; she smiled only for me. I was proud and happy. Then the devil made me drown my common sense in a few cups of wine." He wrung his hands. "I am going home," said the Countess. "I shall not remain here; I should be ashamed. Order my carriage!" She moved towards the door; Hoym smiled bitterly. "Your carriage!" he repeated. "You do not realize where you are. You are almost a prisoner, you cannot leave this house. I should not be surprised to find that guards had been placed before the door. Even should you succeed in escaping, the dragoons would pursue and bring you back. No one would dare to help you." The Countess wrung her hands in despair. Hoym looked at her with mingled feelings of jealousy, grief, meanness, and sorrow. "Listen to me," said he, touching her hand, "perhaps it is not so bad as I think. Those who wish to perish, can easily perish here. But you, if you like, need not look beautiful; you might look severe, forbidding; you might even look repulsive, and thus save yourself and me." Here he lowered his voice. "You know our King," continued he, with a strange smile; "he is a most munificent lord, he scatters broadcast the gold I am compelled to extort from his poor subjects. There is not a monarch more munificent than he, but at the same time there is not a monarch who requires such continual pleasures. He breaks horse-shoes, and he breaks women; then he casts them both away. The friend he embraces to-day, he imprisons to-morrow in Königstein. He is a good King! He smiles until the last moment on the victims he is sending to the scaffold. He has a compassionate heart, but no one must oppose him." He dropped his voice still lower, looking round the room suspiciously. "He likes new mistresses: like the dragon in the fairy tale, he lives on the maidens brought him by the frightened population; he destroys them. Who can count the number of his victims? You may perhaps have heard the names of some of them, but the number of those who are unknown is three times greater than the number of those whose names are recorded. The King is a man of strange taste; for two days he is in love with the lady dressed in silks; then tiring of her he is ready to love the woman in rags. Königsmark is still beautiful; Spiegel is by no means plain; Princess Teschen still enjoys his favours; but he is tired of them all. Again he is seeking whom he may devour! Ah! he is a great lord! He is beautiful as Apollo, strong as Hercules, lecherous as a Satyr, and terrible as Jupiter." "Why are you telling me all this?" exclaimed Anna angrily. "Do you think I am so wicked, that at the King's desire I should forsake the path of honour? It is plain you do not yet know me! You insult me!" Hoym looked on her with compassion. "I know my Anna," replied he, "but I also know the court, the King, and the people who surround him." "I have sworn to be faithful to you, and that is sufficient," she retorted proudly. "You do not possess my heart, it is true, but you have my word. Women such as I do not break their vows." "The Princess Teschen is proud!" Anna shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. "I can be a wife," exclaimed she, "but I could x never be a mistress. I could not endure that such shame should rest upon my brow." "Shame!" repeated Hoym. "It only burns for a time; the wound soon heals, although the scar remains for ever." "You are disgusting!" interrupted the Countess angrily. "You have brought me here, and now you insult me with your vile insinuations." Emotion checked her utterance; and Hoym said humbly,-- "Forgive me, I have lost my reason. I know not what I am saying. To-morrow has been appointed for the court ball. The King has commanded me to attend with you; you will be presented to him. It seems to me," added he softly, "that you can do anything you wish--you can even not look beautiful. I am willing to lose my wager." Anna turned away contemptuously. "You ask me to act a comedy to save your honour!" said she, with a sarcastic smile, "but I hate falsehood. Your honour is not at stake. Anna Countess von Brockdorf does not belong to the class of women who can be purchased for a handful of diamonds. Not a word more. I despise you all. I shall not be present at the ball!" Hoym grew pale. "You must be present," said he, in an agitated voice. "This is not a question of a childish fancy; my head and wealth are at stake. The King has issued his commands." "I do not care!" retorted Anna. "You intend to disobey the King?" inquired Hoym. "Why not? He rules over everything, I know, but he does not rule over family life. What can he do to me?" "Nothing to you," replied Hoym, uneasily. "He is only too polite to beautiful women, but he will send me to Königstein, and confiscate our estates. Misery and death threaten us!" He covered his face with his hands. "You do not know him," he whispered. "He beams and smiles like Apollo, but all the time he is terrible as the god of thunderbolts. He has never yet forgiven any one who doubted that he was all-powerful. You must be present at the ball, or I shall perish!" "Do you think, then, that the threat of your peril is so terrible to me?" She shrugged her shoulders and walked towards the window. Hoym followed her, pale as a ghost. "For God's sake listen to reason!" he exclaimed, "You cannot intend disobeying the King's commands." He had scarcely finished speaking, when there was a tap at the door, and a lackey entered. Hoym frowned. "The Countesses Reuss and Vitzthum," announced the servant. Hoym rushed towards the door, and was just about to send the lackey with a message that he could not receive any one, when he beheld the beautiful Countess Reuss, and, behind her, his own sister. He had thought that as yet no one knew of his wife's arrival, but the visit of these two ladies convinced him that the folly he had committed when drunk had already made him the laughing-stock of the town. Much confused, he ordered the servant to leave the room. Countess Reuss, fresh and pretty, although a little too plump, and with a charming smile lighting up her features, had nothing terrible in her appearance, yet, looking at her, Count Hoym grew still more confused, as though some fresh misfortune threatened him through her. Countess Vitzthum easily read her brother's feelings in his eyes, yet despite the Count's evident embarrassment, the two ladies continued smiling pleasantly. "Hoym!" said Countess Reuss, in her sweet, melodious voice, "I really ought to be angry with you. Here is your wife come to Dresden, and you never told me a word about it. I learned it from Hulchen by a pure accident." "What?" exclaimed the Count impatiently. "Even Hulchen knows of it already?" "Oh, yes! She and every one are talking of it. They say that at length you have shown some common sense, and that your wife will no longer be condemned to wither away in the desert." She approached the Countess as she spoke, looking at her inquisitively. "How are you, my dear Countess?" said she, shaking hands with her. "How delighted I am to welcome you here in your proper place. I am your first visitor, but, believe me, it is not curiosity that has prompted this visit, but an earnest desire to serve you. To-morrow you will appear at the Queen's ball, my beautiful hermit. You do not know Dresden; I entreat you command my service. Your sister-in-law and I have been uneasy about you. Poor frightened birdie." During this speech, the lady whom the Countess Reuss had called a frightened bird had stood proud and erect, looking just as though she had ruled in this mansion for years past. "I thank you!" she replied coldly. "My husband has just told me of the ball. But is my presence necessary? Can I not be taken ill from emotion that so great a favour has been shown me?" "I should not advise you to make any such pretext," replied Countess Reuss, whom Hoym was leading to the gloomy reception room. "No one would believe that you were ill, for you look exactly like Juno, full of health and strength; and no one would believe that you were frightened either, for you are perfectly fearless." Countess Vitzthum took her sister's arm, and taking advantage of the moment when her brother could not hear what she said, whispered,-- "Dear Anna! there is no reason for you to fear, or to excuse yourself; now at last your captivity is at an end. You shall see the court, the King, and all our splendour, which is unrivalled throughout the whole of Europe. I congratulate you. I am convinced that a most splendid future awaits you." "I had become so accustomed to my life of tranquillity," replied the Countess, "that I desired nothing different." "Hoym," continued Countess Vitzthum, "will be consumed with jealousy." Then she laughed. The three ladies and the confused Secretary to the Treasury were still standing in the reception room, when the lackey summoned Count Hoym from the apartment. As soon as he had gone, Countess Reuss seated herself, and addressing her beautiful hostess, said,-- "My dear, it is such a pleasure to me to be the first to welcome you at the commencement of your new life. Believe me, I can be useful to you. Hoym most unwillingly gave you this opportunity, which if rightly used, will carry you very high indeed. You are beautiful as an angel." Countess Hoym was silent for a moment, then she replied coldly,-- "You are mistaken, dear Countess, in thinking I am ambitious. The foolish years of my life are long past. Whilst living in my quiet country home, I was obliged to think much both about myself and the world, and now my only wish is to return to the country, and continue my study of the Bible." Countess Reuss laughed. "Everything will be changed now," said she. "At present let us talk about your gown for to-morrow's ball. Vitzthum, you and I must advise her what to wear; she will not do her beauty justice if left to herself. You must take care of the honour of your brother's house." "She will be the prettiest person there, no matter how she dresses," replied Countess Vitzthum. "Teschen cannot be compared to her--she is withered. There is not another woman at court that can be compared to Anna. In my opinion, the more modest the gown is, the more becoming it will be to her; let others have recourse to artifices." The conversation about silk and stuff that followed became both animated and polemical. At first Countess Hoym took no part in it, but sat listening to the two friends, who, however, were very careful not to arouse her suspicions. But little by little, she was drawn by that magnetic attraction that dress always exercises over the mind of every woman. She said a word or two, and soon their conversation, mingled with laughter, flowed on smoothly and swiftly. Countess Reuss listened attentively to every word her hostess uttered, regarding her all the time with a strange uneasiness; from time to time she questioned her, hoping to discover some hidden meaning in her replies. Countess Hoym soon forgot her irritation, and becoming animated, laughed, uttered witticisms suited to her age, and kept up an easy flow of conversation that sparkled with intelligence. Countess Reuss laughed. "Anna!" she exclaimed, "you are charming! Enchanting! Incomparable! To-morrow evening you will have the whole court at your feet. Hoym will have to see that his pistols are in readiness. Teschen will be taken ill; she will faint--she has a penchant for fainting, it is such an opportunity for displaying her charms!" Countess Vitzthum laughed. Then Countess Reuss went on to relate how the Princess Lubomirska had captivated the King's heart by fainting when he fell from his horse. They both fainted, for the King, having been severely wounded, lost consciousness. Her awakening was charming, for when she opened her eyes, Augustus was kneeling at her feet. "But alas!" added Countess Reuss, "to-day, even though she should faint, the King would no longer be pleased with her. His first rapture is over. At Leipzic fair, he amused himself with some French actresses. But worse than that, they say he fell madly in love with the Princess Anhalt-Dessau, but that he was disappointed by her coldness. He has told Fürstenberg that his heart is free, and that he is ready to offer it to some other beauty." "I hope, my dear Countess," said Anna proudly, "that you do not compare me with French actresses. The King's heart is not a very attractive present, and mine is of more value than to be satisfied with the remnants of a heart formerly the property of the Princess Teschen." Countess Reuss blushed. "Be quiet, child," said she, looking round; "who has said anything of the kind? We prattle about everything, and it will do you no harm to be prepared for any emergency. We will send you our dressmaker, and if you have not brought your diamonds, or should you require others, Mayer will lend you, secretly, anything you want." With this both ladies rose, and began to take leave of their hostess, who conducted them, in silence, to the door. Hoym was already busy in his office. After entering the Countess Reuss's carriage, both ladies remained for a time silent and thoughtful. The Countess Vitzthum was the first to speak. "What do you prophesy?" she asked. "Hoym can consider himself a widower," replied her companion, in a whisper. "She is proud, and for a long while will resist the good fortune offered her, but there is nothing that makes the King more enthusiastic than resistance. She is beautiful, daring, witty, and quaint; and all these are qualities that not only attract, they also bind. We must manage to be on the best of terms with her now; later, when she has taken hold of the reins, it will be too late. I will help you, and you must help me. Through her we shall hold the King, the secretaries, everybody, and everything. Teschen is lost, and I am glad of it, for I could never get anything from that tedious, sentimental Princess. Besides she has got quite enough; her son is recognized, she has obtained a title; she is enormously rich; she has ruled us too long already. The King is tired of her, and now, more than ever, he requires consolation and distraction. Fürstenberg, you and I must overthrow that stranger. Only we must be wary, for Anna will not allow herself to be taken by storm--she is too proud." "Poor Hoym!" laughed Countess Vitzthum. "But if only he had some sense--" "He would profit by her," interposed Countess Reuss. "He did not love her any longer, the old libertine, and he himself prepared the drama of which he will be the victim." "I distrust Fürstenberg." Countess Reuss looked at her inquisitively, and a spark of irony glittered in her eyes; she shrugged her shoulders. "There are some people who are predestined!" said she sneeringly. Suddenly she began to laugh. "Do you know," she continued, "she should wear an orange dress, and coral ornaments. She has black hair, and the fresh complexion of a child. Such a costume would be most becoming to her. Did you notice what fire she has in her eyes?" "And how proud she unfortunately is!" said Countess Vitzthum. "Let her once see the King," rejoined Countess Reuss; "let Augustus once wish to please her, and I warrant she will soon lose her pride." CHAPTER IV. In Pirna Street, which in times of yore was the most elegant street in the small walled city of Dresden, stood Beichling House, once the residence of the unfortunate Chancellor, who was now a prisoner at Königstein. Princess Lubomirska, _née_ Bohun, divorced from her husband, the master of the pantry at Lithuania, and beloved by Augustus II., who, after the birth of her son, the famous Chevalier de Saxe,[1] had created her Princess Teschen, had received Beichling House as a reward for the overthrow of the Chancellor, in which she had greatly assisted. And it was in this palace that she always resided, when not living on her estates at Hoyerswerd. But now a change had come. Those first years of passionate love and knightly gallantry, when the beautiful King could not live for a single day without his dear Ursula, and when the charming Princess, then but twenty years of age, galloped forth impatiently to meet her royal lover, were gone; those happy times passed in Warsaw, in travelling through Germany, in splendid balls at Dresden and Leipzic, seemed to have departed for ever. [Illustration: The Princess Teschen] Ever since that ball at Leipzic, when, to punish the gallantry of Augustus II., who was paying court to the Princess Anhalt-Dessau, the merciless Queen of Prussia, Sophia Caroline, had assembled that monarch's three ex-mistresses, Aurora Königsmark, the Countess Esterle, and Frau Haugwitz, in order to confuse him and Princess Teschen--ever since that ball, although it had ended in the most tender assurances of constancy on the part of the King, Princess Teschen had felt uneasy. She was always thinking that she too might be abandoned by the inconstant Augustin.[2] It was true that, despite his secret love affairs, the King always showed great respect and affection for Princess Teschen. She had considerable influence over him, and was very skilful in leading him with golden reins, held by a slender white hand, but still she felt that the King might abandon her at any moment. Her mirror told her that she still preserved that beauty and freshness of which she took such care; but that beauty and freshness no longer possessed the charm of novelty for the King, and he easily grew weary, and always required something new and fresh to distract him. He enjoyed the conversation of the beautiful Princess; he liked her cleverness in court intrigues, her policy covered by a veil of womanly frivolity, her perfumed perversity, and the skilful manner in which she used the entangled intrigues of others for her own benefit. Augustus used still to visit her for a couple of hours, or more, but had the Queen asked her to-day, as she had on a former occasion, when she intended to leave Dresden, she could not, as she had done then, reply boldly, that as she had come with the King, so would she leave with him. Thus her beautiful blue eyes were veiled by a cloud of sadness, but the softness in those eyes, so full of melancholy, was misleading, for the Princess possessed an iron perseverance when endeavouring to attain a desired object. From day to day her uneasiness increased, she feared every moment to receive an order to leave Dresden, and such an order would separate her from the King for ever. Outwardly all was still unchanged, she was still respected at court, but she read her approaching downfall in the eyes of the courtiers, and from time to time she noticed ironical smiles, and malicious glances cast in her direction. The Princess loved Augustus, she loved him passionately, and she had even thought that the volatile King would settle down, and that she would one day become Queen, but these illusions had vanished. She felt now that she was bound to meet the same fate as her lord's former favourites. Disenchanted and disappointed, she occasionally recovered her former gaiety and coquettishness when she desired to please the King, but when in her palace she wept secretly, and promised herself revenge. Letters were now despatched to Radziejowski, Primate of Poland, more frequently than ever. The King, however, was aware of the peril of incurring the Princess's wrath, as she was niece to the first dignitary of the Republic, and he made every effort to persuade her of his continued attachment. But in the meantime she was surrounded by spies, for the King feared her vengeance, even before he had deserved it. The love of Augustus II. had changed to pure gallantry, its chill could be felt. Princess Teschen still occupied the first place at court, after the Queen; but in the King's heart she was placed on the same level as Her Majesty. The King was indifferent to her. Her dreams of eternal love had passed like spring clouds--nothing now remained to her but offended pride. When Princess Lubomirska left her family, visions of the crown had floated before her eyes--but these visions had disappeared, and there remained only the shame of unrealized calculation; the disgraceful situation of a woman without husband or home; a woman paid for momentary transports of love with titles, estates, and gold. The hour of her triumph had been short and fleeting, but the shame would endure for ever. The Princess Lubomirska could not thus return to Poland. Poor woman, she was afraid of being abandoned, and hurled headlong from that height on which she now stood hesitating, and wondering what course she should pursue. She was very weary, and she was right in calling herself unhappy, even before she was so in reality. The palace in Pirna Street was, as usual, full of courtiers, beautiful ladies, and gallant cavaliers. The King especially favoured the latter, for he hoped that one among them might take off his hands that heart which now oppressed him by its too lachrymose affection. The Princess's tears made Augustus the Strong very impatient, he never wept himself, and greatly disliked to see her weep. Moreover, it annoyed him that where he came seeking for distraction, he met with nothing but endless reproaches. The Princess also employed her spies. She knew the King's every movement, and every word he uttered was reported to her. She spied on him jealously. She knew all the details of that orgie at which Hoym had first been made drunk, and then compelled to send to Laubegast for his beautiful wife. And now, uneasy and feverish, she was wondering whether she should accept the challenge, and go to the Queen's ball, or whether she should contemptuously ignore the gauntlet that had been thrown to her. Towards eleven o'clock in the morning she was informed that the Countess Hoym had arrived. No one had seen her as yet; none knew her; none could describe her. All agreed, however, that she was beautiful, that she was born in 1680, and that she was therefore the same age as Princess Lubomirska; but none could predict the amount of danger to be expected from her beauty. All kinds of stories were repeated. Pitiless Kyan was reported to have said, "It is no matter whether she is beautiful; it will be sufficient if she is unlike the Princess." And Princess Teschen was only too well aware that the Countess's beauty would not be the principal consideration with the King; it would be the pleasure of a new sensation. She had fewer visitors than usual this morning, for all were busy rushing hither and thither through the city, carrying and gathering the news. Some said that the King, according to his usual custom when he cared about the splendour of a ball, was carefully preparing the programme himself, and that he was already very impatient for the result of the wager between Fürstenberg and Hoym. Others said that Fraulein Hulchen and Countess Reuss were intriguing together, their object being to entangle Countess Hoym in their nets, and thus assure themselves of her favour. Countess Vitzthum assured every one that her sister-in-law's beauty would eclipse that of all the court beauties. The Princess sent out for tidings, received the reports of those who still remained faithful to her, wept, and gave herself up to despair. Thrice had she succeeded in retaining her hold over the King when he had wished to break with her, but now it seemed as though her last hour had really come. She wrung her hands--suddenly a strange thought took possession of her mind--she glanced at the clock. Hoym's house was not far distant. She whispered something to her attendant, then, muffling her face in a thick veil, she quietly descended the stairs, and entered the vestibule. A litter was in readiness, she entered it, then, instead of carrying her through the street, the two bearers, to whom the servant had given whispered instructions, went along in the rear of the gardens. A door in Hoym's garden was opened by some one, the Princess alighted from her litter, and, after a hasty glance around her, hurried up the stairs, and entered the Count's house. A young man in the antechamber opened the door to her, Lubomirska hastened down a dark corridor, and rapped at a door that had been pointed out to her. She had to wait some time before it was opened, and even then it seemed as though the servant who opened only wished to see who was outside, for she would not have allowed the Princess to enter, had not that lady placed a few ducats in her hand. Then Princess Teschen pushed open the door, and entered. Anna Hoym was walking across the room, at the moment the veiled lady appeared on the threshold. Surprised at the sight of an unexpected visitor, she drew back with an angry frown. Pulling off her veil, Lubomirska gazed inquisitively at the Countess; then her lips trembled, she grew deadly pale, staggered and fainted. Anna and the servant hastened to her assistance, and between them they raised the unconscious lady. Her swoon, however, did not last long. Suddenly she sprang up like a madwoman, and gazed on her rival with dilated eyes; then she silently made a sign that she desired the servant to leave the room. The two ladies were accordingly left alone. This strange occurrence filled Countess Hoym with uneasiness. After long years spent in the quiet of the country, the new and feverish life that had now begun for her startled and surprised her. Lubomirska extended her white, cold, trembling hand towards the Countess. "Forgive me," she said, in feeble tones, "I wanted to see and warn you. The voice of duty compelled me to come hither." Anna remained silent, gazing curiously at her extraordinary visitor. "Yes, look at me!" continued the Princess. "You are beginning the life which for me is ended. Once I was as you are, innocent, happy, quiet, and respected, living at peace with my conscience and my God. I had my husband's princely title, and, better than all, I had an unsullied name. Then there came a crowned monarch, and he took all this from me with his smile. His sceptre and crown he laid at my feet; he gave me his heart. I followed him. Look at me. To-day I have nothing. The name I have is borrowed, my heart is broken, my happiness is gone for ever; instead, the mark of shame is on my forehead; my soul is full of bitterness, the future is dark and threatening, and I am tormented with cares for my child. I have no one in this world to whom I can turn. My relations would disown me; those who yesterday crawled at my feet, will forget me to-morrow. He! He! will push me aside like a stranger." Anna blushed. "Madam!" she exclaimed. "Why do you foresee a danger for me that I cannot see myself? I do not understand your words. Who are you?" "Yesterday, I was almost a Queen, but I know not what I am to-day," replied the Princess. "But I do not wish for any crown," said Anna, "there is not one that does not burn the forehead. Why do you apply these threats to me?" "Warnings, not threats," interrupted Lubomirska. "Forgive me, a crown is approaching your brow, the people have given it you in advance. I desire to show you its thorns." "You are mistaken," replied the Countess calmly. "I shall not stretch forth my hands for any crown. I am too proud. Be calm." Teschen sank on the sofa, her head drooped, and she began to weep. Her heart-breaking sobs aroused Countess Hoym's pity, and she approached her sympathetically. "Everything that has happened to me to-day is so mysterious," said she. "Who are you?" "Teschen," murmured the Princess softly, raising her eyes as she spoke. "You have heard of me, and you can guess why they have brought you here. A fresh face is necessary for their weary lord." Anna uttered an indignant cry. "Villains!" exclaimed she. "Then they would traffic with us, as though we were slaves--and we--" "We are their victims." "No! I will never be their victim," interrupted the Countess; "I am so proud that I would endure any misery, rather than surfer such humiliation." Teschen looked at her, and sighed. "If it is not you, it will be another," she replied. "My hour has come. But if you are strong enough, I beseech you, avenge us all. Spurn him. Show him the contempt you feel for him. His actions cry to God for vengeance." She replaced her veil, shook hands silently, then with the hasty exclamation, "You are warned, defend yourself!" she hurried from the room, leaving the Countess speechless. Before she had recovered herself, the Princess had disappeared. The same man who admitted her was waiting on the stairs. She re-entered her litter, and, whilst drawing the curtains, noticed a young officer with a pale face looking anxiously into her eyes. The young man's features were noble, aristocratic, and expressive of courage and energy, but at that moment they were distorted by grief and indignation. He seemed unable to believe his eyes. He approached the litter. "Princess Ursula!" said he, in a voice broken by emotion, "can I believe my eyes? I beseech you, tell me the whole truth, then I will mount my steed, ride away, and never return. Princess! I am mad with love, while you--" "It is quite true that you are mad," said the Princess brusquely, "and you are blind as well, or you would see that I am coming from Hoym's house, and with him I could not possibly be in love." She grasped his hand. "Come with me, I will not release you until I have explained everything. I do not wish you to accuse me unjustly--that would be too much! I could not survive that!" The Princess, her beautiful eyes full of tears, looked so eloquently at the young man, as she uttered these words, that all traces of sorrow disappeared from his face. Obedient to her commands, he followed the litter; when it stopped, he helped her to alight, and together they entered the palace. Tired and broken in spirit, the Princess sank on the sofa, and motioned to the young man to seat himself by her side. "Prince, you behold me angry and indignant. I have just returned from visiting her whom my horrible enemies have brought here, that the King may have the distraction of a new face; whom they have brought here to drive me away, and to overthrow my influence with the King. Have you heard about Countess Hoym?" "No," replied the young man, who was Prince Ludwig von Würtemberg. "I have only heard them laughing at poor Hoym, whom they made drunk, so that they might compel him to show his wife." "Yes," exclaimed the Princess with animation, "they well knew how to arouse Augustus's curiosity. But I have seen her; she is beautiful, and she is dangerous." "So much the better!" cried the Prince, springing from his seat. "Then you will be free!" Teschen blushed, and looked inquiringly at the young man--there was a moment's silence, then she stretched out her hands towards him. He seized them, kissed them with fervour, and was still holding them, when a little woman, who bore some likeness to the Princess, rushed into the room, laughing maliciously. It was difficult to guess how old she was, for she had one of those faces which, never being fresh, do not grow old for a long time. Her sharp, grey, malicious eyes were full of animation, her lips wore an ironical smile, whilst her features bespoke her a feverish gossip and an unbearable intriguante. She was dressed with the greatest care; had a dainty figure, and small feet. She clapped her hands in delight when Prince von Würtemberg withdrew his lips from the Princess's hand. "Bravo! Bravissimo!" she screeched. "I see that my sister has secured military protection for her retreat; for it seems to me that the moment has arrived when we shall have to retreat from the King's heart and court." The speaker was the Princess's own sister, and married to the Baron von Glassenapp. "My dear sister, I have not seen you for a long time," prattled on the little lady, "but at the moment of peril, I always appear. Teschen, do you know that Hoym's wife has arrived? I saw her when she was at Dresden during the King's absence, and I then foretold that, like the beautiful Helen of Troy, she would bring misfortune to some one. She is beautiful as an angel, and dark, which for a blonde like Teschen, is always dangerous. She is animated, witty, malicious, and proud as a Queen. Your power is ended." She laughed. "Well, you still have a chance of princely titles," she continued, not allowing any one an opportunity to put in a word. "I was only able to catch a poor Pomeranian Baron--but you got Lubomirska, you have Teschen, and for provision you are trying to get Von Würtemberg." The Prince stood blushing and angry. Teschen lowered her eyes, and murmured through her set teeth,-- "I could have a fourth, if I wished." "I will tell you his name, if you like," interrupted the Baroness, and, running up to her sister, she put her mouth to her ear, saying,-- "The Prince Alexander Sobieski, is it not? But he will not marry, while Ludwig will. Try and hold him." The Princess turned from her sister in disgust, and the Baroness looked in the mirrors, flitted about the room, all the while keeping an eye on the couple, at whom she laughed dreadfully. "If you are clever, Teschen, you may still come out of this crisis triumphant. Hoym's wife is a simpleton; she will disgust the King; she will attract him at first by her beauty, but she will repulse him with her pride; after her, Teschen will appear dear and sweet. Well, one must forgive the King's fancy. Such men have great sorrows, and great privileges. Only I am sorry," she continued, "that every one is tearing you to pieces already. The Countesses Reuss and Hulchen are offering sacrifices to the new goddess, while Fürstenberg and even brother-in-law Vitzthum are ready to supplant Hoym. Poor Hoym, when his wife leaves him, I would marry him, if it were not for my duties. But the old libertine never cared for me." Here Prince Ludwig rose to take his leave, and the way in which Princess Ursula shook hands with him did not escape the notice of the Baroness, who bowed to him distantly. There was silence for a few moments after the sisters were left alone. "You must not take it so tragically," began the Baroness, "any one could have foreseen that this would happen sooner or later. The King is tired of a blonde, you have a principality, you have estates in Hoyerswerd; you have millions, diamonds, a palace; you are still young, still beautiful; and there is Prince Ludwig, who is ready to marry you. I tell you frankly, I would gladly exchange my lot for yours, and I would give you Schulemberg in addition." "But I loved him," interrupted the Princess, weeping bitterly. "But that is all over," rejoined the Baroness, "I know that you were both in love with each other, for a whole year at the least, during which time the King betrayed you secretly, at least, ten times, and you repaid him in the same coin." "Sister!" exclaimed the Princess indignantly. "Well, then, you did not. But during that time you were able to obtain for yourself the love of the Prince von Würtemberg. I am called malicious and wicked, but I should not have been able to do it. I only found Schulemberg after I had been bitten by Glassenapp." She laughed a little, and then continued,-- "Listen, Kings have a custom, when taking leave of their favourites, to ask for the return of the diamonds they have given. I warn you, therefore, to put yours in a safe place." She looked at her sister, who apparently did not hear what she was saying. "Are you going to the ball?" she inquired. "The ball?" repeated the Princess, thoughtfully. "Yes; I must go to the ball. I shall go dressed in mourning, and without any jewels; but tell me, will a black robe be becoming to me?" The Baroness laughed. "Undoubtedly!" she replied. "Mourning is becoming to every one. But if you think that by doing this you will soften the hearts of Augustus and his courtiers, you are mistaken; they will all laugh at you; they do not like tragedies." "What will be, will be!" replied the Princess. "I shall go in mourning. I will appear before him like a silent ghost." "And as Countess Hoym will be merry and fresh, you will also disappear like a ghost. Believe me, the past can never be recalled." She looked at the clock. "It is late already! I shall see you again at the ball--I shall be there, but I shall be in the background, like a spectator who applauds the actors. Good-bye!" CHAPTER V. Most of the guests had arrived. The magnificence of the dresses with which the ball-room was crowded, hid from view the calamities caused by the war that had lately visited Saxony. The King's dress was covered with diamonds, large diamonds formed the buttons of his tunic, whilst a profusion of the same precious stones glittered on the hilt of his sword and the buckles of his shoes. His majestic figure looked quite youthful, and the expression of his features was more suited to a victor than to one who had been obliged to fight for his throne against a most determined adversary. The dresses of the ladies also glittered with precious stones, although many of the court beauties had no need of these adornments. The Queen alone was modestly dressed; Augustus gallantly hastened forward to meet her; the musicians played a fanfare. The principal actresses, however, had not yet arrived. The King had already begun to frown in true Olympic fashion, and was looking at Fürstenberg in a way that that nobleman understood perfectly, when, despite the respect due to the presence of the sovereign, murmurs arose at the entrance to the ball-room. The eyes of all the guests were eagerly turned towards the doorway. "They come!" whispered Fürstenberg. He was right; and the next moment, Hoym, his face pale and sad, entered the room, accompanied by his wife. Perhaps never before had there been seen beauty so dazzling, even at that court so famed for beautiful women. Countess Hoym walked amongst the ladies with the dignity of a queen; she was fearless, calm, dignified, and so lovely, that there was a general murmur of admiration. The King looked at her intently, but failed to catch her eyes. As she was to be presented to the Queen, she allowed herself to be conducted to Her Majesty, but she did not appear to be dazzled by the splendour of the court, or by the Apollo-like beauty of the King, who, it was evident, had placed himself so as to appear before her to the best advantage. A quiver of impatience passed over his features. Hoym led his wife forward, looking like a man condemned to death. His enemies were delighted at the sight of his agony, which he made no attempt to conceal. The Queen looked kindly on the Countess, and smiled on her graciously, but she was full of pity for the fate that awaited that beautiful woman. She even sighed slightly. As soon as the formalities of the presentation were concluded, the musicians played a polonaise, and the King opened the ball with the Queen. Princess Teschen had not yet arrived. All the other ladies were present, however, even Fraulein Hulchen, who, although ill, had overcome her sufferings in order to satisfy her curiosity. The first dance was just ended, when the sounds of renewed murmuring announced that something unusual had occurred. All the guests, and even the King, looked in the direction whence the sound proceeded--there on the threshold, as though hesitating whether or no she should enter, stood Princess Teschen. She was clad in deep mourning. On seeing who it was, Augustus went forward to meet her, looking very much annoyed. "Whom have you lost," he inquired ironically, "that you appear here in a dress so little suited to a ball?" "I have lost your Majesty," murmured Teschen softly. The inquisitive eyes that had been regarding the Princess were now turned towards Countess Hoym, and even the ladies acknowledged that the latter was by far the more beautiful. Augustus was intoxicated at the sight of her beauty, and the moment Countess Vitzthum had separated her from her husband, he approached Hoym, and clapping him on the shoulder, said confidentially,-- "My dear Count, you have won that thousand ducats off Fürstenberg. I congratulate you on your good fortune, and also on your wife's beauty. There is no doubt that she is the most beautiful lady at our court. Oh, Hoym, what a happy man you must be!" But seeing Hoym, as he stood with drooping head, listening to the King's congratulations, no one would have supposed him to be happy. On the contrary, he looked like one humiliated and crushed; like a man repenting his evil deeds; like one who, did he but dare, would groan aloud in his anguish. Fürstenberg bowed, looking ironically at the King. "I see, your Majesty," said he in a whisper, "that I must pay the costs of the King's decision, and that I must also pay the piper." Augustus turned towards him, and, extending his hand to be kissed, said,-- "Do not complain, Fürstenberg; pay the thousand ducats, and take ten thousand from my treasury as a reward for the opportunity you have given me of beholding such a masterpiece of beauty." Meanwhile, Princess Teschen sat alone--every one had deserted her. Having observed this, Augustus, following his usual custom of sweetening, as far as possible, his subjects' downfall, went over to her. Those unacquainted with the King's mode of procedure were much surprised at seeing him walk in that direction. But Countess Reuss and Fraulein Hulchen, who observed his movements, were well aware of its meaning. "Teschen is overthrown!" said the Countess, addressing her friend. "The King has gone over to her!" The old courtiers also, who had seen the King embracing Chancellor Beichling the day before he was sent to Königstein, knew how to interpret His Majesty's tenderness towards the Princess Teschen. "Do you know," said the King, seating himself by her side, "that looking at you in that black dress, you are so beautiful that you remind me of that tournament at Warsaw, when you fainted through anxiety for my safety?" "But Countess Hoym is more beautiful than I am, than the tournament, or the remembrance of my fainting," replied the Princess sarcastically. "Countess Hoym may be beautiful, even most beautiful," said Augustus, "but there are things more beautiful than beauty itself--and one is a tender and loving heart. Dear Princess, do not make such a spectacle of yourself; return home, put on your blue dress, that is so becoming to you, and wait for me for supper." A deep blush overspread the pale face of the Princess Ursula. "My King! my Lord!" she exclaimed, forgetful of all that had gone before. "Is this true? Is it possible that Augustus is still mine?" "Pray do not doubt me," replied the King gravely. "Why should I lie?" It was true. At that moment the King did not lie; Countess Hoym's beauty had made a great impression on him, but at the same time it had filled him with a sort of fear. The energy of her character betrayed itself in her every movement and glance, and he felt that he should be obliged to lay half of his power at her feet. Anna's face said, "I must rule;" the face of Ursula said, "I love you, and I am dying for your love!" Countess Hoym even appeared to him too sad and serious. That, therefore, was the reason he went over to console the Princess; he had no wish to lose her, and place his neck beneath the yoke of a woman who seemed not in the least anxious to conquer him. Countess Hoym was very tastefully dressed; she wore no jewels, but her coiffure and the colour and cut of her dress lent an added charm to her beauty. The portraits of her taken at that time, represent her as having a face of an exquisite oval, a small nose, lovely lips, and very expressive, large black eyes, whilst her features were very delicate, and her long black hair very abundant. Her hands, bust, and waist were of a corresponding beauty; and her fair face blushed and paled with every succeeding emotion. Although exposed to the gaze of several hundred persons, Anna Hoym was not in the least confused; at first she was silent and dignified, but she speedily became accustomed to the dazzling splendour, which appeared to her to be an ordinary thing here, for although the court in which she had passed her young days was not so splendid as that of Dresden, the forms, she found, were the same. Princess Teschen at once prepared to obey the King's command, and having cast on him one languishing glance, she left the ball-room almost triumphant. A few moments later Augustus stood beside Countess Hoym's chair. He gazed at her in silence, and, having noticed his approach, Anna rose. The King requested her to be seated, and she obeyed, but without any exaggerated respect. At that time it was the custom that when the King desired to talk with any one, those standing near immediately retreated. This custom was observed in the present instance. "Countess, you are the most beautiful lady at my court," said the King gallantly, bending towards her as he spoke. "I am delighted with the new and splendid star that has now risen on my horizon." Anna raised her head proudly. "Your Majesty!" replied she, "at night, any small light looks like a star, but with the daylight it expires. I know how to appreciate your Majesty's favour, and it is to this favour that I attribute these flattering words." "I only repeat what I hear," said Augustus. "People who see me for the first time," rejoined Anna, laughing, "usually see badly. A new object amuses; that alone is truly beautiful which, after many years, still appears beautiful." The King was silent, for he understood that the beautiful lady beside him was referring to his gallantry towards Princess Teschen. But after a few moments, he said,-- "You are too modest." "Oh, no!" replied Anna with animation. "I do not attach any value to beauty." "But beauty of face indicates beauty of soul," rejoined the King. Anna lowered her eyes. The King did not leave her. "After the long solitude imposed on you by your husband," continued Augustus, "the court must appear very strange to you." "Not at all," replied Anna. "I spent my youth at a court which, although more modest than your Majesty's, gave me just the same idea as to what all courts are." "And what are they?" inquired the King. "A well-played comedy," answered the Countess. "And what _rôle_ do I play in it?" "Perhaps that of a manager, who is deceived and robbed by every one." Augustus, slightly surprised, inquired,-- "Do you find everything here deceitful?" "How could it be otherwise?" asked Anna. "Kings never hear the truth." "It may be so," said Augustus, "and that is the reason they so frequently search for lips from which they may hear it." "But perhaps," rejoined Anna, "they only find lips that know how to administer poison more skilfully than the others." "Your speech," said the King politely, "proves to me that you do not like splendid courts. I greatly regret this, for I thought that the light from your eyes would brighten our gloomy skies." "Your Majesty," replied Anna with animation, "I should sound here with a false note. I know not how to sing like the others." To turn the current of their conversation, Augustus now began to make humorous remarks about the ladies and gentlemen surrounding them. And from this Anna discovered that he knew far more about the characters, inclinations, and even of the secrets in the lives of his courtiers, than she would have expected. "You see," added Augustus, "that this comedy holds no secrets for me; and what renders it very amusing is that these people imagine that they deceive and blind me." "Thus the gods look on the earth," concluded the Countess. The King was much pleased at being called a god. As she spoke those words, her eyes, for the first time, met those of the King, which were fixed on her full of enthusiasm and admiration. In Anna's eyes there was only an expression of cold curiosity, not unmixed with fear. After this, the King left her slowly. His courtiers all tried to divine his thoughts. Fürstenberg was the first to encounter him. "Your Majesty," said he, "may I dare to ask if the most beautiful is also--" "The most witty," said the King, finishing his sentence for him. "We must tell Hoym that he must not on any account venture to take her from Dresden. She is very interesting indeed--a little bit cold, but that will pass with time." Hoym, who had been watching from a distance, was unable to guess his wife's thoughts; but the moment Anna was left alone Countess Reuss, Fraulein Hulchen, and Countess Vitzthum hastened forward and surrounded her. The King noticed it, and shrugged his shoulders. "They already bow before the rising sun," whispered he to Fürstenberg. "But I very much fear that they will be disappointed." Fürstenberg looked surprised. "You also are mistaken," said Augustus, bending down and speaking in his ear. "Hoym's wife is beautiful, I have examined her carefully: she is an animated Greek statue, but she is too energetic, too intelligent; and besides, she would wish to rule. A few days' pleasure with her is all that I desire. Her beauty attracts me, but her character repels me." Fürstenberg now looked very much astonished, and the King went away. During all this time, no one had noticed the pale face of a young man, whose head towered above all the others in the crowd around the door. His glance rested continually on Anna, and when the King approached her, his eyes gleamed with anger. At first Countess Hoym did not observe him, but when the King had left her, and she had more leisure to look around her, she perceived and recognized Zaklika. As her eyes rested on his pale face, she grew a trifle confused. Then, uncertain whether she was mistaken or not, she looked again, and this time she met his eyes gazing towards her. Now there was no longer room for doubt: her silent admirer from Laubegast stood before her. In the expression of his face, she seemed to read pity, sorrow, and uneasiness. His looks made her uneasy, and every moment she glanced in his direction, hoping he might have disappeared. But no, he was still there, and with the same expression on his features. Why should that poor, unknown vagabond of a man interest her more than the shining majesty of the King, or than the courtiers, who were all bent on petting her? That was a question she was quite unable to answer. She only felt that a mysterious chain of some strange destiny united her to that stranger. Was he an executioner awaiting the hour of her torture, or was he a victim awaiting the execution? Anna knew not, but a mysterious, tormenting voice seemed to whisper to her, prophesying the unfolding of some future destiny between herself and that stranger. Every time she met his glance, she shivered. She laughed at her foolish fancies, and the echo in her soul replied with plaintive moaning. It was in such a mood that Hoym found her, and he looked very yellow and sour as he offered her his arm to escort her home. Fate decreed that they went towards the door near which the stranger youth was standing. The crowd stepped aside to let them pass. As she crossed the threshold, the Countess glanced fearfully around, and perceived the stranger from Laubegast leaning against the wall. Having met her glance, the youth knelt on one knee, and she felt him seize the hem of her dress and press it to his lips. When, however, she turned, he had disappeared. There before her stood the Countess Reuss, who invited them to supper so cordially that the Secretary could not refuse. Fürstenberg was behind her. They proceeded immediately to the house of Countess Reuss, where, in company with a select circle, they spent about an hour. The famous Egeria Hulchen was the leader there. She was an old maid, but the King gave heed to her words, and frequently asked her advice. Around her gathered all those who wished to rule, or to keep up their influence. The King laughed at this clique, but, by its unseen springs, it ruled both him and the court. Countess Reuss was one of the principal acting figures at the court of Augustus II. In her house were held the most important councils. Here plans were laid for the overthrow or rise of one or other of the lord's favourites; here also was predicted the favours that awaited the various ladies; and here, too, they foretold with great exactness the moment when the King's variable affection would require to change the object of its devotion. Hoym was aware that Countess Reuss, foreseeing a new favourite, was trying to win her to her side; he was shocked by her obsequiousness, which allowed all to guess that she foresaw in Anna a substitute for Princess Teschen, but he could not be angry, or rather, he could not show that he was angry. Through Fraulein Hulchen and her relations, Countess Reuss had a very great influence at court, and it would be dangerous to make an enemy of her. Consequently he appeared not to notice anything amiss, and accepted the invitation. The party assembled in the drawing-room was very animated, while in the boudoir adjoining, where persons were moving in and out, the hostess, her friend, Fürstenberg, and other members of the clique were talking business. The largest circle of guests talked of silk and stuff, and gossiped of matters familiar to every one. According to the prevailing opinion, the King's tenderness towards Teschen was a sure sign of her downfall. But Augustus II. was obliged to spare her, for many reasons. Her relation to Sobieskis, and Radziejowskis, and her influence in Poland, obliged the King to reckon with her. In the boudoir, Countess Reuss was asking Fürstenberg what the King had told him concerning Countess Hoym. "I know the King," replied the Prince, "especially as regards his disposition towards women. Countess Hoym was sharp and proud--that repelled him for a time, but her beauty appeals to his senses, and his senses always subdue him. He is afraid of her, and therefore he will desire her all the more--and you know that he must always have that for which he longs. It appears that Countess Hoym is not inclined to play the part of an easy favourite, and the King will exhaust all his strength before he conquers her, but there is no doubt that he pleases her." "Then you think that her time will come?" "Yes. Speaking from my knowledge of him, the King would like to gratify his fancy, but he has no desire for more solid relations; it depends entirely on her, and how she conducts this affair." "Do you know anything about her, Chancellor?" "I can only guess," replied Fürstenberg. "I believe that neither her husband, nor any one else, perhaps not even she herself, knows how she will act when she is extolled. To-day she is a proud and noble woman; she has a strong character, she is witty, she is clever." "But she would let herself be guided?" inquired Countess Reuss. The Prince became thoughtful. "I only know this," he replied at length, "I prefer to deal with intelligent persons, rather than with those who do not know what they are doing." Silence followed this remark, and presently the Countess signed to him to leave her alone. When he had departed, she walked up and down her boudoir several times, then she entered the drawing-room. Here she man[oe]uvred so cleverly, that she was able to approach Anna, take her away from the circle of guests, and lead her into the boudoir, where, after making her take a seat by her side, she spoke as follows:-- "Dear Countess, if you have any patience and indulgence for an old friend, permit me to speak with you frankly. No one can hear us in this room. I wish to advise and help you. You know sufficient of the court, the times in which we live, and of yourself, to be certain that you have not been brought to Dresden in vain. The King is weary of Teschen, and he must be in love with some one, it is his nature, and we must be indulgent to such a great and good lord, in whom the whole world will forgive such weakness. For us who surround the King, it only remains to derive as much good from this as we can. You can occupy the most brilliant position by the King's side, only you must be quick, and you must also be well aware of what you are going to do." "Dear Countess," replied Anna, "I have no ambition, I do not care for riches. I have a husband, and I desire to remain an honest woman." "I would not raise any objection to your doing so," rejoined Countess Reuss, smiling, "but permit me to say that I can see no reason why you should become a martyr. Hoym is awful; he is worn out, he is a libertine, he betrays you; it is impossible for you to love him; sooner or later, the heart must speak." "I shall silence it!" "Once, or twice, but afterwards there will come the years of weariness and longing, when, in your despair, you will throw yourself on some one's breast, and even then you will not be happy. I know the world well; such is our lot. The King, however, is fascinating and beautiful, and life with him may become a paradise." "But he is inconstant, and I do not understand capricious love. It disgusts me! Such love is not for me!" "It is the women who are at fault," responded Countess Reuss, "if they do not know how to make such relations permanent. It would be useless to bind him with an oath, for the first priest would release him from it. Your best guarantee of stability will lie in your common sense, tact, and beauty. Every woman must know how to keep a husband, or a lover--it is our business." Countess Hoym shrugged her shoulders. "It is a very poor love that one has to keep tied by a string!" exclaimed she. "I do not care for such love! But frankness for frankness, dear Countess," she continued, in a whisper. "I do not pledge myself. At present, I wish to remain faithful to Hoym, and it is only love that would ever make me unfaithful to him. The moment I love, I shall leave Hoym and go openly to the one I love; and the man who loves me shall be my husband." "But the King! the King!" "Whether he be a king or no, matters not to me," said Countess Hoym. "Do you know that the King is married, although he does not live with his wife?" "He will be obliged to obtain a divorce and marry me," rejoined Anna. "I have no wish to play the _rôle_ of either Esterle, or Königsmark, or of Teschen." Having said this, she rose and walked majestically across the room; Countess Reuss was silent, there was nothing more to be said. "You will do as you please," said she, after a while. "As a good friend, it was my duty to warn you and give you good advice. Let us remain friends, but allow me to tell you this: the position you disdain is not so base and secondary as you imagine. The King will bow to your wishes; you may rule the country, and do much good; you may succour the unfortunate, make the people happy--all this is worth something." "My honour is dearer to me than all that," replied Countess Hoym. "Let us speak no more on this subject." They left the room. The ladies in the drawing-room looked at them curiously, trying to guess the subject of their conversation. Anna's face was crimson, the Countess Reuss was pale, yet both were smiling. Suddenly the light of torches shone out beneath the window, and, looking out, Fürstenberg perceived the King on his way to visit Teschen, but he looked as sad as a man who had been sentenced to suffer some severe penalty. CHAPTER VI. Adolf Magnus, Count Hoym, who occupied a position corresponding to that of Secretary to the Treasury, had no friends, either at court or in the country. All hated him, because he imposed taxes on beer. The Saxons resisted the King as much as they could; and the King, who never had sufficient money to meet his enormous expenses, was enraged at their resistance. It was the nobles who made the strongest resistance, and the King was advised to despoil them of all their privileges, and surround himself with foreigners, who would not have any relations either with the nobility or with the masses of the people. Augustus had partially followed this advice, and the majority of his secretaries and favourites were taken from foreign lands. Italians, Frenchmen, and Germans from other provinces occupied all the most important positions in the state. Hoym, being a very able man in finding new sources of income for the King, enjoyed great favour with His Majesty; for Augustus required millions, for Poland, for the army, for entertainments, and for his favourites. Hoym, however, had no great confidence in the King's favour; the fate of Beichling and several others had rendered him distrustful, and he intended, as soon as he had grown rich, to seize the first opportunity to escape from Saxony with his head and his money. Except Beichling, who was at that time imprisoned at Königstein, Hoym did not possess a single friend. Marshal Plug hated him; Fürstenberg could not bear him; the others disliked him. When, after the wager had been laid, Hoym was commanded to bring his wife and present her at court, no one pitied him; on the contrary, all laughed at his distress. The day following the ball, Hoym was obliged to bring the King his report. The new tax levied on liquors had met with resistance. In the province of Luzyce, in particular, the nobles openly rebelled against it. The King could not bear the slightest resistance to his will. When the report was ended, Augustus the Strong turned to Hoym, and, frowning angrily, said,-- "Go to-day; go immediately, arrest those who are at the head of this opposition, and compel the others to obey my will!" His presence in Luzyce not being in the least necessary, Hoym tried to persuade the King to send some one else, and allow him to remain in Dresden, where he had affairs of greater importance to attend to. "There is nothing more important," replied Augustus, "than breaking the power and quelling the resistance of those arrogant nobles. Take a squadron of Dragoons with you, and depart instantly. Should they dare to assemble, scatter them. Tell them not to follow the example of the Polish nobles, for I will not suffer anything of that kind from my own subjects. In two hours you should be on the road to Budzisyn." His subjects might discuss matters with the King when he was drunk, but when sober Augustus had his will, and _only one word_. This expedition, following, as it did, closely on the ball, seemed to Hoym very suspicious. He knew the King, the court, and all that was passing there, and he was convinced that he was being sent away so that he might not prove an obstacle to the monarch's wishes, and that Augustus might be left at liberty to court his wife. Still he could do nothing to prevent it. He had no friends; he could not even trust his own sister. He felt that all the court was against him. On returning home, he threw the papers on the table, tore his dress, then, throwing open the door with a great noise, rushed like a madman into his wife's apartment. She was alone. He looked at her inquisitively, and at even the smallest objects surrounding her. Anger was depicted on his pale features. Anna looked up at him calmly. She was accustomed to such scenes. "You can rejoice, madam," he exclaimed. "I was fool enough to bring you here, and now they will do with me as they please. I am an obstacle in the King's path, therefore His Majesty sends me away. I leave here in an hour, then you will be left alone." "And what do you mean by all this, if you please?" inquired the Countess contemptuously. "Do you require a troop of guards to defend my honour?" "No. But I think that my presence would at least restrain their effrontery," shouted Hoym. "They would not send me away were I not an obstacle to them. In all this I see the finger of dear Fürstenberg, who laughed ironically as he paid me that thousand ducats. I know that he has received ten thousand from the King for his brilliant idea of bringing you here." "Hoym!" exclaimed Anna, rising, "enough of these insults. Go! Go! Do what you please, only leave me in peace. I can protect myself." Hoym was silent; his face grew gloomy, for the hands of the clock announced the hour of his departure. "I do not need to warn you," he said. "You know all that may happen to you here. But one thing I must tell you, I will not endure any shame. Others may be indulgent--I cannot be!" "I have not sunk so low as those ladies," said Anna, interrupting him. "I shall not betray you, because in so doing I should humiliate myself. Should you make my life yet more unendurable, I shall leave you openly." Hoym said nothing further. He hesitated for a moment, but a rap was heard at the door. It was the King's messenger come to remind him of the hour of departure. In the castle the occupants were watching for Hoym to cross the bridge. According to a pre-arranged plan, Countess Reuss was to invite Anna to her palace, there the King could journey incognito. Countess Vitzthum was immediately despatched to accomplish this mission secretly, but Anna refused. It was in vain that the Countess strove to prove to her that none would know of her visit; her sister-in-law guessed their plans, and told her so. "You are too intelligent," laughed Countess Vitzthum, "for me to try to conceal the truth from you. It is possible that the King may wish to become better acquainted with you, and that knowing everything, he might call at Countess Reuss's castle. But what would you do should he, in order to satisfy his curiosity, call on you here? You could not shut the door on the King. Would it be more seemly for him to spend a few hours alone with you in your own home?" "But the King would not do such a thing. He would not cast a shadow on my reputation!" "Everything is possible for him to do. He is wearied and curious, and he cannot endure any resistance to his will. The women have taught him despotism by their submission. If you do not accept the Countess Reuss's invitation, the King will certainly come here." "How do you know this?" "I do not know anything," said the Countess Vitzthum, laughing, "but I know our lord perfectly. I remember a certain evening in my own life," she added, sighing. Anna wrung her hands. "Then it is necessary to be armed here, as on the road, against highway robbers! I will find a pistol and dagger!" Countess Vitzthum endeavoured to soothe the irritated woman, and to turn everything into a laugh. "You must know," said she, "that never in all his life has Augustus used force with any woman. That is not his nature. He is far too good-looking and too fascinating to have recourse to rough treatment." After much conversation Anna finally decided to visit Countess Reuss that evening in company with her sister-in-law. With this joyful news Countess Vitzthum hastened to her friend, and Fürstenberg carried the tidings to the castle. The King said that he would pay a short visit to Princess Teschen, and then on his way back he would send his carriage to the castle, and proceed in a litter, and incognito, to call on Countess Reuss. Any other woman, who was unhappy with her husband, would have been only too glad to seize this opportunity of a splendid, although unstable career, with the certainty of acquiring riches, and the hope that perhaps a marriage would eventually cover the fault of a moment. But Anna, Countess Hoym, had been educated in strict principles; she felt indignant at the light-hearted conduct of those women, who consented to serve as playthings for their wearied lord. She realized the possibility of a divorce from Hoym, for she was disgusted with him, but she would not give up her husband save for love of the King, and for a marriage with him. Such an idea would have excited the mirth of any one to whom she mentioned it. To wish to chain so frivolous a man as Augustus seemed an utter absurdity. The King was handsome; he strove to please; the glamour of power and of the crown increased his charm; what wonder that Anna's heart yearned for him! Although she felt that she could be happy with him, she could not, even for a moment, admit the possibility of such happiness being realized in any way other than by marriage. During the time that elapsed after the ball, amidst the pressure of the intrigues that were being carried on around her with the object of enabling Augustus to approach her, Anna was continually thinking and pondering. At length she said to herself,-- "I may be his, but I must be the Queen." And she determined to resign everything rather than be the creature of intrigues. She felt that she was strong; the mirror assured her of her beauty and charm; she read in the King's eyes the impression she had made on him--she resolved to take advantage of it. "I shall never degenerate," said she to herself. "I would rather be Hoym's unfortunate wife than Augustus's mistress. I must be his wife or nothing." She had already resigned herself to her fate, the only question was as to the conditions. Yet none suspected that Countess Hoym had resolved to break with her husband, although they had calculated that circumstances might arise that would induce her to do so. Anna had been indulging in dreams, and dreams are dangerous companions in solitude. Pride and the desire to rule had slowly risen within her soul, and made her ready to capitulate. When the hour fixed for the visit arrived, Anna was ready. She had dressed herself with the greatest care, and her robe was both tasteful and modest. Her complexion did not require the aid of paint, it was snow-white by nature, and her luxuriant black curls did but the more increase the transparency of her skin. But these attractions were as nothing when compared with her eyes, so full of fire, and possessed of such a bewitching charm. A glance from those eyes could drive a man mad, and they said more than their owner would have cared to express with her lips. Looking in the mirror, she found she was so beautiful that she smiled with satisfaction. Her dress was black enlivened with crimson ribbons, which made a most picturesque costume. The Countess Vitzthum, who came to fetch her, screamed with admiration on beholding her, so beautiful did she appear, and she for one would have felt no surprise had a crown been thrown at her feet. "You say you wish to live with my brother," said she, "and yet you dress so beautifully to receive the King?" "No woman would willingly make herself appear homely," replied Anna coldly. "But you are quite a master in the art of dress, and need no advice. Well, let us be going." The same kind of admiring exclamations greeted her on her arrival at Countess Reuss's house. At the ball, her beauty had surpassed all expectation, here it was dazzling. Even those ladies who had not given up being beautiful felt old and withered beside her. Although they knew that she was twenty-four, Anna did not appear to them to be more than eighteen. No one felt more pleasure in her appearance than Countess Reuss, for she was now sure of the success of her plans. All crowded around Anna, rendering her homage as to a queen, and trying to gain her favour. Fürstenberg, who arrived a few moments before the King, was lost in amazement. "I know the King," said he, "she will be able to do anything she likes with him if only she knows how to stand firm." Anna was guided by instinct, and needed none to teach her. After a few moments the door opened cautiously, and the King entered the room. While yet on the threshold his eyes were eagerly searching for Anna. Perceiving her, he blushed, then he turned pale, grew confused, and, forgetful of his hostess, he rushed forward to greet Countess Hoym. On his brow there was now no trace of regret for lost millions, anger at Polish ingratitude, shame at his defeat by the Swedes, or any sign of disappointment. Anna welcomed him coolly, but her dress alone was sufficiently eloquent. That she wished to please him was evident, and this gave him hope. Although Anna had made a great impression on him, the King was, nevertheless, very careful to observe all those forms of civility due to the fair sex, and although he hated the Countess Reuss, he sat beside her for a few moments, chatting courteously, yet all the while looking towards Countess Hoym. He whispered to Fraulein Hulchen, smiled at Countess Vitzthum, and gratified all the ladies by his glances. During this ceremony, Countess Vitzthum had time to lead her sister-in-law into an adjoining room under the pretence of having an interesting conversation with her. It was a strategical man[oe]uvre to enable the King to have a sweet _tête-à-tête_, for the moment Augustus appeared in the doorway, Countess Vitzthum retreated towards the drawing-room, and soon disappeared. It is true that the door remained open, and the portière that was raised allowed the chattering ladies to gaze on His Majesty, but no one could hear a word of what the two were saying. "Madame, to-day you are quite different to yesterday, and even more beautiful! You are bewitching!" he exclaimed, without any restraint. "Your Majesty's indulgence is so well known, that it is difficult to believe these most flattering compliments," replied Anna. "Do you wish me to swear it? I am ready to take an oath by all the gods of Olympus, that I have never seen such a beautiful woman. I am amazed at the cruelty of that destiny which has given such an angel into Hoym's hands." In spite of herself, Anna laughed, and for the first time a row of pearl-like teeth appeared behind her coral lips. Her laughter made her yet more beautiful. The King looked at her hands, they were so beautiful, that he was seized with a passionate desire to kiss them, and it was with difficulty that he abstained from pressing one of them to his lips. They were perfection. His head was beginning to be turned. "Were I a tyrant," said he, "I should forbid Hoym ever to return hither, I am jealous of that Vulcan." "Vulcan is likewise jealous," responded Anna. "But Venus cannot love him!" said the King. "Should love be wanting, there are other chains that bind yet stronger than those of love--the chains formed by oath and by duty." The King smiled. "An oath in love!" "No, your Majesty, in marriage." "But there are sacrilegious marriages," observed Augustus, "and I regard as such, those marriages in which beauty is united to ugliness. In such cases the gods give absolution for the broken oath." "But pride will not suffer one to accept it." "You are too severe, madame." "More so than your Majesty supposes." "Countess, you terrify me." "Your Majesty?" Anna smiled. "Why should my lord care aught about severity?" "More than you suppose," replied the King, repeating her own words. "That I cannot understand," whispered Anna. "What? Then you do not wish to see that I was conquered by your first glance." "That will not last until day-break, I fancy. Your Majesty has this in common with the gods, that you love and forget easily." "No," exclaimed the King, "believe me, those are calumnies. Is it my fault that I have never yet met with a heart, a mind, a beauty to which I was able to attach myself for ever? It is not I who am unfaithful, I am betrayed. Each day these goddesses lose some charm, miracles become ordinary phenomena, the angels lose their wings, and, instead of finding love in the heart, I discover only coquettishness and coldness. Am I the guilty one? Believe me, madame," he continued, with enthusiasm, "I am busy searching for a woman to whom I could belong all my life long. To such a woman I would give myself entirely." "It is difficult to believe that," whispered Anna, "and it is still more difficult to imagine a perfection that would be worthy of your Majesty." "I find it in you," interrupted the King. "You are bewitching," he added, stretching forth his hands to seize hers. Anna wished to withdraw them, but etiquette did not allow of this, and, seizing her white hand, the King began to kiss it, and this he continued to do for so long, that at length Anna grew afraid that those in the drawing-room would see this familiar behaviour, and, with all due respect for His Majesty, slowly withdrew her hand. Augustus rose full of emotion. "I cannot separate myself from you," said he, "I see that I shall be obliged to summon the power of the King to aid my ardour, which does not appear to move you in the least. You cannot leave the city. I arrest you. As for Hoym, only your intercession--" He did not finish his speech. Anna had no idea of interceding. Their conversation would have lasted much longer, for Augustus was very excited, only Countess Reuss entered, to beg the King to partake of a collation of sweetmeats, fruits, and wine. The King consented, and drank the first glass of wine to Anna's health. Fürstenberg watched him attentively. "Teschen is lost!" whispered he to Countess Vitzthum. "And my brother likewise!" replied she, also in a whisper. "Provided only that my sister-in-law has sense!" "I wish she had not so much," rejoined Fürstenberg. "Look what self-possession she has preserved, the King did not succeed in turning her head, but it seems to me that he has lost his own." The collation ended, the ladies again withdrew, and Augustus endeavoured to detain Anna by entering into a clever conversation. She remained, was animated and witty, but both the King and Fürstenberg remarked that she still retained her self-possession, and was not in the least intoxicated by her splendid triumph. It was the first time in his life that Augustus had met such a woman. She did not immediately succumb to his love as the others had done, neither did she appear to take any advantage of it. It stung him to the quick. This woman's calmness began to irritate him, but at the same time it increased his passion. At first he had only intended to carry on a short intrigue with Countess Hoym, but he now saw that this would be more difficult than he had thought or calculated. Anna laughed, jested, and was very amusing; she was evidently trying to entangle the King, but she herself remained calm and inaccessible. Instead of approaching his object, with the good fortune of Jupiter, Augustus perceived that he was drifting away from it. At the close of the conversation, when the King became more pressing, and no longer concealed his ardour, he begged for a small place in the heart of the beautiful lady. Anna, who had already grown familiar with him, replied with precision,-- "Your Majesty forces me to make an unpleasant avowal. I am one of those unfortunate, feeble creatures, whose pride is their only strength. If your Majesty imagines that, dazzled by the allurements held out to me, I shall forget the respect due to myself, or that, carried away by a momentary madness, I shall forget the future, your Majesty is mistaken. Anna Hoym will never become the King's temporary favourite. She will give her whole heart, and for ever, or nothing." Having said this, she rose and passed into the drawing-room. Immediately after this, the King, accompanied by Fürstenberg, quietly left Countess Reuss's house. The Countess followed him to the hall, Augustus's face was gloomy and sad. From this, his hostess guessed how Anna had treated the King, but she was glad of it, for their relations promised to be the more lasting in proportion to the difficulty of the commencement. A short love intrigue, that did not overthrow the Princess Teschen, would not accord with her plans, for through Anna she expected that her own influence would be more firmly established. "Dear Countess," whispered the King, as he bade her farewell, "try to animate that beautiful statue." Before Countess Reuss could reply, the King had descended the stairs. The conversation that ensued between him and such an intimate friend as Fürstenberg was different. "The woman is enchanting," said the King, "but at the same time she repels, and is cold as an icicle." "Your Majesty, women are of different temperaments; it is no wonder that she protects herself." "But she speaks frankly about marriage." "Every woman thinks that love for her must be everlasting, and one can promise that to every one." "It will not be done very easily with this one," added Augustus, "Teschen was much easier." "But there is no comparison between them." "Alas! that is only too true. She is far superior to Teschen. Send Hoym an order that he is not to dare to return." "But what is he to do there?" laughed the Prince. "Let him do what he pleases," said the King. "Before all things, he must collect as much money as possible, for it seems to me that my new love will be very costly." "Your Majesty, then, is already talking of love?" "And of fear, too! Fürstchen, you can do what you please, but she must be mine." "And Ursula?" "Marry her!" "Thanks." "Then marry her to any one else you please; all is over between us." "Already?" inquired the Prince, with scarcely concealed joy. "Yes! I shall gild Hoym, her, and you." "But from whence shall we obtain so much gold?" "That concerns Hoym," replied the King. They entered the palace as he spoke, and Augustus went directly to his chamber. He was sad and thoughtful. The last campaign, disastrous as it was, had not caused him so much sorrow as the ill-success of this evening. CHAPTER VII. Thus began the reign of one woman at the Court of Augustus II., and it lasted longer than any other of the same kind. The Court, and indeed the whole city, watched with great interest the course of this intrigue, the end of which could be easily guessed. Hoym was forbidden to return. Every day the Countesses Reuss and Vitzthum, assisted by the Prince, invented some new pretext for bringing the King and the beautiful Anna together; every day she was bolder and more familiar with him, but since the evening spent at Countess Reuss's house, Augustus had made no further advances, neither had he heard from her anything different from what she had then said. The beautiful Anna showed no signs of yielding, and at length her coolness and self-possession began to alarm every one. They feared the King would be discouraged, and retire, and that then some one else would be suggested to him. Every time they attempted to question Countess Hoym, she replied that she would become a wife, but never a mistress. She demanded, if not an immediate marriage, to which there was an obstacle in the person of Queen Christine Eberhardyne, at least a solemn promise from the King that he would marry her, in the event of his becoming a widower. The condition was most strange and unusual; in other times, or in other courts, or amongst a less light-headed people, it would have been impossible. The first time Fürstenberg mentioned it to the King, Augustus did not reply. A few hours later, he said,-- "I am already weary of this long courtship, we must end it once and for ever." "Break it?" inquired the Prince. "We shall see," replied the King briefly. His confidant could learn nothing farther. One day the King ordered a hundred thousand gold thalers to be brought him from the treasury. The bag was enormous, and two strong men could scarcely carry it. When they had deposited their heavy burden, the King seized it, and lifted it without the slightest difficulty. Fürstenberg, who was present, did not dare ask for what purpose such an amount was destined, the King's face was far too gloomy. It was clear that events of considerable importance were at hand. The King was silent. He visited Princess Teschen almost daily. That Princess almost drowned herself in tears when the name of Countess Hoym was mentioned in her presence, but she quickly dried them when she perceived the King. In this state of uncertainty several weeks passed away--a time that seemed to the courtiers all too long. They knew not to whom they should bow, nor to whom they should go with gossip. At length Hoym was not only permitted, but even commanded to return, for the treasury was empty, and he alone could fill it. The day the Secretary to the Treasury was expected to return, Augustus, having placed the bag containing the hundred thousand thalers in his carriage, gave orders that he should be driven to Hoym's palace. It was towards evening, and foggy. Countess Hoym was sitting solitary and thoughtful in her boudoir. Being unaccustomed to receive visitors, she was greatly surprised at hearing the voices of men conversing on the stairs, and her astonishment increased when, without any warning, the door opened and the King entered the room. The door was immediately closed behind him. Anna was terrified, and seized the pistol which, ever since her arrival in Dresden, she had kept lying on the table. She had frequently been joked with about this precaution. Although she concealed the weapon in the folds of her dress, the King had noticed her action. "You do not need to defend yourself," said he. Anna stared at him, but was incapable of uttering a word. "Listen," continued Augustus, throwing the bag of gold on the floor with such violence that the ducats were scattered. "I can give you gold, honours, and titles in abundance." Then, taking a horse-shoe he had brought with him, he broke it, and cast the fragments on the piles of gold. "But," he added, "I can also break resistance as I have just broken that iron. You have to choose between iron and gold, peace and war, love and hatred." Anna stood looking with indifference on the gold and the broken horse-shoe. "Your Majesty," said she, after a moment's silence, "I do not fear death, I do not wish for gold. You can break me as you broke that horse-shoe, but you cannot do anything against my will. Why do you not bring me the thing that can conquer me? Why do you not offer me your heart?" Augustus rushed towards her. "That has been yours for a long time," he exclaimed. "I neither see it, nor feel it," said the Countess slowly. "The heart is shown in deeds. A heart that loves truly would never wish to dishonour the object of its love. My Lord, I cannot conceal from you that I love you. I could not resist your love, but I cannot stain it!" The King knelt before her, but Anna retreated. "Your Majesty, listen to me, I pray you." "Command me!" "Anna Hoym could never be yours except she felt she were worthy of you." "What are your conditions?" "A written promise that you will marry me." Hearing this, Augustus frowned, and drooped his head. "Believe me, Anna, such a condition is full of danger for yourself." "I will not give it up. I would give my life for it. My honour requires it. Then I should be your Majesty's wife, in thought and in hope. Else you shall not touch me; I will kill myself if you do!" The King retreated. "Very well, then," said he, "if that is your wish, shall have it." Anna gave a cry of joy. "All the rest is as nothing in comparison with that!" she exclaimed in a voice full of happiness. "But first I must be divorced from Hoym." "That shall be done to-morrow. I will have it signed in the consistory," said the King hastily. "Now, what further?" "Nothing more on my side," she replied in a broken voice, as she knelt before the King. "That is sufficient for me." "But it is not sufficient for the King, for me," said Augustus, seizing her in his arms, from which, however, Anna escaped by slipping down on the floor. "I believe your Majesty's word," she exclaimed; "but before I permit myself to be touched, the chains that bind me must be broken, the divorce must be pronounced, your promise signed. I am Hoym's wife, I have sworn to be faithful to him--I must keep my oath." Augustus kissed her hand. "I am your slave, you are my lady! Hoym returns to-day, leave him; to-morrow I will have a palace ready for you. You shall have a hundred thousand thalers a year, I will lay my whole kingdom at your feet, and with it, myself." Seeing him kneeling at her feet, Anna kissed his forehead, then she sprang backwards. "Until to-morrow!" she said. "Am I to leave you?" inquired Augustus. "Until to-morrow," she repeated. Then the King rose and left her. The heaps of gold remained lying on the floor. That same night Count Hoym returned home. He hastened to his wife's apartment, but found the door locked, and, on inquiring of the servants, was informed that their lady was unwell and had retired to rest, after giving orders that no one should disturb her. During his absence, which was of an unnecessary length, the Count had grown seriously uneasy about his wife. It was true that his spies wrote to him daily, informing him of her every movement, but as she was always accompanied by his sister, he could not foresee any danger. He felt, however, that the intrigue was growing ever stronger and stronger, and that it threatened his matrimonial life. Still he was powerless to prevent it, for at its head was the King, and him Hoym feared, for he knew him better than any one else did. Besides, he could not forget the fate that had overtaken Beichling. The best guarantee of safety that he had, lay in his wife's character, her pride, and her love for her good reputation. When he returned to Dresden, he knew nothing but what his spies had informed him; in the city, and from the people of the court, he could not expect to learn anything. The hour was late, but although at the King's castle a feast was in progress, Hoym had no wish to go thither; instead, he went straight to his own home, and having found his wife's door locked, he also retired to rest. The following day the King sent for him, and he was obliged to obey the summons, and go to the castle without having seen his wife. The King received him very kindly, he even embraced him, and this Hoym regarded as the worst possible sign. Next Augustus reproached him with having remained away so long, and although he himself had commanded that the Count should not return, he acted as though he knew nothing of the order. Hoym gazed into the King's eyes in astonishment. "It is evident that you have some enemies at court," said the King. "They wished to keep you away from me, but fear nothing, I am your friend, I will not allow you to be wronged." Hoym thanked the King for his favour. Then, during their further conversation, His Majesty complained that he had not sufficient money. "Dear Hoym," said he, "you must procure it, I need it so very badly." It was towards noon when Hoym at length returned to his home. He had scarcely crossed the threshold of his room, than Anna, dressed in black, appeared before him. Never before had she looked more beautiful, calm, and dignified. Hoym sprang towards her, but she received him coldly, and kept him at a distance. "I have been waiting for you," she said. "I have come to thank you for every good thing you have done for me, and to assure you that I shall never forget it. But at the same time, I have to tell you that our marriage, which is not based on mutual sympathy, and therefore cannot give us any guarantee of happiness, must come to an end. We must be separated. You know I always speak frankly. The King has been good enough to assure me of his favour--I cannot refuse it. Moreover, I love him, and am determined to obey him. But I cannot be false to you. I am come, therefore, to ask you for a divorce; this will save the honour of your name. We cannot act otherwise. Should you consent to a divorce, you may rest assured of my gratitude; I will also endeavour to assist you in everything. Should you, on the contrary, prefer to resist my wish, it will not in anywise alter my determination, but it will cause me to forget my gratitude towards you, and to remember you only as a hindrance to my happiness." From the first words of his wife's artful and formal speech, Hoym had guessed everything. He drew back as though struck by a thunderbolt. He had not suspected that matters had gone so far as that. His pale face became crimson. Several times he would have interrupted her, but the magnetic gaze that Anna fixed upon him kept him silent until her speech was ended. The indifference and self-possession with which she spoke filled Hoym with indignation. By the time she had finished speaking, his anger was so great that he was unable to utter a word. "Madam," shouted he at length, "you reward me nicely for having drawn you from your obscure corner. You will leave home and husband to depend on the favour of a most frivolous man." But Anna did not allow him to proceed with his speech. "Enough of this!" she exclaimed. "I know all that you are going to say; I know also what I intend doing. The care for my future fate you can leave to me. Nothing will alter my determination. I only ask you to choose and tell me whether, or no, you will consent to the divorce. Are we to be friends or enemies? Yes or no?" Hoym was one of the most licentious of the courtiers; his relations with his wife were of the worst, but the moment he realized that he was to lose her for ever, grief, jealousy, and anger overwhelmed him to such a degree that he was unable to speak. As was his custom when enraged, he began to tear his wig, and rush to and fro across the room, overthrowing the chairs as he went. He clenched his hands, stood for a few moments at a window, gazing into the street beneath, then he rushed threateningly towards his wife, and vainly endeavoured to speak. Then again he hurried from her. In short, he looked just like a madman who does not know what he is doing. But all this outburst of fury made not the least impression on Anna. She only waited quietly, looking at him ironically. At length, being unable to obtain an answer, she said, coldly,-- "I see you cannot decide between peace and war. I would only remind you that war with me and the King would be a trifle dangerous." She left the room as she spoke. Hoym still continued his mad rushes to and fro. He tore his clothes, he sat down, rose again, and gave way to every possible action of despair. And in this he continued until he was interrupted by the entrance of Vitzthum. "Hoym!" exclaimed his visitor, "what is the matter?" "You know that better than I do. It is you, my dearest friends, who have prepared this surprise for me. Anna leaves me! The King requires her! Why did she ever marry me? Why does she wish to make me the laughing-stock of the people?" Vitzthum let him have his storm out, then he spoke. "Listen, Hoym," said he. "I can understand that you would regret parting with the beautiful Anna, but you know well that she never loved you, and you led her such a life, that I doubt if you really loved her. Thus, then, there can be no question of love in the matter. Let us now talk calmly; I have come here by the King's command." "And what, pray, does His Majesty command?" inquired Hoym sarcastically. "He wishes your consent to the divorce, in return for which he promises you his favour," replied Vitzthum. "If you do not consent, I pity you, my dear fellow, but I must warn you that you expose yourself to great danger. You cannot fight against the King. The slightest wrong done to the Countess will be regarded as _lèse majestatis_." "But why do you wish for my consent?" exclaimed Hoym. "The King can do anything he chooses without that. The Consistory will obey him. Let him take from me my most precious possession, but he must not ask me to thank him for so doing." Vitzthum smiled. "It is a proof of his favour, that he asks your permission to do a thing which he can as easily do without it. From this you should see that he desires to retain you in your present position." "Only because he has need of me," muttered Hoym. Vitzthum sat down on the sofa. "Dear Count, think it well over; when I leave the room it will be too late." Again Hoym rushed wildly about the room, overthrowing everything that came in his way. At length, throwing himself down on a chair, he began to laugh; but it was a laugh full of bitterness. "Hoym, the King is awaiting your decision," said Vitzthum. "It is mere irony to ask a man whom you have stripped of his clothes, for permission to keep them, and threaten him with a club should he refuse. Therefore, my dear brother-in-law, you will tell His Majesty that I am very grateful to him for taking the burden of that woman from me. Tell him I consent, that I am glad, happy, merry, that I kiss His Majesty's hand. It is a great honour to be able to offer the King a half-eaten fruit--ha! ha! ha!" "You had better drink a glass of iced-water," said Vitzthum, taking his hat. He shook hands with Hoym. "Believe me," said he, in a whisper, "you have come out of this better than any of the others. I will tell the King you consent. You will cool off after a time." The King was eagerly awaiting the answer, but, being impatient, he had ordered that he should be carried to Hoym's palace, where he entered Anna's apartments. Just as Vitzthum was preparing to go to the castle, he was informed that the King was waiting for him, only a few paces away. From his countenance, and the smile with which he entered His Majesty's presence, Augustus guessed immediately that Hoym would not oppose his wishes. But the beautiful Anna, addressing the ambassador, said,-- "You were more fortunate than I was." "No one could be more fortunate than you are," replied Vitzthum, bowing, "but I was more patient. I allowed Hoym to work off his excitement, after that he consented." The light of joy shone in Anna's black eyes. "You bring me freedom and happiness!" she cried. "How can I ever repay you?" A box lay on the table; this she seized and handed it to Vitzthum. The King at once approached to see what it contained. In it was Anna's miniature. "Ah!" exclaimed he, "that is too great a reward for you, Vitzthum. I confiscate it in the name of the King, and in exchange I will give you twenty thousand thalers." Anna threw herself on the King's breast. The day following, the Consistory granted the divorce, and on the third day this was, by Anna's wish, placarded on all the public buildings. The same day, Anna left her husband's house and took up her abode in a mansion situated close to the palace, to which it was joined by means of a covered gallery, which had been constructed in a few hours. The news spread like wild-fire throughout the city. Countess Hoym had abandoned her husband's name, and had taken the title of Cosel, from an estate that Augustus had presented to her. He also intended to obtain the title of Countess for her from the Emperor Joseph, and, instead of the house she now occupied, she was to have a palace built for her similar to that described in the Arabian Nights. Never for a long time had any of his favourites taken such a hold on the King's mind, heart, and passion. He passed whole days in her company, and was invisible to every one--indeed the whole world was forgotten by him. Princess Teschen, towards whom, up to the last moment, the King had shown great tenderness, was the first to learn what had occurred. The divorce, the lodging near the castle, were sure proofs that her reign was ended. The King ceased visiting her, yet she still retained her liberty, and did not fall into disgrace. Augustus was obliged to treat her kindly through fear of the Cardinal Radziejewski, over whom the Princess had considerable influence, for that prelate could cause the King considerable annoyance. The spies employed by Vitzthum could gain no information as to how the Princess intended to act. They tried to discover her secrets through her sister, Baroness Glasenapp, but the Princess was silent, and spent her time weeping. No one knew whether she was going to remain in Dresden, to retire to her estates of Hoyerswerde, or to return to Poland. In her palace no preparations for departure were visible, all remained the same as it had ever been, except that the visitors were less numerous. Those servants who still remained faithful to the Princess were suspected of spying, therefore every one was silent, and evenings were sad. Prince Ludwig of Würtemburg alone visited her more frequently and stayed longer. The court intrigues that had been directed towards the overthrow of Princess Teschen and the instalment in her place of Lady Cosel were, after the latter's victory, turned in another direction. Fürstenberg, who, at the commencement of the intrigue, had been employed by the King as his intermediary, was now compelled to yield his place to Vitzthum. The rivalry of these two parties began in the court of Augustus II., who always took the greatest possible care to prevent the persons surrounding him from living peaceably together. He excited one against another, favouring now this person, now that, and giving each to understand that the other was his enemy. The mere sight of angry faces gave him great pleasure. In consequence of his mischief-making, one of his courtiers accused the other, and thus the King was made aware of all abuses. Vitzthum was Hoym's brother-in-law. His family came from Thuringia, but for a long time it had been employed in the service of the Kings of Saxony. Grand Falconer Count Frederyk Vitzthum von Eckstadt was now about thirty; he had been at court from the time he was a page, and had been Augustus' friend since childhood. He always travelled with him, and after the downfall of the great Chancellor, Beichling, in 1703, he had obtained for himself the rank of Grand Falconer. The King was fonder of Vitzthum than of the others, perhaps because he was not afraid of him. Vitzthum was not a genius; and then, too, he was always affable, polite, serviceable, a perfect courtier, and a very good-looking man. He mingled in no intrigues, he had no ambition, and he served the King faithfully. Besides and behind Vitzthum, stood his wife, Hoym's sister, one of the cleverest intriguantes of the court, at which the women played almost as important a part as the men. Countess Vitzthum was still very pretty. She was tall, as were the majority of the ladies of the Saxon aristocracy. She had a fresh complexion, sapphire-blue eyes, a nose slightly _retroussé_, and she was so merry that she could be recognized from afar by her laugh. She played with the affairs of the court as one plays some game; she spied for the sake of spying, she listened at doors, carried gossip, set snares, kindled passions, excited quarrels, reconciled enemies; and besides all this, she managed her house and her husband's affairs admirably; without her, money would often have been lacking. Like her husband, she had a passion for gambling, but she gambled carefully and had good luck. She acquired estates, and pushed her husband, for whom, as he had no ambition, she was forced to be ambitious. The Vitzthums did not belong to the most powerful party among the King's favourites; apparently they stood aside and lower in the scale than Flemming, Fürstenberg, Plug, and others, yet notwithstanding this, they were acquainted with every secret, influenced the King as well as the courtiers, and could be very dangerous foes. At the commencement of Cosel's reign, they took up a position that led her to suppose that they would share her likes and dislikes. A few days after Cosel had taken possession of the house near the castle, the whole court felt that the new Queen would not be so weak, so inclined to weep and faint, as Princess Teschen had been. New life animated every one. The proud and beauteous lady considered herself as the King's second wife, and acted accordingly. Augustus himself was only her most obedient admirer. CHAPTER VIII. The court of Augustus II. was not lacking in droll and original figures, whose business it was to amuse the King. Every morning from the Old City there came on horseback Joseph Frölich, the fool, known to every one, from the street urchins to the ministers of state. Once, when Augustus had been in a very good humour, he had even ordered a medal to be struck in his honour, bearing this inscription: _Semper Frölich, nunquam Traurig_. Frölich was so accustomed to laugh as a matter of duty that he made others laugh and laughed himself from morning till night. Frölich was small, round, and pink, and always dressed in a swallow-tail coat, of which, thanks to the munificence of the King, he had ninety-nine. He wore a tall, pointed hat, ornamented with a feather. Instead of a chamberlain's key, he carried a large silver vase on his back similar in form to a key, but as this was hollow it served as a drinking-cup, and from it Frölich was obliged to drink whenever the King ordered him to be present at his drinking parties. As a fool, he would perhaps have wearied the King by his monotonous gaiety had he not had such a contrast in the melancholy _rôle_ played by Baron Schmeidel. Schmeidel and Frölich, as Heraclites and Democritus, continually quarrelling, amused both Augustus and his court. When these two were exhausted, there were secondary fools, Saumagen and Leppert, to replace them. If to these we add the giant, Cojanus; twelve dwarfs, with the famous Hante and Traum at their head; and a fair number of negroes and albinos, we shall have some idea of the crowd whose sole duty it was to amuse their sovereign. Frölich, the fool, was an intelligent and not a bad man. He lived quietly and saved his money, and very likely laughed in his sleeve at those who laughed at him. Every morning Frölich, dressed in his curious coat and hat, rode to the castle, from whence he returned, frequently very late at night, to his own house, called Narrenhaus, which was situated close to the bridge. It was very seldom that any one called on him, therefore Fraulein Lote, his elderly housekeeper, was greatly astonished when, very early one morning, she heard a knock at the door. The fool was not yet dressed, neither was his horse ready, and the knock frightened him, for he feared that some capricious fancy had seized the King and induced him to send after him. Fraulein Lote was of the same opinion when, on peeping through the window, she perceived a tall young man in the court livery standing on the threshold. After having glanced at him, Lote inquired what he wanted. "I should like to say a few words to Frölich," said the new-comer. "Is it from the King?" There was no answer; but as secret messengers were by no means uncommon, Lote did not dare to refuse him admittance, so, opening the door, she ushered him into the room where the fool was dressing. Frölich turned towards the stranger as he entered, and, immediately assuming his rôle, saluted him with exaggerated politeness, and, bending half-double, inquired,-- "What can we do for your Excellency?" "Mr. Frölich," said the stranger modestly, "do not joke at a poor man; you may rather be excellency than me." "What?" said Frölich, "I before you? Was it the King that sent you with such a joke?" "No; I am come on my own account, and I beg you for a moment's conversation." "An audience, eh?" said the fool, looking important. "Donnerwetter! Have I become a minister? But at our Court everything is possible. The ministers like each other so well that soon none of them will remain. Then your turn and mine will come; only I must be the Secretary to the Treasury." Heedless of this buffoonery, the new-comer remained sorrowful. "Well, I will grant you a moment's conversation," continued the fool, seating himself in an arm-chair and taking the pose of a person of great importance. Yet still the stranger did not smile. "Mr. Frölich," said he, "you will be surprised when you learn that I come to you on a very serious matter." "Then you have not entered the proper door." "You are mistaken. I see you every day at Court, and I know from your face that you are a very good-hearted man." "My dear man, I am sure you wish to borrow some money," interrupted the fool, "but I must tell you at once that it is useless. I give everything--advice, smiles, bows, but not money! I haven't any; the King has no money, so how could I get any?" "I did not dream of asking you for money." "Ah!" breathed the fool, "then what the deuce do you want from me?" "I want to ask your protection." "The idea! The protection of a fool! I see you wear the Court livery, but you have a foreign accent. Who are you?" "I am a Pole; my name is Raymond Zaklika." "A Pole, then a nobleman, that's understood," said the fool; "be seated, I respect the nobility, and as I am a burgher, I shall stand." "Don't joke, Mr. Frölich!" "I should swallow my own tongue, if I didn't joke. But we have not much time, so tell me what you want." For a few moments the youth was unable to speak; the good humour of the fool evidently disconcerted him. "Permit me first to tell you a little about myself," said he at length. "Only a little? willingly." "I came to the Court by a mere chance. I am sure you must have heard of me. Unfortunately for me, I can break horseshoes and cups as well as the King does. For that I have been ordered to remain at the Court." "I remember now," laughed the fool, "and I do not envy you in the least. Who was so simple as to advise you to rival the King?" "Since I have been at the Court the life there has disgusted me; every one avoids me; I haven't a friend, a protector; I have no one!" "But to wish to choose me as a friend and protector, is as good an idea as the breaking the horseshoes was. Man, if I could break anvils, I would not break a straw, for fear of exciting the jealousy of others; I should not like to be in your place." "That is why I thought that at least Frölich would pity me." The old fool's eyes dilated, then suddenly his face grew stern and sad, and he folded his arms across his breast: then, advancing towards Zaklika, he took hold of his hand, and began to feel his pulse, as though he had been a doctor. "I am afraid you have lost your common sense," said he quietly. "I shouldn't be surprised," said the youth, smiling. The fool's face brightened again, as though from habit. "What is the matter in question?" he inquired. "I wish to get discharged from the King's service." "That's very easily done," said the fool. "Do some stupid thing, then they will build a scaffold in the new market, and you will be hanged." "There's plenty of time for that," replied Zaklika. "What do you propose doing, should they discharge you? Are you going to return to your own country, and wrestle with the bear?" "No, I shall remain at Dresden." "Are you in love with a pretty girl?" The youth blushed. "No," replied he, "I shall give fencing and riding lessons, or I might enter the military service." "Do they not give you enough to eat at the Court?" "We have plenty." "Do they not pay you?" "They do." "Then why don't you like your position?" The youth looked confused. "I have nothing to do," said he, "and it worries me. "It's strange!" said the fool, "you have plenty of bread, and you are searching for misery. But I don't see how I could be useful to you." "Very easily. I very frequently stand by the door; by some witty saying you could draw the King's attention towards me, and when he is in a good humour he has different fancies." "Suppose he has a fancy to shoot you?" "You would protect me." "_Donnerwetter!_" exclaimed the fool, "for the first time in my life I see that I am a man of importance, for people come to ask me for protection. You have opened my eyes. Out of pure gratitude I should like to do something for you! Who knows! They say that Kyan is to be appointed commandant of Königstein, then I could at least become Court preacher! I grow ambitious!" And having seated himself again in an arm-chair, he began to laugh, at the same time looking pityingly on the young man. "The end of the world! _Donnerwetter!_ A Polish noble asks a fool for protection, and the Swedes, who eat herrings, beat the Saxons." The fool saluted, in the fashion of a minister closing an interview. Zaklika took the hint, and left the room. It was a strange idea to seek help from a fool, but his strong love for Countess Hoym had put it into his head. He wished to enter the service of the woman, to look at whom was his greatest bliss. He desired nothing further than to look at his goddess. He never dreamt of anything else. He wished to be her guard, her unknown defender; he guessed that she must have many enemies, he feared for her safety, and he longed to lay down his life in her service. The youth had a strange disposition; although apparently slow, he had an iron will. He had determined to gain a place nearer that lovely woman, and it was for her sake that he had gone to ask protection of the fool, and for her sake he was ready to bear still greater humiliation. Cosel, intoxicated by her love for the beautiful Augustus, had not forgotten the boy who, when she was at Laubegast, used to stand up to his neck in the water in order to catch a glimpse of her. She smiled at the reminiscence, about which she had never said a word to any one. He excited her curiosity, that was all, and she frequently looked after him as he stood among the crowd. Augustus' love for the beautiful Lady Cosel did not cause him to give up drinking with his friends. For many reasons this became more necessary to him. Amidst his drunken courtiers he could sow discord, which he used as a tool to support his own power. That day was a day of revelry in the castle. Augustus was in an excellent humour, and was planning how he might best surround his favourite with entertainments, magnificence, and luxury. Hoym, who still retained his position as Secretary to the Treasury, and whose tears for the loss of his wife the King had dried by a present of fifty thousand thalers, was again among those who came to drink with the King. Hoym was more necessary to Augustus than any of the others, for money was necessary to him, and the secretary knew how to provide it. But the most clever methods of obtaining it had been almost exhausted, and now they would be obliged to employ some extraordinary means by which they might obtain the required gold. Augustus, like many of the rulers of his day, believed in alchemy. They did not doubt but that there existed some marvellous mixture which could change any metal into the gold that was so necessary to happiness. At times no other subject was mentioned at Court than how gold could be made. Every one had a laboratory. Chancellor Beichling would not have been sent to Königstein had not Fürstenberg persuaded the King that he could find a man capable of making gold, and much more gold than Beichling could squeeze out of the country. The savant on whom Fürstenberg depended was a simple apothecary, by name Johan Friedrich Bottiger, born at Schleiz, in Saxony. He had been manufacturing a gold-making mixture in Berlin, and Frederick I. had wished to keep him for himself, but Bottiger succeeded in making his escape, and came to Saxony, where he received a warm welcome, and was shut up in a castle and ordered to make gold for King Augustus II. Fürstenberg was working with him, and the King firmly believed that any day they might produce as much gold as they wanted. They flattered Bottiger, they surrounded him with luxury, but they kept him securely guarded. Years passed by, and yet the apothecary had not been successful in making his mixture. They sent the King many things with which to make gold, but in every case it was necessary before using them to prepare oneself by prayer, and to have a pure heart. Augustus prayed, confessed, sat by the crucible, but he could not make gold. Fortunately a dog overturned the mercury sent by Bottiger, and they were obliged to use other, and so the ill-success of the work was attributed to the dog. Bottiger was kept in constant confinement in Fürstenberg's castle, and, despite all the comforts with which he was surrounded, he nearly went mad, but still he did not succeed in making gold. Bottiger used to give balls and dinners in his prison, and during the past few years had cost the King forty thousand thalers. When Lady Cosel succeeded Princess Teschen the famous alchemist was confined in a tower in the castle, where he busied himself preparing prescriptions for making gold. Great was the expectation of the Court, and none doubted that Bottiger would succeed at last. The evening of the day on which Zaklika sought the protection of the fool the King, accompanied by Vitzthum, Fürstenberg, and the Countesses Reuss and Vitzthum, supped with Lady Cosel. After supper, Frölich, being called to entertain the company, imitated the alchemist, and brought in some dirt in a crucible. Such a joke caused Augustus to look gloomy. Cosel, who had heard something about Bottiger, began to inquire about him in a whisper. The King was unwilling to speak of the matter, but to please his favourite he told her all about the alchemist, what a valuable man he was, and how they always kept watch over him, lest he should escape. "Your Majesty," said Frölich, "so long as he is not watched by a very strong man, the possibility is that he will escape. Your Majesty alone would be a proper guard for him, or a man equally strong--but such an one it would be impossible to find, did we search throughout the whole world." "There you are mistaken," said Augustus; "I have at my Court a man as strong as myself." "I have never heard of him." It was in this way that Augustus was reminded of Zaklika. "And what does this Hercules look like?" inquired Cosel. "Summon him," commanded the King. Poor Raymond, directly he entered the King's presence, made use of the opportunity to ask for his discharge, but Augustus shook his head. "I cannot discharge you," said he, "for I have need of your services. I have a treasure which I intend to trust to your strength and honesty. From this moment you belong to the court of Madame Cosel; you will watch over her safety, and risk your life for her if necessary." Zaklika could scarcely believe his ears; he blushed, and said nothing. Chance had served him better than the fool. Madame Cosel was much surprised, and she also blushed, for she remembered her meetings with him at Laubegast. However, she was careful not to say a word about them, and so Zaklika obtained the position he had so coveted. CHAPTER IX. The reign of Countess Cosel (she had already obtained the title of Francis I.) promised to be a long one. Having obtained a written promise of marriage from the King, she considered herself a second Queen, and as such she acted. She was almost always in Augustus' company, and she was ready alike for a journey or for war. No peril caused her the least alarm. Soon she knew his character, and was able to discern all the threads of intrigue. She kept him constantly entertained by her calmness of mind and unfailing gaiety; she ruled over him, and gained fresh influence over him every day. It was soon clear to every one that Cosel was invincible. If the frivolous King forgot her for a few moments, she knew perfectly how to hasten out to meet him and within a few hours had regained her former influence over him. Her beauty seemed to increase rapidly. In vain did jealous women look for some change in her appearance, for some weariness in her manner, she bloomed continually, as though perpetual youth had been granted her. The following year, the King ordered a palace to be built for her, near to the castle. This building was a masterpiece of art. It was called the Palace of the Four Seasons, for there were different apartments for the different seasons; cool rooms for summer, and bright, warm, and sunny ones for winter. The former were adorned with marble, the latter with tapestry. The most costly and valuable articles that Europe could supply in the way of furniture, trinkets, carpets, dresses, &c., were to be found here. The army could not be paid, but the palace was marvellous. A splendid ball was given as a house-warming, and Countess Cosel, covered with diamonds, victorious, and looking like some beautiful goddess, leaned on the King's arm, whom, in secret, she called her husband. Frivolous Augustus, although not entirely faithful, yet loved Cosel best of all. She was indeed most bewitching, and foreigners who saw her at the zenith of her glory spoke of her with enthusiasm. Cosel extended her influence, and made friends with great ability, but she could not overcome the jealousy and fear of those who had any reason to be afraid of her. In vain the clergy, scandalized at the King's open attachment to her, began to preach against beautiful Bathsheba, and one day Gerber, a famous preacher of those times, spoke against her so strongly that there was murmuring in church. Throughout the whole day nothing was spoken of but Cosel Bathsheba. In the evening the King's favourite was informed of the attack that had been made on her by the preacher. Augustus, coming into her apartment, found her weeping. "What is the matter, my beautiful goddess?" he exclaimed, seizing her hands. "Your Majesty, I beseech you for justice," she replied, sobbing. "You say that you love me, then protect me from public insult." "What is the matter?" asked the King uneasily. "I ask for the punishment of Gerber! An example must be made of this arrogant priest, who does not even respect the crown. Gerber said I was Bathsheba." Augustus smiled. "I am not Bathsheba, I have no wish to be her! I am your wife, my lord! You must punish him," cried Anna, kneeling before him. But Augustus only answered kindly,-- "A priest can say anything he likes once a week, and I can do nothing to prevent him. Did he pronounce a single word outside the church, I would punish him. The church shelters him." Gerber was not punished, but he made no further mention of Bathsheba. During those most disastrous years that followed, the King's love increased. The wild Charles XII., a severe and merciless soldier, with hair cut short, and wearing enormous boots that reached higher than his knees, persecuted the King covered in velvet and lace, who skirmished against him clad in golden armour. Many marvels were told about him. Augustus listened, and was silent. The Saxon Army was defeated. Despite the exertions of Flemming, Prebendowski, and Dombski, the prestige of the most magnificent monarch in Europe was diminishing in Poland. Countess Königsmark, a former favourite, sent over a secret mission, but could accomplish nothing. Charles XII. had no desire to speak either with her or with any one else. Good fortune abandoned Augustus II. Bottiger could not make gold, Hoym was unable to supply it, and Cosel wanted millions. The people, not wishing to serve in the army, ran away and hid themselves in the mountains, whilst the preachers vehemently denounced the robbery of the country. The nobility, although very respectful, resisted paying such heavy taxes. The King was frequently in a very bad humour, but it never lasted long, for Cosel smiled and her lord's face brightened. Countess Cosel had no allies, but she did not want them, she felt she was stronger than them all. The courtiers were frightened. Vitzthum alone still enjoyed the favours of the King and his favourite, for he cared not for politics, and loved Augustus like a brother. The years passed one after the other, full of various incidents. Fortune was not yet tired of persecuting this most magnificent of monarchs. The Swedes were victorious, and threatened to drive him from his throne. Augustus resisted as best he could, grieved, and endeavoured to counterbalance adversity by indulging in merry-making. But hunting parties, banquets, balls, masquerades, and theatres, all were suddenly interrupted by the news that the Swedes had invaded Saxony. Charles XII. had pursued the enemy into his own country. Fear seized on every one. After the defeat at Frauenstadt isolated groups of deserters returned, and these were captured and hanged, or shot down, for not having done their duty. On September 1st Charles XII. invaded Saxony at the head of twenty thousand men. It was impossible to fight against them, so they were obliged to feed them. Augustus' small army escaped to Würzburgh. Dresden, Sizendorf, Königstein, and Sonnenstein had garrisons. With Charles XII. came the new King of Poland, Stanislaus Leszczynski. Dresden was deserted. The Queen went to her family at Bayreuth, her mother went to Magdeburg, and then to Denmark. Augustus was obliged to resign the crown of Poland in favour of Stanislaus Leszczynski, and in 1706 a treaty was signed at Altranstadt, but the Swedes did not leave Saxony. During the war, and all the bloody horrors that accompanied it, Augustus remained still the same; love played the most important part in his life. He lost kingdoms, but he conquered hearts. He still loved the Countess Cosel, but whenever he was absent from her, he led a life of dissipation. Now, more than ever, he required distraction, and his courtiers, who wished to get rid of Cosel, did everything they could to displace her in his affections. Fürstenberg, Countess Reuss, and the whole clique of her enemies, disappointed in their ambitions, did their best to procure her downfall. But, confident in her beauty, Cosel cared nothing for their efforts. She only smiled at their vain attempts. Her relations with the King were by this time further strengthened by the birth of a daughter. The proud woman persuaded herself that Augustus could not find another like her; she alone was capable of participating in his pleasures, and, besides, she was afraid of neither firing, mad riding, nor campaigning. Yet, while she was with him in Warsaw, the King betrayed her with the daughter of a French wine merchant. Having learnt what had occurred, Anna threatened the King that she would shoot him, but Augustus only laughed, kissed her hands, and obtained forgiveness. In truth, despite his side wooings, the King loved Anna best, she alone was able to amuse him, and he was happiest when with her. The war, the devastation of the country, the loss of the Polish crown, did not diminish any portion of Cosel's luxury. Amidst all these calamities the King played the rôle of demi-god with a serene countenance. From the clatter of arms, Augustus, after having signed a shameful treaty, returned to Dresden, and the carriage had scarcely stopped in the courtyard of the castle, when he sprang out and rushed to Cosel's apartment. At the door of her room he found the faithful Zaklika, leaning against a chair, plunged in deep thought. Seeing the King, Raymond sprang to his feet, and stopped him. "Your Majesty, the Countess is ill; she expects to be delivered." The King pushed him aside and entered. There was silence in all the rooms. At the door of the chamber Augustus heard the sound of a baby crying. Cosel, white as marble, exhausted by suffering, and unable to utter a word, stretched forth both her hands and pointed towards the infant. The King took it in his arms, and kissed it. Then he sat down beside the bed, and covered his face with his hands. "Anna," said he, "the world will look on me with contempt, and will cease to love me. Good fortune has deserted Augustus; I am conquered, defeated!" "Augustus," said Anna, sobbing, "I shall love you more than ever, now you are unhappy." "I need such a consolation," rejoined the King gloomily. "My enemies pursue me, my allies are helpless. Every one bows to the victors. I am indeed most miserable." Thus an hour passed; the sick woman needed rest. The King left her, and was speedily surrounded by generals and ministers, Flemming, Fürstenberg, Plug, Hoym, and others, who all rushed to him, terrified at the calamities that had fallen upon Saxony. They all looked at him, searching for traces of grief. But egotism had stifled all feeling in him; so long as he himself was well, he cared nothing for the rest; he did not even blush. On the 15th of December Augustus disappeared. He, Plug, and one servant rode to Leipzic to see Charles XII., for the King was convinced that if his stern adversary saw the serenity of his face and the magnificence of his apparel, he would grant him better terms. There could not have been a greater contrast than that presented by these two enemies. Charles XII. looked like a Puritan, Augustus like a courtier of Louis XIV. They saluted with great cordiality, and kissed each other. Their private conversation lasted for an hour, and by the time it was ended Augustus looked pale and exhausted. That day spent with Charles XII. weighed heavily on the King, and he never spoke of it to any one. The following day Charles returned his visit; the treaty, however, remained unchanged. The year that followed was a very hard one for the King, who was anxious to get rid of the Swedes, even at a great sacrifice. Augustus spent many weary days, travelling between Altranstadt, Moritzburg, and Leipzic, trying to obtain the ratification of the treaty. Augustus and Charles met frequently, but the latter never wished to talk about politics; his secretaries, Piper and Cedermhiolm, were for that. The treaty was eventually ratified, but still the Swedes did not think of leaving the country. Without counting the burden of the enemy camping in his country, the poor King really had a great deal to do. He hunted, loved, and entangled himself in the intrigues of his courtiers in order to forget his own misery. But from time to time his serenity was clouded by Cosel's outbursts of jealousy. One day during her confinement, as the King was sitting by her bedside, a servant came with the news that letters of importance had just arrived. Augustus wished to go and read them, but Anna, ill and capricious, prevailed on him to stay with her, and to allow the Secretary, Bose, to come to her chamber and read them. The King yielding to her despotic wish, Herr Bose was introduced. He began by making His Majesty such a profound bow that his wig touched the floor. He paid the same mark of respect to the sick lady, who, wrapped up in lace, looked like a pale pink rose among snow. Herr Bose whispered to the King,-- "Urgent, from Warsaw." They both went to the window. Cosel, who had caught the word Warsaw, looked at the King's face intently, trying to read there the contents of the papers. With great respect, Herr Bose handed the King letter after letter. At first they were all large, and sealed with great seals. Cosel did not budge, but remained with her head resting quietly on both her hands. Suddenly Bose whispered to the King, and handed him a small letter. The King opened it, read it, smiled, blushed, and then glanced involuntarily at Countess Cosel. Anna was sitting up in bed. "What is in that letter?" she asked. "State business," replied the King. "May I see it?" "No!" said the King coolly, continuing his reading. Anna's face flushed, and, forgetful of the Secretary's presence, she sprang out of bed, and seized the letter. The King grew confused, and looked at the old man, who was likewise greatly embarrassed. This violent scene so surprised him that he knew not what to do. Cosel devoured the letter with her eyes, and then tore it into fragments. Her presentiments were correct; the letter was from Henriette Duval, for whom the King had betrayed Cosel at Warsaw. She had written to her royal lover, telling him that she had been delivered of a daughter, who afterwards became the famous Countess Orzelska. The mother ended the letter by asking what she was to do with the child. "Drown her!" screamed Cosel. The King laughed, Anna wept, Bose bowed and began a retreat towards the door. "Cosel, for Heaven's sake, be quiet," said the King, coming over to her. "What?" she screamed. "You dare to betray me; you to whom I consecrated everything!" It was not the first scene of the kind, but this time it lasted longer than ever before. It was in vain that Augustus kissed her hands, promising everything. "What is it you wish me to do?" he exclaimed. "If you write a single word to that impertinent woman, I shall take the post, and go straight to Warsaw. I will kill both mother and child. I swear I will!" To pacify her, the King promised everything. He would have nothing further to do with her; would forget her existence; would leave the unfortunate woman to the caprice of fortune. CHAPTER X. No one would ever have known of that scene, for it was Bose's policy always to keep his tongue behind his teeth, had not the weary King gathered a few of his companions together, that he might find distraction in their conversation. After drinking a second and a third bumper, the King began to laugh and look towards Fürstenberg. "What a pity," said he, "that you did not bring those papers this morning, instead of Bose; perhaps you would have made it up with Cosel had you seen her as that old man had the good fortune to do." "But the Countess has not yet left her bed," returned the Prince. "She sprang from her bed, though, to tear the letter poor Henriette had sent me, from my hand. She is so jealous, that I should not be surprised if one day she were to shoot me." Fürstenberg looked round cautiously, that he might be sure that only those who hated Cosel were present, then he said,-- "Your Majesty, if the Countess Cosel is so jealous, she should be careful to give you no cause for jealousy." The King slowly raised his head, frowned, thrust out his lips, and replied coldly,-- "The person who dares to make such assertions should weigh his words well, and carefully consider the consequences. You must explain yourself." The Prince glanced round at his companions. "I am ready to justify my words. All of us here present have seen how the Countess conducted herself during your Majesty's absence. The palace was always full of guests and admirers, amongst whom the Count Lecherenne enjoyed especial favour. Sometimes he was seen leaving the palace about midnight." The King listened with apparent indifference, but those who knew him well, could see that the dart had stung him. "It is the voice of jealousy speaking through you," said Augustus. "You do not like Cosel, and you would be glad to see her shut up in one room. Naturally she longed for my return, and required some distraction, and you must allow that Lecherenne is amusing." "Your Majesty," said the Prince, with well-feigned simplicity, "I had no intention to be an informer. I enjoy your Majesty's favour, and I do not care much about that of the Countess. But, being your Majesty's devoted servant, I should be deeply grieved to see your great love repaid with ingratitude." Augustus looked gloomy. The wine cups were full, but no one raised one to his lips; the conversation stopped, and the King rose. Fürstenberg understood that he had gone too far. Whenever Augustus wished to get rid of a favourite, he was glad to hear something against her. His anger on the present occasion was a proof that as yet Cosel was not an object of indifference to him. Not wishing to talk any more, Augustus nodded to his guests, and retired to his chamber. Fürstenberg and the other courtiers regarded each other sorrowfully--they feared the consequences of such a bold attack. But an unseen witness had overheard the conversation; this was none other than Zaklika, whom Countess Cosel had sent with a letter to the King. Wearying of her solitude, she had written to the King, begging him to come and see her, and had sent the faithful youth with the message. No one save Zaklika was allowed to enter the room while the King was merrymaking; unseen, he had entered the room, and stood behind the great side-board, waiting until the conversation was ended to deliver his letter. Thus he had overheard everything. The danger threatening Anna gave him sufficient courage to leave the room without handing the King the letter; he rushed back to his mistress's palace, and tapped at the door of her chamber. She had just risen for the first time. The moment he entered, she knew by his pale face that something had happened. "Speak!" she exclaimed. "Has something happened to the King?" "No," replied Zaklika, and then he repeated all that he had heard. Cosel listened, blushing, confused and offended; when he had finished, she took the letter from him, and signed to him to withdraw. She left her chamber and entered the drawing-room, the walls of which were covered with pictures representing scenes in the life of the King. One of them was a picture of the King's coronation. As Cosel was gazing on it, her eyes filled with tears, steps were heard approaching--it was Augustus. He walked quickly, and looked pale and angry. As though she had not noticed his entrance, Anna rose and approached the picture. "Well," said he angrily, "so you condescend to look at my portrait? Surely it is a mistake? I cannot believe that I still receive such honour." "Your Majesty," replied Anna calmly, "it would be ridiculous to suppose, that, being aware of all that makes you superior to other men, any one else should attract my glance after you. The most frivolous woman would be incapable of doing so. How could your Majesty have such suspicions?" "Yes," interrupted the King with trembling voice, "until to-day I flattered myself, I thought--but appearances are deceiving, and the caprices of a woman are in most cases difficult to understand." The King's angry tones rejoiced Anna, for she was sure his jealousy meant that he still loved her, but she pretended to be offended. "I do not understand your Majesty," she said. "Will your Majesty please to speak clearly, so that I may have a chance of justifying myself?" "To justify," interrupted the King passionately, "there are some deeds that cannot be justified. You wish to deceive me, but I have proofs." "Proofs against me!" exclaimed the Countess, wringing her hands. "Augustus! You torture me! Speak! I am innocent." She threw her arms round his neck; he tried to push her away, but she grasped his hand and began to weep. "Have mercy upon me! Speak! Let me at least know why I suffer. Who has dared to slander me?" It took quite a long time to pacify the King, but her tears softened him, and he made her seat herself beside him. "Very well, then," said he, "I will tell you everything. Fürstenberg told me that the whole city was scandalized at your conduct towards Lecherenne, whom you received every day, during my absence; he used to spend whole evenings with you." Cosel put on the air of an offended woman. "Yes," she replied, "it is all true, Lecherenne is in love with me, but I laugh at him. He amused me with his love, but I do not think I sinned in listening to him. Your Majesty is mistaken in thinking that it is enough for any one to be in love with me, to have my love in return. But it is dreadful," continued she, wringing her hands again, "to think that such a person as Fürstenberg can shake your Majesty's faith in my love." She sank back on the sofa, weeping bitterly. The King was completely disarmed; kneeling before her, he began to kiss her. "Cosel, forgive me," he pleaded, "I should not be jealous, if I did not love you. Fürstenberg is the most poisonous snake at my court. Forgive me! but I do not like your being even suspected." Anna continued to weep. "Sire," said she, sobbing, "remember that if you do not punish the slanderers, they will soon attack your own person, which is so sacred to us." "Be content," replied the King. "I give you my word that I will not suffer any one to slander you, my dearest." Thus the scene ended. Cosel was obliged to promise that she would not let Fürstenberg know that she had learned of the accusation he had made against her. Thanks to Zaklika, Cosel was victorious. The pacified King returned to his castle, but throughout the next day he did not speak a word to Fürstenberg. The Grand Master of the court, Augustus Lecherenne, received an order to leave Dresden within twenty-four hours. This was such an unexpected blow to the young Count, that he was unable to believe the tidings. He rushed immediately to see Countess Cosel. When Zaklika went to announce his arrival to her, she blushed from fear and uneasiness. "Tell him," said she calmly, "that I cannot receive those whom the King has banished--tell him, also," added she, lowering her voice, "that I am sorry he has to go." Saying this, she pulled from her finger a diamond ring that had been given her by the King. "Give him this ring from me," she whispered, turning her eyes away from the faithful servant. Zaklika turned pale. "Countess," he ventured to say, in a muffled voice, "kindly excuse me, but this ring is from the King." Cosel, who could not brook the slightest contradiction, turned towards him with a threatening glance and frowning brow. "I do not ask you for advice, I give you an order and you have to execute it," said she. Zaklika left the room, confused; he waited for a few moments behind the door. A few years back, a Bohemian noble had given him a costly ring, similar to the one he now held, as a reward for his great strength. Some presentiment caused him to change the rings; he gave his own to Count Lecherenne, and hid the ring the Countess had given him, close to his heart. A few days later, the King entered Cosel's room while she was dressing. As it was always her custom to wear that ring, the jealous lover immediately noticed its absence. "Where is my ring?" he asked. Cosel began to search for it, while the King's face grew crimson. "Where is it?" he repeated. Cosel turned to her servant. "I have not noticed it on your finger for four days," whispered the maid. Augustus counted the days. It was exactly four days since Count Lecherenne had left Dresden, and had gone to the palace to take leave of Cosel, a fact of which the King had been duly informed. "Do not waste time searching for it," said he ironically, "I can tell you where it is." Cosel looked confused. The King broke forth in fury. He did not wish to hear any explanation. The servants rushed out terrified, for the King's voice resounded loudly throughout the palace. Fear took possession of every one. Cosel was just ready to faint, when a knock was heard at the door, and, looking up, she saw the pale, sad face of Zaklika. "I beg to be excused for entering," said he, "but the servants have informed me that they cannot find the ring, which about an hour since I picked up on the floor, and which I was only waiting for a proper opportunity to return." The King glanced at the ring, and was silent. Cosel did not even look at Zaklika, she said not a word to Augustus, but, placing the ring slowly on her finger, she cast an angry glance at her lover, and walked into another room. That was quite sufficient to calm the King, and make him seek her pardon on his knees. He remained the whole day at the palace, thereby hindering Cosel from summoning Zaklika, and demanding an explanation. It was almost midnight when the King retired to his cabinet, where his ministers were awaiting him. The King had barely quitted the palace, before Cosel rang the bell, and ordered the servant to send Zaklika to her. As was his wont, the faithful Raymond was sitting in the ante-room, reading a half-torn book. On seeing the servant he shivered. He had saved Cosel, but he knew his action would be regarded as a sin. Tremblingly he entered the lady's room. Cosel, beautiful as a goddess, and proud as an absolute sovereign, was pacing up and down the room. She frowned on seeing Zaklika, and stood before him threateningly. "Who gave you permission to alter my orders?" she inquired. Zaklika stood for a few moments with his eyes drooped, then, raising them towards the Countess's face, he replied,-- "I am guilty, Madam. You remember Laubegast, and the devotion with which I gazed on you from afar. This sentiment, cherished until now, explains everything to you. I desired to save you." "I require help from no one!" exclaimed Cosel severely. "I required you to obey me, that is all, and I despise the sentiments of a servant! They are offensive to me." Zaklika's head drooped. "Who told you that I cared more about your helping me to get out of trouble than I did about Count Lecherenne not receiving the ring?" "The Count received the ring," replied Zaklika, although he suffered dreadfully at receiving such hard words. "What ring?" demanded Cosel. "One similar to yours. I had received one from Count Starenberg, and I gave it to the Count!" Cosel was astonished. "You deserve some reward," she whispered. "Not a reward, but forgiveness," said Zaklika. "I could not accept a reward." He retreated towards the door, and stood leaning against it. Cosel watched him for some time. Evidently some change had come over her sentiments, but pride prevailed. She approached Zaklika, and handed him the ring that had been intended for Lecherenne. Then Raymond woke, as from a dream, and seeing the ring in her white hand, he said,-- "I cannot accept it! It would always remind me that you were cruel to me." The ring disappeared, and instead, the white hand approached Zaklika's lips. He kissed it rapturously, and then rushed from the room like a madman, and Countess Cosel was left alone, thoughtful, and with tears in her beautiful dark eyes. "It is thus that poor men love," said she to herself. "Kings are different." All this time the Swedes were still in Saxony. Charles XII. was heartless and sardonic towards the King; severe towards the nobility; and a grievous burden to the country, for his soldiers went about catching men and enrolling them in the Swedish army. The treaty of peace had been signed, but Charles XII. would not leave Saxony. So many humiliations, so many sacrifices, exhausted the patience of all, and caused despair in every heart. The arrogance of the Swedish monarch, who rode through the country attended by twenty or forty soldiers, disgusted every one. One morning, when the King was busy presiding over a council of his ministers, Count Schulenberg was announced. The old man was invited to take part in the council, but he had no desire to speak, and begged a private audience. When they were alone, the King inquired,-- "General, do you bring me the good tidings that the Swedes are going to leave us?" "I am sorry that I cannot bring your Majesty such good tidings. But there might be a way of getting rid of them." "The only way I know of would be if Heaven sent us its army, with the archangel Michael at its head." "Your Majesty," interrupted Schulenberg, "I am sure that with a little desperate courage we could rid ourselves of them, without the help of the angels. There are twenty thousand Swedes scattered throughout Saxony; it is but a mere handful, that one man's daring renders terrible. Let us catch him, and the rest have lost their value." "How can you say that? Catch him during peace, when he trusts us?" "That is what makes our vengeance possible," replied Schulenberg. "I have reconnoitred his quarters. They are very badly guarded. I could attack them during the night, and seize him. I will convey him to Königstein; if they besiege me, I shall not surrender. Then the King's head will answer for my safety, and he will sign the treaty, as we wish it to be signed." Augustus listened attentively. "Suppose you should not succeed?" he asked. "In that case, the blame will fall on me, and not on your Majesty," replied the General. "I desire to save my country from the invaders." "General," said the King, "I think you are dreaming. You know that I respect knightly customs, and I cannot consent to your plans--I cannot! I hate him, I should like to strangle him if I could get him into my hands, but I cannot allow him to be attacked during the night. General, this is not a business for Augustus the Strong!" Schulenberg looked at him gloomily. "Have they always acted in a knightly fashion towards your Majesty?" "Ruffians such as they can do what they please; they are barbarians. But Augustus, whom people call the Strong, and whom monarchs style the Magnificent, will not stoop to employ such means." The old soldier twisted his moustache, and saluted. "But suppose some insubordinate soldier were to do it?" he asked. "I should be obliged to defend my enemy, and to release him," exclaimed Augustus. "That is very noble and knightly," said Schulenberg sarcastically, "but--" He did not finish, but saluted respectfully. The King took his hand. "My dear General, give up that idea, and do not say another word about it. I do not wish for victory at such a cost." Schulenberg looked at him with his pale blue eyes, as though he would ask whether the imprisonment of Imhoff and Pfingstein, and the surrender of Patkul, about which Augustus had not hesitated, were nobler deeds than this. The King must have understood the mute reproach, for he blushed. After a moment of sad silence, Schulenberg said,-- "We must try and get out of this difficulty by some act of despair. We must risk our lives. We have nothing else to lose. We have lost a crown that has cost us millions; the other is almost broken--what can happen further?" "What can happen?" said Augustus. "The arrogant youth will go further. A few victories have given him a mad boldness, and he will be crushed in some crazy enterprise for which he has not properly calculated his strength. Why should we stain our name by trying to hasten that which must most surely come to pass? Why should we not bear our adversity patiently, so that in the end we may profit by that which some one else has accomplished?" "But in the meantime, Saxony suffers dreadfully," said the General. "Yes, the poor people suffer," exclaimed the King. "But the people are like the grass that is trodden down by the cattle; it is greener the next year." "But they are people," said Schulenberg. "The crowd should not be taken into consideration," rejoined the King. Silence followed, and the General took his leave. When he was gone, the King threw himself into a chair, and was soon deep in thought. After the surrender of Patkul his chivalrous sentiment was at the least very peculiar. CHAPTER XI. Charles XII.'s defiant wanderings through Saxony had given Cosel the idea of seizing him, and thus avenging the humiliations of her oppressed country. It was she who had suggested the idea to Schulenberg. She did not mention it to the King first, for she was sure he would not listen to her plans. She therefore was obliged to plot alone. She gained Flemming over to her side, and although he disliked the favourite, he nevertheless promised to aid her patriotic plan. Schulenberg promised it the support of his cavalry. Cosel declared that once the deed was accomplished, although Augustus might be indignant at first, he would soon be obliged to give way. Still Schulenberg was commissioned to find out what Augustus would think of such a scheme. Although he said not a word to any one on leaving the King's presence, they could see by his face that the plan had been rejected. But in spite of this, Cosel was not discouraged. She felt strong enough to fight the King himself. Augustus had no secrets from her, and the same evening he told her of his conversation with Schulenberg. Hearing which, the Countess exclaimed,-- "What? Your Majesty does not wish to avenge his wrongs?" "Let us talk no more of the matter," said the King, frowning. Seeing it was not a good time to press the subject, Cosel turned the conversation, and told him all the court gossip. For a long time she had been urging the King to take her to see the alchemist. Bottiger was at this time shut up in a tower of the castle, but although kept in perpetual imprisonment, he was always treated with the respect due to a man from whom gold is expected. Fürstenberg was for ever persuading the King that their object would soon be accomplished, and he was always at work with the prisoner, either in his own laboratory or in that of the alchemist. Bottiger's lodging was very comfortable, almost magnificent. He had a garden filled with flowers, and there were plenty of silver dishes on his table, at which he frequently entertained his numerous guests. Seeing he could not possibly escape, he succeeded in making Fürstenberg believe that he was seriously thinking of how to manufacture gold. He exhausted all his formulas, read all the books on alchemy,--but every effort proved fruitless. Knowing the great influence Cosel possessed, the prisoner sought to gain her favour, sending her every day the most beautiful flowers from his garden. The Countess was anxious to see him--the King postponed the visit. But that day she was so persistent, so tender, and, at the same time, so beautiful, that Augustus rose, and offering her his arm, said,-- "Come, let us go and see Bottiger." There was no one at hand who could be sent to announce the King's visit, but, chancing to look through the window, Augustus saw Frölich the fool, who was trying to rid himself of the courtiers, who were bent on teasing him. The King called him. "A most suitable messenger," said he to Cosel. "I will send him on before us, so as to give the alchemist a chance of dressing decently; and also to make sure that we do not find him in improper company." Bottiger, whose good graces were considered most important, received even the fair sex. Frölich appeared on the threshold. "I appoint you my chamberlain until the evening," said the King, laughing, "so you must not say that you carry the key in vain. Go and tell Bottiger that the goddess Diana will visit him to-day." "In company with Apollo," added Cosel. Frölich went out with much gravity, and proceeded by way of the balcony to the corner tower. A gay company was assembled round the alchemist's table that day. Glasses and witty sayings were circulating freely. Amongst the guests were Prince Fürstenberg, Secretary Nehmitz, and an ardent admirer of alchemy, Tschirahaussen. The thick walls of the tower were covered with silk brocade, brightened by many mirrors, and enriched by gilded furniture and bronzes. A small staircase connected this room with the laboratory beneath, and with the sleeping room above. Bottiger was distinguished among his guests by his beautiful figure and merry face, on which intelligence and wit were plainly visible. He was carefully dressed, and looked more like a nobleman than a man who was shut up in prison and obliged to wither over crucibles. He was a most jovial companion at the dinner-table, a most eloquent wit in society. The company was just drinking his health, and the apothecary was ready to respond to the toast, when the King's ambassador, with his pointed hat, and this day a red swallow-tail coat, appeared on the threshold. "Ah! Frölich," exclaimed the party. "What do you want?" inquired Bottiger. "I am not a common Frölich to-day," replied the fool gravely. "It has pleased His Majesty to appoint me as his chamberlain for four-and-twenty hours, and in fulfilment of my duties I am come to announce to you that Diana, accompanied by Apollo, will honour Herr Bottiger with a visit. _Dixi!_" He rapped with his stick. All the guests sprang to their feet. Bottiger and Nehmitz began to clear the table. The window was thrown open, and a servant despatched for fresh flowers. The guests disappeared by the side balconies, for they knew that the king would come by way of the back balcony. The alchemist, Fürstenburg, and Nehmitz alone remained to greet them. The furniture was hastily placed in proper order, the floor was strewn with flowers, and Bottiger stood on the threshold with a bouquet. Soon the room was brightened by the arrival of Cosel in the full splendour of her beauty. The prisoner knelt. "We always receive a goddess kneeling," said he, "and the best sacrifice we can offer her is scented flowers." Cosel smilingly accepted the flowers her host offered, and then looked around inquisitively, wondering that there was not the least indication of the great work that was in progress. The King followed her, and explained that they were not in the laboratory. "But I should like to see that mysterious sanctuary," said she. "Madam," replied Bottiger, "it is such a fearful den, the air is so unhealthy, and the aspect so sad, that a goddess should not descend into such a hell." "But woman's curiosity!" sighed Cosel, and looked at Augustus. The King looked at Fürstenberg; but the Prince only shrugged his shoulders. "The Countess is not accustomed to such dark stairs," added the alchemist. But Cosel replied,-- "The goddess commands, guide us!" Saying this, she turned towards the door; but Bottiger pressed a button in the opposite wall, and immediately a secret door flew open, and beside this the alchemist stood, candelabra in his hand. Augustus offered no opposition, and they all descended the dark, narrow stairs, and entered a room, the walls of which were black with smoke. Against its thick walls were several stoves, on which stood cold retorts and crucibles; there were several articles of furniture of strange shapes, and a number of bottles and jars. On the tables lay large folios with brass clasps, rolls of parchment, and various kinds of tools. The apartment had such a strange, gloomy, and mysterious aspect that it frightened the Countess, who was leaning on the King's arm. Having raised the light, Bottiger stood silently watching them. Augustus looked round the laboratory that contained such wonderful hopes with a certain degree of respect. Suddenly he advanced to the table, and his gaze rested on an object that lay among the papers. It was a cup of the colour of jasper. The King, who was a great admirer of china, thought it a product of Japan. "Bottiger," he exclaimed, "that looks like Japanese china, although it is of a different shape to theirs." "Your Majesty," replied the host, bowing reverently, "that is my plaything. I tried to make china from the lime they brought me wherewith to make gold." The King took the cup, examined it carefully, and then held it against the light. "You say you made this?" Bottiger bent down and picked up several fragments, then from beneath the papers he drew forth several saucers, which he handed to the King and Cosel. "Why, it is the most beautiful china in the world!" exclaimed Augustus. Bottiger was silent. "You are truly a discoverer! You have found out a wonderful secret! For God's sake, make porcelain for me! I paid fifty thousand thalers for one Chinese service. The Prussian robbed me; he took away a company of my best-looking soldiers: you can make porcelain, and you say nothing about it!" "It was only an experiment." "A most successful experiment! Bottiger, you shall make the first service for Diana!" Seeing the King's enthusiasm, Fürstenberg and Nehmitz both approached to look at the wonderful discovery, but the Prince was dissatisfied, for he feared the alchemist would neglect the gold for the porcelain. The King rejoiced more over this discovery than he would have done had he been told that the Swedes had left Saxony. He took the cup, and, after again expressing his great satisfaction, turned towards the door. To save the King and Cosel the trouble of ascending the narrow stairs, Bottiger opened the door that led directly into his garden, from whence they returned to the back balcony. That was a memorable day in the history of Saxony, which in Bottiger's accidental discovery of an art which had long been kept secret under pain of death, had indeed gained a veritable gold mine. A few days later, news of a more dramatic character shocked the whole of Dresden. Although Schulenberg had given up all idea of seizing the person of Charles XII., the more daring Cosel, assisted by Flemming, had not the slightest intention of relinquishing it. Every day, the King of Sweden gave them an opportunity of carrying out their bold plan; but the number of persons necessary for its satisfactory accomplishment was lacking. On September 1st, the same day on which he and the Emperor signed the ratification of the treaty granting freedom to Protestants, Charles XII. left Altrandstadt. He journeyed towards the North, following his army, which, under the command of Rhenskyold, had begun to leave Saxony for Silesia and Poland. The greater part had already left Saxony, but a few regiments still remained at Leipzic. By September 6th, Charles had reached Oberan, near Meissen. It was such a beautiful day that he went out riding; as they ascended a hill, one of his followers directed his attention to the spires of the Dresden churches. For some time Charles remained gazing at them, thoughtful and silent, then, addressing the few officers who accompanied him, he said,-- "It is so near, we must go there." It was between three and four in the afternoon when the unexpected guests arrived at the gates of Dresden. Finding the gate closed, Charles XII. told the officer in command that he had come with messages from the Swedish King. Hearing this, the officer conducted him and his suite to the guard-room. Now it happened that at the same moment Flemming passed by, and he was greatly alarmed at recognizing the King. At this hour Augustus was usually to be found taking exercise in the armoury. This afternoon Countess Cosel was also there, admiring the skill and strength displayed by her lover in breaking iron. Her merry laugh was re-echoing through the hall, when a knock was heard at the door. "Come in!" called the King. He turned towards the door as he spoke, but started, and then appeared as though changed to a block of stone on seeing his enemy, Charles XII. Flemming, who followed him, made signs to Countess Cosel, that he only awaited her signal, to summon the soldiers and seize their important guest. Augustus was still standing motionless, when Charles greeted him cheerfully, exclaiming,-- "Well, brother! how are you?" Countess Cosel turned purple, and, seizing the King by the arm, whispered,-- "For God's sake, consent!" It seemed as though Charles XII. had overheard her words, for his face grew stern, and Augustus, turning to the Countess, said stiffly,-- "I beg you; I command you to leave us!" The Countess, with her accustomed vivacity, was about to make some reply, when the King, frowning angrily, exclaimed,-- "Go!" Cosel withdrew, glancing angrily at Charles, who stood quietly looking at the armour. She took Flemming's arm; that courtier's eyes were also glowing with anger. He shrugged his shoulders. Augustus cast on them a glance that commanded them both to be silent, and then greeted his visitor politely,-- "We have heard much talk of your strength," said Charles, sneeringly, "and we should be pleased to see one of those miracles you perform so easily." An iron rod lay on the floor; Augustus raised it. "Give me your hand." said he, smiling, "and do not be afraid, I will not hurt you." Charles extended his broad, rough hands. Twisting the rod with perfect ease, Augustus bound his enemy's hands. The two men looked into each other's eyes. Then Augustus broke the fetters, and threw them on the floor. The Swedish King did not utter a word, but began to inspect the armoury. "You have plenty of arms," said the Swede laconically, "what a pity that you lack men to use them." From the armoury, both Kings proceeded to the palace, as Charles wished to pay his respects to the Queen, for whom he had as great a respect as he had contempt for Augustus. In the meantime, the news that Charles XII. was in Dresden spread rapidly through the city. His name always excited great interest. The Protestants, knowing what he had done for their coreligionists in Silesia, were anxious to see him. That young King, a few years over twenty, was the wonder of all Europe. Count Flemming and all who were attached to Augustus II. were indignant at the boldness of the young hero, who thus set the conquered King at defiance, by coming unarmed into his capital. Flemming and Cosel were furious, and uttered threats of vengeance. The former ordered some of the soldiers to be fetched from the garrison, and wished to capture the enemy, despite the King's prohibition. Anna seized a pistol, and declared she would follow him down the street, and shoot him. The excitement was considerable and universal, and could not fail to be noticed by Augustus and Charles as they passed to the palace. The King alone was perfectly calm, and by his manner commanded every one to keep quiet. He, as well as Charles, noticed the preparations that had been made, but the Swede's courage did not fail him for a moment, neither did he lose his self-possession. He made no attempt to shorten his visit, and as Augustus was pleased to entertain him, perhaps to test his courage, his visit was a long one. He remained for half an hour at the castle, and this gave Flemming plenty of time to collect the soldiers and place them in readiness; then, fearing the King would not consent to his enemy being captured in Dresden, he despatched a detachment of cavalry to capture him on his way to Meissen. While Charles XII. was talking with the Queen, Flemming succeeded in calling Augustus from the room. "Your Majesty," he exclaimed vehemently, "this is the only moment in which we shall be able to avenge all our wrongs. Charles XII. is in your Majesty's hands." "Trusting to my honour," replied Augustus, "therefore not a hair of his head shall be hurt." "It would be ridiculous to show magnanimity to a man who has brought such calamities on your Majesty. I shall capture him, even if I am beheaded for so doing." "There is something far more important than your head to be considered in this matter," replied the King, "and that is my honour as a King. Do not dare to do anything of the sort!" "Then there is nothing further for me to do than to break the sword with which I have served your Majesty." He made a movement as he spoke, as though about to carry out his threat, but Augustus stopped him. "Flemming," said he, sternly, "do not forget that I am here; that this is my business, and that no one commands here except me!" Flemming's wrath was extreme. "Your Majesty will lose another crown by acting thus!" With these words he rushed away, and the King returned quietly to the Queen's apartments, where he had left his guest. Charles XII. did not even look at him as he entered, although he guessed that outside the door he had been the subject of conversation. While this was taking place at the castle, Cosel was watching in the street, waiting to fire at Charles XII. as soon as he appeared. Zaklika endeavoured to dissuade her from her purpose, telling her that the populace would immediately rise in his defence, for Charles was a staunch protector of the Protestants. And indeed this would have been the feeling among the greater portion of the crowd now waiting in the streets. When Charles XII. was ready to depart, Augustus ordered his own horse to be brought, so that he might accompany his guest. The streets were thronged with people, the windows were filled with curious heads, a profound silence reigned, as the two Kings rode along the streets; it seemed as though the waiting multitude held their breath, in their anxiety to catch the conversation of the riders. All eyes were turned towards Charles, who rode calmly along without exhibiting the least sign of feeling or emotion. Beside him rode Augustus, looking gloomy and thoughtful, but at the same time majestic. They turned towards the gate leading to Meissen. The King had sent orders that three cannons should be fired in honour of the Swede. When the first shot was fired, and Charles turned to express his thanks, Augustus touched his hat, and smiled indifferently. At the gate, the cannon were fired a second time. Charles now wished to take leave of his host, but Augustus knew Flemming and his people too well not to suspect that they had prepared some ambush. He knew also that the only way in which he could protect the Swede was by accompanying him until he was out of reach of danger. Augustus accompanied his guest to Neudorf; here they shook hands and parted. Charles XII. galloped on his way, but Augustus sat motionless for a few moments, gazing straight before him, wondering whether after all he had done well in listening to the dictates of honour. He was still waiting there, when Flemming arrived foaming with rage. "Your Majesty," said he, "doubtless thinks that Europe will admire your magnanimity, but if you imagine that it will counterbalance the imprisonment at Patkul, you are greatly mistaken. The people will laugh at such heroism." "Silence, Flemming," cried the King threateningly, then turning his steed, he galloped away alone in the direction of the city. He dismounted at the Palace of the Four Seasons, where he found Cosel even more indignant than Flemming. "Do not come near me!" she exclaimed, sobbing. "You have made a grievous mistake. I do not wish to see you any more. Twenty millions of money, hundreds of thousands of soldiers, the death of your officers, your own shame, all this you might have avenged, and you would not. You were afraid!" The King threw himself on the sofa, and allowed the Countess to storm as she pleased--he did not utter a word. Only when, exhausted by passion, she sank into an arm-chair, he remarked coldly,-- "I had no wish to stain my honour with such a revenge!" The next day, seeing that every one reproached him for his lenity, he summoned a council of war, which being presided over by Flemming, declared that it would have been right to imprison the Swedish King, and force him to sign a fresh treaty, seeing he had so frequently violated all the laws of nations. The King heard them in silence. The Swedish envoy at Vienna, having heard of the council, remarked contemptuously,-- "These people decide on the second day what they should have done the day before." CHAPTER XII. The Swedish King had not yet left Saxony when Augustus began giving splendid festivals, for which he had plenty of time, although not much money. Naturally, Cosel was first at all entertainments, and she ruled King and country despotically. When weary of balls, tournaments, and carouses, Augustus was fond of taking excursions through the country. In Nizyca, in the old Slav lands of Luzyce, there is a very old settlement, situated at the foot of a mountain, called Stolp. This mountain was pushed from out the bowels of the earth by some strange phenomenon of Nature, and its enormous rocks of black basalt stand boldly forth, looking as though they had been hewn by the hands of spirits. On these rocks, which were so hard that iron could not break them, there was built, many centuries ago, a castle, whose business it was to dominate and defend the borough that lay at its feet. From this mountain a wonderful view is obtained; afar to the south, one sees the Saxon and Bohemian mountains covered with forests; to the west, there stand forth the copper mountains of Saxony; nearer are visible those gigantic heights, in form like the pyramids, on which are seated Ditterzbach, Sonnenstein, and Ohorn; to the East one sees the forests and mountains of Hochwald--whilst in the far distance Bohemian villages and towns are visible. In days of yore, the old castle of Stolpen was the property of the Bishops of Meissen, and stood forth to view, magnificent though gloomy, with its pointed towers, which not even thunderbolts could destroy. This castle was surrounded by enormous walls, near it was a large park, and in the adjoining forest game was to be found in abundance. One beautiful day in July, before the heat had set in, horses stood ready before the castle of Dresden. One of Augustus' courtiers had told him of the strange mountain, composed of iron-like rocks, on which the castle of Stolpen stood, and the King, recollecting it, longed to see it. The dew was still wet on the grass and trees, when the King came forth to mount his charger. At the same moment Zaklika appeared with a message from Cosel, inquiring where His Majesty was going. "Tell your mistress," said the King, "that I am going to Stolpen, and that if she choose, she may overtake me; but I am not going to wait until the heat of the day has set in; this will be the case long before she has finished dressing." Cosel had just left her bed, she was angry that the King had not notified her of this excursion; and when Zaklika returned with the answer, she felt hurt that the King was not willing to wait for her. Still she gave order that the horses should be saddled, and some young nobles invited to accompany her. Everything was to be ready in half an hour, for Cosel was determined to show the King that she did not require to take a long time dressing, in order to appear beautiful. She wished to overtake him before he could reach Stolpen. In half an hour the gentlemen invited were ready, and Cosel's white Arab steed, its saddle covered with crimson velvet ornamented with gold, was neighing impatiently. Then the beautiful lady came forth to the astonishment of her admirers. She wore a wonderfully becoming dress. Her hat was blue with white and azure feathers; her bodice was blue embroidered with gold, and a full white skirt, likewise trimmed with gold, completed her costume. She sprang on her horse, impatient to start as soon as possible. Then she welcomed her guests with a gracious smile. "Gentlemen," said she, raising her small hand, in which she held a riding whip whose handle was set with precious stones, "the King has challenged me to race with him. He started half an hour ago, but we must overtake him, even though our horses should die in the attempt, or we should break our own necks. He who cares for me, will follow me!" Having said this, the bold amazon turned her horse towards the gate, and galloped madly down the street. Zaklika and an equerry followed her closely, to be in readiness in case of accident. The others followed after. With the white Arab keeping well ahead, they passed through the old city, and turned to the left towards Stolpen. Fortunately for the party, the high road was broad and sandy, the morning refreshing, and the horses strong and fresh. In silence, the Countess's brilliant cavalcade flew along the road, as though carried by the wind. They passed mountains and groves, meadows and fields. Through the orchards they could see the villages of the Wends, with their houses surrounded by wooden piazzas, and covered with high roofs. From time to time they met a peasant coming along the road, who doffed his cap respectfully at sight of the marvellous apparition, but before he could open his mouth to reply to the question whether he had seen the King, the riders who had asked it had disappeared in clouds of dust. The horses were covered with foam, and, after an hour of mad riding, the equerry besought the Countess to stop and rest. At first she would not listen to him, but in the end she slackened her pace, and the horses stopped in front of an old house. The poor animals were panting and snorting. In the doorway stood an old, yellow-faced, miserable-looking woman, leaning on a stick. She glanced at the riders with indifference, and then turned her face from them. Only once Countess Cosel's eyes and hers met, and the beautiful lady shivered. They asked the old woman about the King, but she only shook her head. "We don't have any kings, our kings are dead!" She spoke slowly and with indifference, and her accent was that of a foreigner. At that moment, a middle-aged man came out of the house; he had long hair, and wore a blue jacket with silver buttons, knee breeches, and stockings. Taking off his hat, he welcomed the guests in pure Saxon German. He told them that it was three-quarters of an hour since the King had passed the house, but that he was riding so fast that it would be impossible to overtake him. Cosel then inquired if there were not a shorter way, but finding there was none, she dismounted, and expressed her intention of resting for a few moments. Thereupon the German offered the company some beer. "Who is that woman?" inquired Cosel, pointing towards the beggar. The German shrugged his shoulders contemptuously: "She is a Slav, a Wendish woman! I cannot get rid of her. She claims that this property used to belong to her father. She lives not far from here in a hut built at the foot of the mountain. I don't know what she lives on; she wanders across the fields muttering, and who knows but it may be some devilish incantations, for she must be a witch. Sometimes of nights when the storm howls she sings, and then we shiver. I cannot chase her away, for she knows how to conjure up devils, who serve her." Then with a sigh, he added,-- "She foretells the future, and she is never mistaken." Cosel turned and looked at the old woman; then she went over to her. She was the only one of the party bold enough; her companions, hearing witchcraft mentioned, had withdrawn to a distance. "What is her name?" she asked the German. The man hesitated, then whispered so low that even she could scarcely hear what he said,-- "Mlawa." The old woman made a movement as though she heard her name; she raised her emaciated head proudly, shook her long, hanging, grey locks, and looked around, as though searching for the bold person who had dared to mention her name. Unheeding the woman's strange manner, Cosel, to the surprise of her companions, went up to the old beggar. For a moment the two women looked into each other's eyes. Cosel was the first to speak. "Who are you?" she asked. "Tell me why you are so poor." Mlawa shook her head. "I am not poor," she replied proudly, "for I have memories of happy years. I am here still on the land that belonged to my family. I am the Queen." "You are a Queen?" laughed Cosel. "Yes, I am a Queen! for the blood of the kings of this land flows in my veins. All things are possible in this world. You, though to-day you are almost a Queen, by to-morrow may be as miserable as I." "Of what kings are you speaking?" inquired Cosel thoughtfully. The old woman raised her hand and pointed to the surrounding country. "All that was ours--all, until you came and took it, and slew us as though we had been wild beasts. We were good; we came with bread, and salt, and song; while you came with iron, fire, and slaughter. And the German race multiplied, and pushed us out of our land. It's my land, and I must die here. From this place my soul will find its way back to my people." "Are you able to tell fortunes?" asked Cosel, urged thereto by feverish curiosity. "That depends," said Mlawa indifferently. "Would you do it for me?" The old woman looked on her pityingly. "Why do you wish your fortune told?" asked she. "Whoever rose as high as you have done can only fall; better not ask!" Cosel paled, but anxious to show that she was courageous, she smiled, though her lips trembled. "I am not afraid of anything," she said, "I can look at happiness, as I can look at the sun; and I shall be able to look into the darkness also." "But suppose the darkness lasts too long?" "It cannot last for ever," rejoined Cosel. "Who can tell?" whispered Mlawa. "Let me see your hand!" she added, stretching forth her own. The Countess retreated a few paces, feeling rather afraid, for in those days every one believed in witchcraft. "Don't be afraid, my beauty," said Mlawa calmly. "I shall not soil your white fingers, I shall only look at them." Cosel drew off her glove, and exhibited to the old woman, a beautiful white hand, glittering with rings. "What a beautiful hand! Worthy to be kissed by kings; but, my child, there are dreadful signs in it. That hand often touched the face that looked on her boldly. Am I right?" Cosel blushed; Mlawa was thoughtful. "What are you going to tell me?" whispered Cosel uneasily. "You are going on towards your destiny. Who has ever avoided his fate? Who has ever seen its precipices? After long happiness, there awaits you a still longer, oh, far longer season of penitence, a rigorous captivity, sleepless nights, unaccustomed tears. Having children, you will be childless; with a husband, you will be a widow, you will be an imprisoned Queen; you will be free, but you will throw away your freedom--you will be--oh! don't ask me--" Cosel was as white as marble, but still she tried to smile. "What have I done to you," she asked, "that you wish to terrify me?" "I pity you!" said Mlawa. "Why did you wish to look into my soul? Wormwood grows there! Bitterness flows through my words. I pity you!" The old woman's head drooped. "You are not the only one! Thousands have suffered in this world, and have died, and their ashes are scattered by the winds. Like you, thousands are moaning in slavery--my forefathers, grandfather, father, kings. I am the last of their race. The German has driven me from my home." Cosel drew a gold coin from her purse, and handed it to the old woman. "I don't take alms," said she; "you will pay differently; everything is reckoned above." And raising her hands, she walked into the meadows. During this conversation, Cosel's companions had been standing at a little distance, admiring her courage. Now none dared ask why she looked so pale and thoughtful. She mounted her horse, but she dropped the rein and allowed the animal to guide her. They continued to ride forward, but slowly. Then from afar high towers appeared in sight. "That is Stolpen," said the equerry. An hour's more riding and they reached the castle. The King's cavalcade was standing opposite the rock of basalt, waiting for the Countess, whom they had seen while she was still at a distance. Augustus advanced to meet her with a smile of welcome. "I have been waiting for you an hour," said he. "Yes, for I lost half an hour over some fortune-teller," replied the Countess. The King looked surprised. "Well, what fortune did she prophesy for you?" he inquired. Anna looked at him, and her beautiful eyes filled with tears. Augustus grew confused and alarmed. Then he strove to chase away her sadness, and was gallant and witty. "What a magnificent castle these Bishops of Meissen built!" he said. "It is dreadful! Fearful!" said Cosel shivering. "I am surprised that the King should come for pleasure to a place where memories of torture and cruelties reign supreme." "Why, my lady," interrupted Augustus, "your beautiful eyes can make bright the gloomiest spot. I am happy everywhere with you." He offered her his arm and she leant on it. Thus they went round the dreadful castle. The Countess was silent, the King serene. Perhaps he was thinking that when his prisons at Königstein and Sonnenstein were full, he would be able to shut up a few prisoners here. He wished to see the interior of the castle, but Cosel remained outside, looking at the black towers and walls. The King went on further and examined the prisons, called "Monchlock," where the monks were kept, then the "Richter-gehorsam," and a pitch dark "Burguersiess," into which the prisoners descended by means of a ladder. Although empty, everything was in good order. Augustus looked at everything with eager curiosity, and as though he were searching for traces of the old tortures. At length, having looked at the walls of the fortress, he left the castle. Outside he found Cosel just where he had left her; she appeared gloomily thoughtful. "What a dreadful place!" she repeated. "It seems as if I could--can hear the moans of those who have been tortured here." "We cannot be tender towards every one," said Augustus, indifferently. "But how is it you have such gloomy thoughts? Let us leave the castle and go into the park. I have ordered them to have lunch ready. Soon they will drive up some game, and we shall be able to admire your skill in shooting them." In the park, under a magnificent Turkish tent, they found lunch all ready prepared for them. The sun was scorching, the heat was overpowering, so that none of the company were very animated. Even the witty Kyan sat silent in front of his full glass. Augustus did not like silence, so he ordered the servants to serve quickly, and then fetch the rifles. Luncheon ended, all went into the park. Cosel followed the King, but she felt very sad, for Mlawa's words, foretelling the dreadful fate that awaited her, still rang in her ears, though at present no signs of such a fate were visible. Augustus, on the contrary, was merry. Towards evening, having killed a few deer and boars, Augustus mounted his horse. Cosel rode beside him. As they passed the house where she met Mlawa, Cosel searched for her with her eyes, but she was not there. A little further on they saw her standing leaning on her stick, as though she were waiting to see the King. She glanced at Cosel and smiled, as though recognizing an old acquaintance. Augustus turned from the sight of her in disgust. CHAPTER XIII. Prince Fürstenburg and Count Flemming had made a compact to get rid of Countess Cosel. She ordered them, as if she had been a Queen, she treated them proudly, and she squandered money like a child who is ignorant of its value. The influence she had acquired over the King alarmed every one. None of the King's favourites had had such power, such faith in herself, and none of them had been able to keep the fickle Augustus so long at her side. The whole court longed for her downfall; the number of her enemies increased daily. But the Countess heeded them not, and when the faithful Zaklika told her things that he had overheard, she only laughed contemptuously. Slowly yet surely the forces of her enemies were gathering together against her, but as yet they did not venture to declare open war. They were waiting for certain symptoms that would lead them to believe that the King was tired of her, and would indicate that the fight would be crowned with victory. On the one side were adroit and clever courtiers, drilled from childhood in the art of intriguing, and aided in their enterprise by corrupt and cunning women; on the other side was Countess Cosel, proud, intelligent, trusting in her beauty, in her imaginary title of wife, in the knot that had been made fast by having her children acknowledged, and a few friends without influence, and a few double-faced people, who were eager to be on the victorious side, and only waiting to see which side had the greatest power. The prospect was that the war would be long, but Cosel's adversaries were patient, and, knowing the disposition of the King, felt confident of an ultimate victory. They knew that sooner or later Cosel must weary the King by her fancies and by her insatiable desire for luxury as well as by her pride and impetuosity. Until the present these had amused the King, but at any moment the scale might turn. Every one of importance at Court was against Cosel, profiting by the King's absence in Flanders, whither he had gone to fight against France, in the hope that by some deed of daring he might brighten his fame, so clouded by the Swedish defeat. Fürstenberg and Flemming wished to shake the King's love by writing to him about the Countess's extravagant luxuries. So black did they succeed in painting her, that the King gave orders that she should not be furnished with too much money. Fürstenberg seized on this order to refuse Cosel money several times when she required it, for which insult the Countess threatened to give him a slap in the face should she come across him. But when the King arrived in Dresden, he had not a single look for Fürstenberg, instead, he went straight to the Palace of the Four Seasons, where again he found Cosel just leaving her room after another confinement. She was more beautiful than ever, and, although weeping, received him most affectionately. "Ah! my lord!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms round his neck, "you know that I am always eager to see you as soon as possible, yet, perhaps, never have I longed so much for your return as at the present time. Deliver me from persecution! Am I still the mistress of your heart or not, that these men humiliate me so cruelly?" "Who?" inquired the King. "Your best friends; that drunkard, Flemming, and that perverse hypocrite, Fürstenberg, have made me a laughing-stock. My lord! deliver me from them." After long separation, Cosel had regained her power over the King, who had begun to cool towards her. "I will scold Fürstenberg and Flemming severely," said he. By the time he left the palace, he was once more under the influence of her charms, and when Fürstenberg and Flemming came to him with an accusation against her, he told them both to go the next day and beg the Countess's pardon. "You are both wrong. I dislike quarrels, and you must make it up with the Countess." "Your Majesty, it would be too humiliating for me," said Flemming. "It must be done, otherwise you would be obliged to leave the Court." The next day the King sent for them to come to the Palace of the Four Seasons. Cosel was crimson with anger, and proud as a Queen. "I suppose," said the King, "that a mutual misunderstanding was the cause of the quarrel. The Countess will forget the past, and you, gentlemen, ever indulgent to the fair sex, you will overlook it if she has ever said any bitter words about you." All the while the King was speaking, Cosel's look was full of anger, Fürstenberg's of hatred, and Flemming's of irony. Yet when he had finished, they bowed politely, and their indistinct mutterings might have been taken as begging pardon. Neither side was deluded with the idea that the reconciliation was sincere. Soon after this her cunning enemies again tried to make the King quarrel with the beautiful Cosel, who seemed to be one of those wonderful creatures who are always young. Passing through Brussels on his way from Flanders, the King met a beautiful dancing girl, called Duparc, and invited her to come to Dresden. Cosel's enemies knew how jealous she was, and they employed the Baroness Glasenapp to carry out an intrigue. When inviting Duparc to Dresden, Augustus did not tell her that he was the King; he was travelling then under the name of Count Torgau. On her arrival in Dresden, she failed to find a Count of that name. However, she had an aunt in Dresden, who was in the theatre, and this aunt took her to Chamberlain Murdachs, who was at that time director of the royal entertainments. He knew all about Duparc, and to her great surprise received her very well, expressing a wish that she would appear in the ballet, called "The Princess Elida," that had just been prepared to celebrate the King's return. All this was the work of Count Torgau, and both the women guessed that he must be the King, and their suppositions were rendered more certain by the anonymous presents received by the dancer. During the ballet the King sat in the box with Cosel; when Duparc noticed him she fainted from emotion. The King ordered his doctor to go and attend to her, and this seriously displeased his jealous favourite. "It seems to me," said she, "that your Majesty is too good in taking such interest in an unknown dancer, who probably does not deserve such a favour." Augustus was offended, and replied drily,-- "It is true that I should often be accused of showing too much favour to persons who only abuse it! I hope that Duparc will be less exacting." Cosel, unable to control either her voice or her movements, withdrew to the further end of the box, exclaiming,-- "Your Majesty has a peculiar taste for the street women." Fearing a further outburst of passion from her, the King left the box. Cosel was thus exposed to the ironical glances of the whole Court; she remained for a short time longer, then making believe that she was unwell, ordered her litter, and returned home. The Countess's enemies thought that by exciting her jealousy, they would succeed in making her quarrel with the King; and with this end in view they sent the Baroness Glasenapp to call on her. She found Cosel in tears and at once began to prattle. "You cannot think how I pity you. I know everything, and I am indignant at it. You do not perhaps know that the King has taken supper with Duparc?" Cosel listened quietly to her gossip, then she said,-- "Do not think that I am jealous; I only grieve for the King, who wrongs himself more than he does me." Having said this, she rose, wiped away her tears, and, suspecting some intrigue, tried to appear indifferent. Glasenapp did not succeed in making her angry. Cosel could control herself at times. The King did not come to see her the next day, he was afraid of her impetuosity. Instead he sent Vitzthum to reconnoitre. Cosel and he had always been good friends. Apparently, he came of his own accord, to inquire after her health, and did not in anyway allude to the events of the preceding evening. "As you see, I am quite well," said Cosel with a sad smile. "You are always beautiful!" "And you are always good-hearted and polite." They talked awhile on indifferent subjects, and then Vitzthum returned to the King and told him Cosel was very reasonable. The whole clique of her enemies now waited impatiently for the _dénouement_. Towards evening Augustus himself repaired to the Palace of the Four Seasons. The news spread, and faces grew sad in consequence. The King had become accustomed to Anna, and did not wish to abandon her; although his passionate love for her had passed, the habit still remained. He was ashamed of Duparc and proud of Cosel. Cosel on her side was determined to be as reasonable as the Queen herself. "I do not like public quarrels," said the King, "they do not become either of us." "Your Majesty, it is my love for the King." "It must be reasonable," interrupted Augustus. "It is characteristic of love that it cannot be reasonable." "But you must try not to be jealous." "Why, your Majesty, should you give me any reason for jealousy?" The King shrugged his shoulders, and replied,-- "Childishness." Cosel refrained from another outburst; she knew that she was not threatened by anything. The relations between her and the King were not at all changed, only they had become less cordial; a ceremonious gallantry was now substituted for his former passionate love. The best proof that the Countess had not lost her lover's heart was furnished by the visit of the Danish King, Frederick IV. Augustus, who was always glad of an opportunity for festivities and entertainments, by which he might astonish Europe, received his nephew with great splendour, and in all the festivities Cosel played the leading part, for by her beauty and majestic mien, she was superior to all the women at Court. It seemed as though the King should be excused for admiring such an exceptional being. After the balls, tournaments, shooting parties, there came the day when the Danish King must take his departure and set out on a journey to Berlin, whither Augustus was to accompany him. After a splendid supper, Cosel returned to her palace. Her face still glowed with triumph and enthusiasm, but at the same time she felt exhausted. She threw herself down on the sofa to rest. In the palace perfect silence reigned, and this quiet, following on the noise of the entertainment, acted on her most strangely. She was seized with a most unjustifiable fear. During the hour of her triumph, she had several times encountered Flemming's ironical glances, in which there was an expression of menace, which she alone could understand. Those looks stung her to the heart and made her sad. In vain she tried to brighten her gloomy thoughts, by recalling all the marks of favour shown her by the King; she could not succeed, and even in the hour of her triumphs, she was haunted by the presentiment of a miserable future. She did not expect to see the King that day, for the next morning he set out for Berlin. Suddenly the sound of footsteps was heard coming along the corridor that connected the staircase with the gallery leading to the castle. It could be no one but Augustus, and Cosel sprang to her feet and hastened to the mirror, to assure herself that her hair and dress were in proper order. Her first glance told Cosel that Augustus was in a state in which she had but seldom seen him. The leave-taking of his nephew, whom the courtiers had respectfully carried to his bed, had been celebrated with bumper toasts. The King, although accustomed to these feasts, had not come out victorious. It was true that he was able to walk with the assistance of his chamberlain, but that minister only accompanied him to the door, and as soon as he was in Cosel's room he threw himself immediately on the sofa. His face was crimson, his eyes misty, and his speech indistinct. "Anna," said he, "I wished to bid you goodbye. Well, to-day you were triumphant, as women very seldom can be. At least you will thank me for it." Cosel turned towards him--she was sad. "Alas! my lord," she replied, "I have not sufficient words to express my gratitude. But had you seen the jealous glances cast at me, you would understand why I have returned sad." Augustus smiled. "The tragi-comedy of life," he returned indifferently. "I had my Charles XII.--you have your Flemming! Every one has some pain, and life--is life. Be merry for my sake." "I cannot," she said. "For me!" repeated Augustus. Cosel looked at him, then she smiled, though rather with an effort than from the heart. "Could I always look on you, my lord," said she, sitting down beside him, "then I should be always most happy. But unfortunately you are going away, and who can tell how you will return?" "Probably not so drunk as I am to-night," rejoined Augustus, with a cold smile. "I like wine, but I hate its dominating over me." "And when will my lord return?" inquired Cosel. "Ask the astrologers that question, I do not know. We are going to Berlin. But there is one thing I am glad of, Brandenburg will look rather meagre when compared with our festivities. Frederick will show us his soldiers instead of giving us a good dinner. Berlin after Dresden, ha! ha! ha! I am going on purpose to see my triumph." "But will your Majesty return faithful to me?" asked Cosel, with whom this was now a constant thought. "From Berlin?" laughed Augustus. "It is one of the most tedious courts in Europe. There is no danger there either for me or for you." "And Dessau?" whispered Cosel. "That is true!" said the King, making a movement with his head. "She was pretty, but she did not understand gallantry. She was offended with half a word. No, I do not like such women." Then kissing her hand, he said,-- "My dear Anna, I should like to ask you a favour. I should be glad if you and Flemming would not devour each other." Anna frowned. "Your Majesty must kindly say that to Flemming, not to me. He is lacking in civility to me, to Cosel, to Augustus' wife." At these words a strange smile passed over the King's face and his eyes shone fiercely. "But I dislike wars," said he. "Then command him to respect and obey me, your children's mother; that will be the best way of keeping peace." The King made no reply to this, but began to take his leave. Cosel hung tenderly on his neck, then she conducted him to the door, behind which the chamberlain was waiting. The King was gloomy when he left Cosel. Who could tell the thoughts that then filled his mind? The same evening he summoned Flemming. He was sarcastic and irritable. "Old man," said he, jokingly, "Cosel complains of you. You must endure it; you must not pay attention to many things, the others you must forgive. You know I bear a great deal from her." "Countess Cosel pays your Majesty with her love," said Flemming familiarly, "that is quite different." "Well, get on well with Cosel," added Augustus. "It will be difficult; I cannot be her courtier; I can neither lie nor flatter, and it is no easy matter for me to bow, for my back is old." To this the King replied, laughing,-- "It is true, she does not like you either. She says that you look just like a monkey." Flemming's eyes gleamed, he muttered something between his teeth, and then relapsed into silence. Had the King desired to make them implacable enemies, he could not have employed better means. CHAPTER XIV. Whilst Augustus was enjoying himself with the indifference of a man who believes in destiny, Charles XII. was also hastening to his fate. In a strange country, with a handful of men, he hurled himself against an unknown power; and, with the bravery of a lion and the recklessness of a young man, he accepted battle on the plains of Poltowa. This battle was decisive for many countries, and for a still greater number of persons. Augustus was returning from Berlin well satisfied that he had not been surpassed by that Court, which did not care for splendour or luxury. On his way he was overtaken by a courtier, sent from Warsaw by Princess Teschen, who, on being deserted by Augustus, had returned to her own country, although she still preserved some sentiments of affection towards her royal lover. The Princess was the first to notify him of the fact that Charles had been defeated. It was a great surprise to the King, who now, for the first time, realized the mistake he had made in resigning the Polish Crown. But, at the same time, he wished to keep his word in the face of Europe. While he still hesitated, Flemming arrived. "Your Majesty," said he, "treaties obtained by force are not binding. We must return at once to Poland. Leszczynski is not a King. Your Majesty will find thousands of loyal hands ready to defend your rights. We have only to go, and the victory is ours." The crown, relinquished after such heavy sacrifices, was very tempting to the Kurfürst. He had planned to create a great and hereditary monarchy there. Even were he obliged to give up one of his own provinces to his envious neighbours, Poland united to Saxony would be a very powerful state. He must, therefore, hasten to win back the crown, and change it from an elective to an hereditary one. Augustus accepted Flemming's advice, and decided to return to Poland. Flemming had many connections in Poland, in consequence of one of his cousins having married the Castelane Przebendowska, and all his friends had promised to help him--there could be no doubt of a happy termination. From Poland there also came Denhoff, and the Bishop Szaniawski, both of whom invited Augustus to return. While the King of Denmark was at Dresden, Augustus had concluded an alliance with him, and to it was now added Frederick of Brandenburg. Augustus had now no time for love affairs. Immediately on receiving the news of the battle of Pultowa, he returned to Berlin, to come to an understanding with its sovereign. He had barely time to see Cosel, whose quarrel with Flemming had considerably increased. Flemming felt himself strengthened by events. The Countess had sent to him several times, with different demands, but he always refused to carry them out, declaring that now he had more important business to deal with. He tore Cosel's letters in pieces and trampled on them, telling the messenger that he did not care for her complaints or her threats. Cosel could not put up with such provocation. On the fourth day Flemming, who was riding, met her near the gates of the palace. Cosel leaned out of the carriage window, and, shaking her fist at him, exclaimed,-- "You must remember who you are, and who I am! You are the King's servant, and have to obey orders. I am mistress here. You wish for war with me, you shall have it." Flemming laughed, and with apparent courtesy, touched his hat. "I do not make war on women," said he, "and I do what I consider good for my master. I will neither bow to, nor gratify women's caprices." Then, setting spurs to his horse, he galloped away. War had now begun in good earnest between them. Cosel wept with anger, and awaited Augustus's return. Augustus returned early the next day, and he had already been informed of everything that had occurred, for when Flemming met him on the road, he said to him,-- "I wonder that you, an old soldier and a diplomat, cannot live in peace with one woman." "Your Majesty," returned the General, "I live in peace with many, but I cannot with those who think themselves goddesses and queens. That woman ruins the country, and does not respect any one." "But I love this woman, and I require her to be obeyed." "No one slighted her, until she began to insult every one." The King was silent, and Flemming added, confidentially,-- "She will ruin Saxony, and Poland too, and then she will not be satisfied. Your Majesty may be satisfied with her caprices, but with us who surround the throne, our duty is to free your Majesty from such fetters." Augustus hastened to speak of other matters. On reaching the castle he went at once to Cosel, who was awaiting him with anger and reproaches, things that Augustus disliked exceedingly. "My King! my lord!" she cried. "Help me! Flemming treats me as if I were the least among women. He insults me publicly; he tears my letters in pieces and tramples on them. He has threatened to drive me from this palace. Your Majesty must choose between him and me." Augustus embraced her, smiling. "Calm yourself, my dear Countess, you are excited. I need Flemming just now, therefore I must be kind to him." "And I?" asked Cosel. "You know very well that I cannot live without you. But if you love me, you will do something for my sake. You will be reconciled to Flemming." "Never!" exclaimed Cosel. "He will ask your pardon." "I do not care about it. I wish never to see the man again." Augustus took hold of her hand, and said coldly,-- "My dear Cosel, to-day you wish to be rid of Flemming, to-morrow you will ask to be freed from Fürstenberg, after that it will be the same with Plug and Vitzthum. You cannot live in peace with any one." "Because no one is friends with me," replied Anna. She began to cry; thereupon the King rang the bell, and, despite Cosel's opposition, ordered Flemming to be summoned. After a long time, which Augustus employed in pacing furiously up and down the room, the General arrived. He did not salute Cosel on entering, but turned straight towards the King. "My dear Flemming," said Augustus, "if you love me, you will ask pardon of the Countess. Shake hands both of you!" "Never!" exclaimed Cosel. "I will not shake hands with that vile courtier, who has dared to slight a woman." "Do not be afraid," said Flemming, "I shall not bother you by shaking hands with you. I do not know how to lie, and I shall offer no excuses." The King had risen. He was angry. "General, you will do it for me," he said. "Neither will I do it for your Majesty. I should prefer to leave your service." "You villain!" screamed Cosel. "His Majesty's favours have made you arrogant; but it is not far from Dresden to Königstein, thank God!" "Cosel, for Heaven's sake!" interrupted Augustus. "Your Majesty will permit me to be frank; for I likewise do not know how to lie. I must tell him what I think of him. He declared war against me, let him have it." "I do not propose to make war against you, Countess," said Flemming. "I have something better to do." "Leave my house!" screamed the Countess, stamping her foot on the floor. "This house is not yours; there is not one thing that belongs to you; this is a palace belonging to my King and my lord, and I shall not leave it without his orders," replied Flemming. Cosel began to weep and tear her dress. Then, addressing Flemming, the King said, gently and calmly,-- "General, I beg you to make peace. I love you both; I require both of you. Why must I suffer because of you?" "Your Majesty does not need to listen to our quarrels; it were better to leave them to be decided by fate." Having exhausted all her arguments, Cosel threw herself on the sofa. The King, seeing no means of reconciling them, either by calming Flemming or by softening the irritated Countess, extended his hand to the General and conducted him to the door. Then Augustus began to pace up and down; he was thoughtful, and it was evident that he was occupied with matters of greater importance. Cosel loaded him reproaches. "Alas! sire," said she, "then it has come to this, that your servants insult me. It is my fate. Flemming laughs at the one you say you love." "Dear Countess," he replied calmly, "all that you say proves that you do not know how I am situated. At this moment I need Flemming more than I do my right hand: to make him angry is to renounce the crown of Poland. You cannot ask that of me, and if you did, as a King I should not do it. You know that I do not refuse you anything, but there is a limit to all things. I was a King before I was Cosel's lover." Frowning, fearful, mad, Cosel rushed towards Augustus. "Lover!" she screamed. "I have your written promise. I am not your mistress; I am your wife!" Augustus made a grimace. "All the more reason you should pay attention to the interests of my crown," he replied. Again Cosel relapsed into tears. Augustus looked at the clock. "I am not master of my own time," said he, "I have too much to do. I must leave for Poland shortly. Dear Countess, be calm, Flemming is impetuous, but he loves me, and will do what I ask him." Cosel made no reply. She shook hands with Augustus silently, and he departed. Soon after this scene they began to prepare for the journey to Poland. As she was _enceinte_, the Countess was unable to accompany the King on this expedition. Cosel well knew the danger that threatened her. At Warsaw the King would meet Princess Teschen, and although in the whole of Augustus's life there had never occurred a reconciliation between him and a former favourite, Anna felt uneasy. Still she was more afraid of the other women whom her enemies put in the King's way, in the hope of inducing him to abandon her for a new favourite. To save the Countess the unpleasantness of quarrels with Flemming, the King had determined to take him with him, and although Anna would rather have suffered his persecutions at Dresden, than have had him close to Augustus intriguing against her, she was powerless to prevent it. The King was very kind towards her up to the last moment, and he assured her that he had strictly forbidden Fürstenberg to annoy her. Having learned that Flemming was going with the King, and that the Countess would remain at home, Cosel's enemies grew hopeful that things would change, and that the combined influence of Flemming and Przebendowska would ultimately prevail, and a new favourite be substituted for Cosel. Her downfall seemed to them certain. The day of his departure, Augustus was as tender as possible. He spent the whole day with Cosel, whose state of pregnancy having made her weak, tried to arouse the King's pity by recalling old memories. But this was the worst possible way she could have acted. Augustus was charmed by vivacity, gaiety, boldness, jealousy, daring--everything that acted on the senses; but sentiment was unknown to him; he played at it from time to time, but he never felt it. To attempt to arouse in him tender feelings was the surest way to bore him. Cosel was greatly alarmed; she kissed the King; she wept; she entreated him not to leave her, not to forget her. Augustus replied in his choicest words, but his studied declarations were chilling. Several years had passed; the enthusiasm of both of them had cooled. But in the woman there remained attachment, tenderness, gratitude; in the King a feeling of weariness predominated. Instead of pitying her sadness, he wished to escape from it as quickly as possible; her tears made him impatient, her grief bored him. Cosel could no longer appear gay and cheerful as formerly, in the happy days when she used to ride out with the King to hunt the deer, or took her part in shooting at a target. Her charms had not changed, but daily intercourse with her had made them appear common in the King's eyes. Grief had not dimmed her beauty; her eye had not lost its brilliancy; but neither her charming looks, nor her smiles, could now bring the King to her feet. Her power over Augustus was ended, the beloved woman had become common, because she no longer possessed for him the charm of novelty. Never before, when the King departed, had the Countess felt as lonely as she did now. The palace, until then crowded, was suddenly deserted. Cosel had no one to be with her. During the day, the gossiping Baroness Glasenapp would rush in, or the stern Baron Haxthausen, her only friend, would dine with her. This was all the company she had. In the whole crowd, her most faithful friend was Raymond Zaklika, whose hand often trembled with the desire to attack some arrogant man who had offended the Countess. The slightest sign from her would have been sufficient for him, and the one whom he touched would have been a dead man. Looking towards him at critical moments, Cosel had sometimes noticed him in such a state of excitement that she had been obliged to calm him. Being a servant, Zaklika had no opportunity of expressing his feeling, but the Countess understood him perfectly, and knew that she could depend on his loyalty. Had she bidden him kill Flemming, he would have done so instantly, and would then have gone without a groan to the scaffold. In his eyes, she was always the same beautiful star that he had seen shining in bygone days among the linden trees at Laubegast. To him she even appeared more beautiful, and his whole happiness lay in the privilege of seeing her several times a day. But whilst at Dresden all was sad and quiet, the King, in the best of spirits, and full of hope, was hastening to Warsaw. Flemming was with him, the Countess Przebendowska preceded him. It was an open secret that they wished to find a new lady for the King at Warsaw. They did not wish her to be as beautiful as Cosel, for beauty such as hers threatened a long attachment; neither must she be witty, for the King was content with giddiness, and she must not possess a heart, for it was only at the commencement that Augustus played a sentimental part. Youth, great daring, coquetry, a good name, and good breeding were sufficient, and would counterbalance Cosel. With these instructions, Countess Przebendowska started for Warsaw, where she was to choose. Flemming's cousin was a great friend of Countess Bielinska, whose two married daughters, the Countesses Denhoff and Pociej, both pretty, quiet and merry, could be placed on the list of candidates. The first day after her arrival, Przebendowska paid a visit to her friend, who gave her a cordial welcome. She knew Przebendowska's influence over Flemming, and his power over the King. "My dear," said Przebendowska, "I come to you with many troubles, and I hope you will help me." "I will share them with you willingly," rejoined Bielinska. "We are having great trouble with the King," continued Przebendowska. "He is in love with a woman who for several years has made him do whatever she pleases." "I know Cosel!" interrupted Bielinska. "But why did not the King hold to Teschen?" "He is never faithful to any one for long. We must get rid of Cosel, and find him some one else. The King is wearied." Bielinska became thoughtful. "It is easy enough to find some one else, but we must be careful not to put new fetters on him." Countess Przebendowska stayed to dinner with her friend, whose two daughters were also dining with her. Both of these ladies were young, elegant in movement, and pretty. Countess Pociej was small and neat; she appeared frail, but her eyes lit up with fire, laughter was for ever bursting from her lips. Countess Denhoff was not tall either; she was gracious, and played the part of a melancholy person, although naturally she was flighty, and burned with a desire for gaiety. Her eyes sparkled with wit and malice, which she veiled under an exaggerated modesty. Countess Przebendowska talked on indifferent subjects, but she never let the two pretty young ladies out of her sight for a moment. The dinner ended, the two old ladies were left alone. Przebendowska knew well that Bielinska's affairs were in a bad state, and she at once began to condole with her about them. Presently her friend said,-- "You have seen my daughters. Marie is quiet, fresh, and pretty; she is also good-hearted, submissive, and easily guided. How do you like her?" "She is charming." "She is like quicksilver, and, although she seems delicate, she is really very strong and lively." Then, lowering her voice, the mother continued,-- "We have been good friends since childhood; if some one must be so happy as to attach the King, why should we not introduce Marie to him?" "I did not know if you would wish it." "Why not? Denhoff is a bad husband, and he is not young, either; she is very unhappy with him. If he objects to have the King as a rival, Marie will obtain a divorce from him." "But would she be willing?" "I will persuade her," said the anxious mother. "It would really be a great blessing for us. Our affairs are in a shocking condition. Should my husband die, we should all be ruined." Countess Przebendowska neither promised nor refused. "We shall see, we shall see," she said; then added, "We must not say a word to Marie until we are sure she pleases the King. Cosel was jealous and arbitrary; after her, he will require some one who is gentle, merry, and submissive." "He would not find any one who answered that description better than Marie does--that I warrant you." After a long time spent in conversation, the friends separated, a good understanding having been established between them. A few days later the King and Flemming arrived. Countess Przebendowska lived in the same house with her uncle, and they were able to talk freely even on the first evening. She at once mentioned Countess Denhoff to him. The General made a grimace; he had heard a great deal about that lady and her giddiness; but after a pause he said,-- "The King is weary, and any woman can captivate him, so it may be better for him to have her." The next day the General said that before deciding anything he must make the acquaintance of Countess Denhoff. Both the ladies were accordingly invited to spend an evening at Countess Przebendowska's palace. Flemming did not much like the candidate, but after searching about for several days they were obliged to decide on Countess Denhoff, she being less dangerous than any of the others. Having learned a lesson by his experience with Cosel, Flemming was afraid of an ambitious woman, or one who desired to rule. Countess Denhoff was giddy and coquettish, but she was not jealous, and never dreamt of influencing any one; she was simply fond of life. The next day, Countess Przebendowska had an opportunity of approaching the King. She was merry and jocular. "Your Majesty," said she, "it seems as though it should be Poland's turn now." "Dear Countess, what do you mean?" "After Lubomirska there was Cosel, and after her it seems necessary to choose some one from Warsaw." "But I desire to remain faithful to Countess Anna." "In Dresden," replied Countess Przebendowska; "but in Warsaw, and during her absence--" The King smiled. "Has your Majesty looked at the beauties in our theatres?" she continued. "No, I have not!" "Then I will take the liberty of attracting your Majesty's attention to one of them. There is not another here prettier or sweeter than she is. She is young, and has a beautiful hand." "Who is she?" asked the King. "Countess Denhoff, _née_ Bielinska," whispered the lady. "I do not remember her," said Augustus; "but being an admirer of female beauty, I promise you I shall take advantage of the first opportunity that offers to make the acquaintance of so charming a lady as you describe this one to be." [Illustration: The Countess Denhoff] "If your Majesty will do me the honour to accept a modest supper at my house, to-morrow, perhaps I could succeed in presenting her to you." The King looked at her, but it seemed as though she did not notice it, for, had she, she must have blushed, so ironical was his glance. The same day Countess Bielinska was closeted with Countess Denhoff, and when they separated the latter was confused, but at the same time happy. Being accustomed to be regarded as a queen in her own little circle, and sure that everything she did must please, she was frightened at these preparations for a new fortune. She did not oppose her mother's will, but there was so much trouble, and the frivolous woman did not like too many ceremonies. Flemming and Przebendowska knew that it was necessary that the King should be received with great splendour; the modest supper therefore was altered to a magnificent ball. When the King arrived, he found Countess Denhoff surrounded by many beautiful ladies. He went over to her and began a conversation, which did not succeed at all, and it was noticed that Augustus did not appear to be smitten by her beauty. After supper the King danced with Countess Denhoff, who was still confused and awkward. The first impression was not such as Flemming's sister had expected. After the reception the King said to Vitzthum,-- "Have you seen that they wish to seduce me here; but so long as women such as Denhoff wish to compete against Cosel, the latter is perfectly safe." Vitzthum, who was in a good humour at the time, replied,-- "Your Majesty, it is not a question of Countess Cosel's happiness, for she can remain in Dresden, and Madam Denhoff at Warsaw. But it seems that the Poles complain that they are wronged by Countess Cosel, and wish you to select some one from among them. It would therefore be necessary to divide your Majesty's heart between Saxony and Poland." The King laughed. "It is all very well for you," said he, "but every day I receive letters full of reproaches, and then they try and tempt me here." "The King should do that which pleases him." Augustus did not need to be persuaded of that. On Countess Bielinska's part, everything that might attract the King was attended to. The next day he was invited to supper, and Countess Denhoff and her sister amused him by singing to the harpsichord. This evening Countess Denhoff was more daring, and while singing, she constantly looked across at the King, who liked to be provoked. Her mother and sister helped her, answering for her, and choosing merry subjects of conversation. The King soon grew to like the house and the people, and to visit them oftener; and it was not long before he became accustomed to the little Countess, and fell in love with her, as much as such a man as he was able. The King was constantly receiving letters from Cosel, to whom her enemies purposely communicated everything: these letters were in consequence full of bitter reproaches. At first the King used to reply to them, but gradually he left them unanswered. In a conversation with Vitzthum, the King had expressed a wish to get rid of Countess Cosel, whom he feared. Flemming determined to utilize the remark, and one evening when the King sighed, he laughed. "I should like," said he, "to remind your Majesty of an old story which might perhaps be applied to present circumstances." "For instance?" queried Augustus. "In old times," said Flemming, "before he met the beautiful Aurore, the Kurfürst of Saxony was in love with Rechenberg. Soon he wished to get rid of her. Then the Kurfürst of Saxony asked Chancellor Beichling to help him. Beichling courted the lady, and the King was freed." "I doubt if you would succeed in the same way with Cosel," said the King. "One could always try." "Whom do you wish to make happy with her?" "I would leave the choice to your Majesty's penetration," said Flemming. The King strode up and down the room, smiling ironically. "It is difficult to choose, for Cosel has very few acquaintances who would even dare to approach her. Why not employ Baron Lowendhal, who, being her relation and _protégé_, can approach her more easily than any one else. If I could prove to her that she was unfaithful, I should have a pretext for breaking with her." "I will employ Lowendhal," said the General. "She has done a great deal for him, but the King has done more; besides, he would not like to fail with Cosel." "He will do what he is ordered." As a result of this conversation, a letter was despatched to Dresden, to Lowendhal, ordering him to compromise Cosel. CHAPTER XV. Augustus wished to get rid of Cosel, but he wished to do it quietly. Sometimes he regretted her, but he was weak; he could not resist the intrigues. Fresh faces did with him what they pleased; novelty amused him, and he gladly entered on fresh amours, ended by laughter and gaping on his part, and tears on the part of others. The example of Königsmark, Teschen, Spiegel, Esterle, and many more, who had been consoled, and provided with comforters, quieted his mind with regard to Cosel, although he well knew that there was a great difference between her and the others. But then she had threatened to kill him, and her threats were not vain. One might expect she would fulfil it. Orders were therefore given in Dresden that Cosel's movements should be watched; they feared she would come to Warsaw, and, knowing the King's character, Flemming was sure that did Cosel once make her appearance, she would regain her former influence over the King by her beauty and superiority. It was important that Lowendhal should act speedily. Cosel was still young and beautiful. One day Cosel's friend, Baron Haxthausen, found her weeping; she rushed towards him, wringing her hands with indignation. "Could you believe it!" she cried, "that villain Lowendhal, who owes me everything, dared to tell me he loved me." Haxthausen could scarcely soothe her. "A few years back," she continued, "he would not have dared to insult me in that way. Have you heard about that Denhoff?" "Yes! there are some rumours," replied Haxthausen. "Through what mud will they drag the King!" said she sadly; then she was silent. Flemming, who was managing the whole affair, came to Dresden. The King had ordered him to get rid of the Countess, but to treat her with great respect and delicacy. At first his arrival alarmed Cosel, but after a few days, having persuaded herself that he seemed anxious to avoid fresh quarrels with her, she was reassured. The King wished Cosel to give up the Palace of the Four Seasons, and Haxthausen was deputed to carry out this delicate mission. To his great surprise, Cosel replied,-- "The King gave it to me, and he can take it back. This house reminds me too powerfully of happy times. I could not live in it, and would move out willingly." The news of her banishment from that paradise filled her enemies with joy. This must be a sure sign that everything was ended between her and Augustus. But Cosel kept on repeating to her intimate friends that she was the King's wife, and that he could not leave her thus. In 1705, while he was still in love with Cosel, Augustus had made her a present of a lovely country house at Pillnitz, on the banks of the Elbe. The situation was very beautiful, but it was lonely, and quite a long journey from Dresden. The King wished to show Denhoff the magnificence of his capital, but feared some outburst from Cosel. He therefore wrote to Flemming, telling him to induce Cosel to leave Dresden and take up her residence at Pillnitz. Haxthausen was again chosen as ambassador, and the King's letter was shown to him. "General," said Flemming, "the King wishes to visit Dresden, but he cannot come so long as Cosel is here. She has threatened to kill him so many times. And he never likes to meet those whom he has offended. I know that Cosel regards me as her enemy; she has made me momentarily angry, but I have forgotten all about it by now. I should very much dislike to push her to extremities. Be so kind as to go and induce her to leave Dresden. I should be sorry to be compelled to send her an order." Having heard Flemming's sweet words, Haxthausen went. Cosel was in a very good humour; the General began by joking. "I marvel at the King's bad taste," said he. "I do not know this Denhoff, but, from what I have heard, I am sure that you will return in triumph to your former position, provided always that you do not irritate the King." Cosel guessed he had come charged with some errand. "Do you bring me some command wrapped up in flattery?" Haxthausen looked at her sadly, and nodded his head to signify that it was so. "Then speak." "Flemming has shown me an order from the King, saying that you are to leave Dresden and go to Pillnitz. I think it will be better for you; it will be more agreeable for you than to see--" Tears dimmed her eyes. "It is so hard! so very hard!" said she softly. "I know that you are my friend, and I can tell you that you have no idea what an effort it will cost me. Have you seen the King's order? Do they not lie?" "Yes, I have seen it!" She flushed, and then grew angry. "They do not know me!" she exclaimed. "They will tease me until they arouse a fearful vengeance within me. They are mistaken in thinking that I shall respect the man who thinks that the crown gives him the right to scoff at sentiment." Haxthausen listened in silence. "And all this," she continued, "I have to suffer for such a woman as that Denhoff, who has already had several lovers. They wished to abase the King that they gave him such a woman as that." She began to weep. "Could I have expected this?" said she, sobbing. "He swore that I had his heart, he did not hesitate to give up everything for me, and I believed him; I was sure of the future. Three children unite us, he loved them, he acknowledged them; he was not ashamed of his love for me. I was faithful to him. I tried to please him in everything. I served him like a slave. And to-day, after so many years, I have to remain alone, driven out without a word of good-bye, without a word of sympathy. Alas! that man has my heart." In such passionate outbursts half an hour passed; at length she sank on the sofa exhausted. "Madam," said Haxthausen, "your anger is justifiable, but at present you must be patient and cautious, so that you may not shut the door to a return. You know how changeable the King is; you must win him back, but you must be patient." "Then give me your advice, my good friend," said Anna. "Will you allow me to speak frankly?" "Yes!" "Flemming is better disposed to you than formerly. You must try and keep him in that frame of mind. Everything is changed at Court. You might be useful to him. If you act quietly now, the King will be grateful to you. They are continually frightening him by saying that you threatened to kill him. The King is afraid, and Denhoff will not venture to start for Dresden, being afraid for her life. As long as the King thinks that you are excited he will not venture near you. The best way, therefore, is to show that you are not vehement. Countess Königsmark has preserved her friendly relations with the King. Princess Teschen was not driven from Dresden, while Esterle, by her obstinacy, has closed the entrance to the palace to herself for ever." "How dare you give me such examples!" exclaimed Cosel. "Esterle, Königsmark, Teschen, were the King's mistresses, while I am his wife! You must not compare me with them." Haxthausen was silent. "Still, you are right," she continued; "I must not make him angry. I will go to-morrow." The envoy was about to depart with the good news, when Cosel broke forth again,-- "They would not dare force me! The King himself would not dare do that! It cannot be!" Haxthausen tried to persuade her to be submissive, but no sooner had she agreed to follow his advice than she was again bent on resistance. Three or four times she changed her mind. Finally she said,-- "I will not go! Let them use force if they dare!" "Pray think it over! What shall I tell Flemming!" "Tell him I do not wish to go!" The Baron returned to the General, and told him of his conversation with Cosel. Flemming was sorry he was obliged to use force: he went to her. She received him haughtily. "You place me in a most awkward position," said he, "for I wished to save you unpleasantness. I have kept back the King's order for several days; now I bring it to you personally. Should you refuse to obey it, I shall be grieved, but I shall be compelled to force you to submit to it. The King does not wish to meet you in Dresden." Looking from the window, Cosel saw a detachment of dragoons standing before her house. Her black eyes gleamed angrily, but she kept her anger under control. She glanced at the letter. "I am going at once," said she; "you can trust my word." Flemming bowed and departed; the dragoons followed him. An hour later, Cosel, hidden in a carriage, was journeying towards Pillnitz. A few days later she had disappeared; she was on the road to Warsaw. Letters were immediately dispatched in great haste to Countess Przebendowska, notifying her of the danger. Cosel's arrival would change their well-played comedy into a drama. The King was already in love, or rather entangled by those ladies, and they determined to act at once, in order to avoid danger. When the King came to see Countess Denhoff, he found her dressed in black, and weeping. "What ails you, my beautiful lady?" he inquired solicitously, at the same time kissing her beautiful hands. "Your Majesty," said Denhoff, "I am threatened by a great danger. I should not mind death, were I persuaded that your Majesty loves me; but, alas! they wish to take my life from me, together with your Majesty's heart. Cosel is coming to Warsaw; perhaps she is already here. Perhaps your Majesty has come to tell me that I must yield to my rival." "From whence did you receive such news?" inquired the King in surprise. "Still, let Cosel come; your triumph over her will then be more complete." "No! no!" exclaimed Denhoff. "If she comes, I leave Warsaw." The mother was listening at the door, waiting for an agreed signal to enter. Marie coughed, the door opened, and the Countess entered. She appeared much surprised at seeing the King. "I am glad you are come," said Augustus. "You must help me to quiet your daughter." "Why, what is the matter?" rejoined the mother, still pretending to be surprised. The King repeated what Countess Denhoff had just told him. The mother listened, looking in wonder, now at her daughter, now at Augustus. "I do not wonder that Marie is afraid," said she. "Every one knows of Cosel's threats, and how impetuous she is." "Well," interrupted Augustus, "it is very easy to settle matters. If you wish, I will order Cosel to be sent back to Dresden." The old lady replied to this with exclamations of gratitude. "Marie, you may well consider yourself happy, having such a solicitous tutor." Then addressing the King, she added,-- "I would venture to observe to your Majesty that Countess Cosel will not obey every one." "Choose whom you please," replied the King, much bored by the scene. The old lady recommended a Frenchman, by name Montargon, who had come over to Poland with Prince Polignac. Half an hour later he had the King's order that Cosel was to be sent back to Dresden. "What am I to do, supposing she will not obey your Majesty's order?" inquired the Frenchman. The King looked thoughtful; then, after a short silence, replied,-- "I will order Captain La Haye and six guards to accompany you; it seems to me that should be sufficient." The captain was sent for, and given the necessary orders, and that same night the detachment of soldiers marched out against one unarmed woman. CHAPTER XVI. Before starting on her journey, Cosel summoned the faithful Zaklika. "All have forsaken me," said she; "I have none on whom I can rely." Zaklika looked gloomy. "Will you also leave me?" "I? Never!" he replied shortly. "I think I can rely on your noble character, and your devotion to me." "Always!" said Zaklika, raising two fingers, as though he were taking an oath. "I wish to entrust you with the most precious thing that I possess," said the Countess, lowering her voice, "but you must promise me that you will sacrifice your life, rather than give up that which I am about to give you; that you will guard my honour as--" "As a holy relic," said Zaklika, raising his fingers a second time. "You may rely on me!" "No one must know that you possess this thing." "Do you wish me to swear?" "No; I believe your word. But you must know what it is you have to guard. I said you would be the guardian of my honour. When the King granted me a divorce from my husband, he gave me a written and sealed promise that he would marry me, otherwise I should never have consented to such a life. They will try to take this promise from me. They may torture me, but I will never tell them where it is. I cannot conceal it here, for they can banish me, and it would not be safe to carry it with me." She opened a mahogany box ornamented with gold, and took from it a small leather bag with a silk cord. "You will not betray me!" said she, looking into his eyes. Tears rolled down Zaklika's cheeks, as he knelt down before her and kissed her hands; then, suspending the bag round his neck, he said, in a voice full of emotion,-- "This shall only be taken from me with my life." "We are going on a journey," said Cosel. "Things may turn out worse for us than we expect. You must have money." She handed him a bag of gold. A few hours later Cosel set forth, taking with her the loaded pistols which she always kept at hand. Everything went well until they reached Widawa, a small town on the borders of Silesia. Here they were obliged to rest. Cosel put up at the best hostelry, at which there was a detachment of cavalry. Zaklika was at the door of the Countess's room, when Montargon and La Haye came to him with the request that he would announce them to the Countess, to whom, having met her on the road, they were anxious to pay their respects. Cosel was much surprised at receiving such a message, as now every one seemed anxious to avoid her, still she suspected no danger, and ordered Zaklika to bring them in. The Countess received the officers courteously, and as it was the hour for dinner, she invited them to share her modest repast. Conversation flowed easily during the meal; Montargon told the Countess all the latest news from Warsaw; at length he said,-- "It seems to me that your journey is futile. So far as we know, it may make the King angry. You may meet with unpleasantness." Cosel frowned. "What!" she exclaimed, "you dare to give me your advice? You pretend to know the King better than I do, and to be a better judge than myself of what is fitting for me to do?" Montargon looked confused. "Pray excuse me!" he muttered. "I will not excuse you!" exclaimed the Countess, "for it was impertinent, as well as in bad taste. Keep your advice for those that need it." Montargon made a grimace. "It is true," said he, "that you do not need advice from me, but suppose I have the King's order?" "An order from the King?" cried Cosel. "Yes." "Even in that case I am not bound to obey," replied the Countess. "The King is overpowered by my enemies, he is doing that which he has no right to do, and he will regret it afterwards. I am sure he will be glad that I have not obeyed him." Montargon was a polite man, but the Countess's tone offended him, so he replied in a soft tone that made his words all the more offensive,-- "I should be greatly obliged to you, Countess, if you would spare me the unpleasantness of employing that most simple of all arguments--force." "What?" exclaimed Cosel. "You would dare employ force against me?" "I have a formal order to compel you to return to Dresden," said Montargon, "and I shall obey it." Then the Countess's anger burst forth. "Leave the room!" she cried, seizing a pistol. "If you do not go, I will shoot you through the head." Zaklika stood ready on the threshold. Montargon, who knew well that the Countess would keep her word, slipped out quickly. La Haye, who up to the present had not uttered a word, remained. The lesson his comrade had received had been good for him, and he now began very delicately,-- "Countess," said he, "ambassadors are never fired on; I pray you, calm yourself. We are not responsible for bringing such an unpleasant message. I should be in despair, should I incur your displeasure; but for Heaven's sake, consider; to a military man, the King's order is a sacred thing, and must be accomplished." "Have you seen the King?" inquired Cosel. "Yes; I received my orders from his own lips. I beseech you to give heed to it!" This soft tone completely disarmed Cosel, she sank trembling into an arm-chair. "Be calm," continued La Haye. "It seems to me that there is nothing serious for you in all this." "And that Denhoff?" "That is only a passing fancy," said La Haye; "something like the amour with Duval, which he has already forgotten. Moreover, Denhoff is married, her husband is in the country, and knows nothing of all this; should he learn the truth, there would be no chance of his allowing her to come to Dresden. But the King must return thither, then you will see him, and regain your former influence over him." Cosel began to ask questions about everything, and La Haye laid the whole story before her in such a light, that he considerably modified the appearance of danger to herself. After a quarter of an hour's conversation, the Countess was persuaded that it would be better for her to return to Pillnitz. Montargon did not show himself again, but sent a messenger immediately to the King with the good news. Being afraid, however, that Cosel might change her mind, he followed her with La Haye and the soldiers from afar, till they were sure she would not return. In the meantime the Countess Denhoff began to attract attention by receiving the too frequent visits of the King. The respectable people were scandalized at the behaviour--at her dishonouring the good name of a married woman, during her husband's absence. They were much more shocked at the fact that her own mother was an intermediary agent, that her own sister was a witness, that they boasted of such conduct. Count Denhoff's whole family began to press him to call his wife to his country estate; and Denhoff sent her imperative letters, urging her to leave Warsaw immediately. But the young woman sent her mother instead. When she came to her son-in-law's château, she said to him pointedly,-- "You must not plague us with these demands to return, for it cannot be done. We are not going to give up the happiness of our whole family for your fancies; the King is in love with Marie, and we intend to keep him. Do you wish me to bring her here for the sake of stupid prudery, and neglect our interests?" Denhoff was a man of the old school, and he had already heard of his wife's flightiness. "Madam," said he, "I am not inclined to share my wife's heart with the King; and, frankly speaking, there would remain very little of it for me, for, as it seems, many people court your daughter." "Then," said the Countess, "you must either be silent, and thus assure for yourself the King's favour, or else consent to a divorce. The papal nuncio, Monsignor Grimani, is quite friendly towards us; he will secure the divorce in Rome." "Deliver me from the King's favours; but if you would free me from my wife, I shall be only too thankful to you for it," said the Count. The Countess was greatly astonished that her son-in-law should so readily give up all chances of the King's favour; but having received his written consent to the divorce, she returned with it to Warsaw. The nuncio wrote to Rome, and Clement XI. ordered the divorce to be granted. There was thus no longer any objection to Countess Denhoff accompanying the King to Dresden; except, to be sure, that Cosel would be in her way. In order to get rid of her rival, Countess Denhoff feigned that she lived in continual fear of her, and she incited the King to send her from Pillnitz, so that she would not be able to return to Dresden. Then Flemming helped her, reminding the King that he should take from her his promise of marriage, so that she would not be able to compromise the King. Augustus found he was right, and ordered Count Watzdorf to be written to, to try and obtain that document from Cosel and persuade her to leave Pillnitz. Cosel was obliged to receive him, knowing that he came on an errand from the King. "The best proof," said he, "that I wish you well is my coming here. I would like to help you to come to some understanding with the King; but you must show some goodwill, and finish peacefully like Aurore and Teschen." Cosel blushed. "Aurore and Teschen," exclaimed she, "were his favourites, while I am his wife. I have his written promise." Watzdorf laughed. "Ah! dear Countess," said he, with offensive familiarity, "it is an old story. You know well how tyrannical passion is; a man is not master of himself under its influence. Our King also signed the peace at Altranstadt, but does not consider himself bound by it; it is the same with his promise to marry you." Cosel could hardly contain her indignation. "No! I still believe he is an honest man who knows what he does, and deceives neither himself nor any one else." She began to pace to and fro. "Tell me, then, frankly," said Watzdorf, "what are your conditions? The King is willing to grant them to you, only you must not ask anything impossible or attach too much weight to trifles. You will give me back that paper." Cosel turned towards him excitedly. "Did you come for that?" she asked. "Well, yes." "Then return," said Cosel angrily; "for as long as I have life I shall not surrender that paper; it is a defence of my honour, and that is more precious to me even than life. Do you think I had consented, for all the King's riches, to stretch out my hand to him if he had not given me the promise of marriage?" "But you well understand," said Watzdorf, "that it is of no value, for the Queen is living." "Then why do you want it back?" asked Cosel. "You must be ashamed that the King has deceived me." "I cannot hear any reproaches against the King," said Watzdorf. "Then return from whence you came," said Cosel, leaving the room. The Count stopped her. "Think of what you are doing; you are forcing the King to be severe with you. He can use force! You cannot hide the paper so that it cannot be taken from you." "Let him try, then," said the Countess. "It would be a very sad extremity," rejoined Watzdorf, "and we would like to avoid it. If you oblige us to use force, you cannot expect anything else." Cosel did not let him finish, but said to him,-- "You wish me, then, to sell my honour? I assure you that there is not money enough in the King's treasury to pay for the honour of such a woman as I am. I shall not return that document for anything! I wish to let the world know how I have been deceived." Tears rolled down her cheeks. "No!" she exclaimed suddenly, "you lie; it cannot be the King's will; you blacken the King, wishing to defend him. I have not yet doubted his noble heart, although I believe he is occasionally thoughtless. The King cannot ask for it." The messenger silently took from his pocket the King's letter and handed it to the Countess. She glanced at it contemptuously. "If that which he signed for me has no value now," she said, "what weight can I give this letter? Tomorrow the King may ask you to return that to him." Watzdorf, in confusion, replaced the letter in his pocket and said,-- "Countess, I pity you--you may believe me or not, but I am sincere. For God's sake, think of what you expose yourself to! remember the lot of many people. It is dangerous to oppose the King." "I know him better than you," she answered. "I beseech you!" "Spare yourself the time and trouble," said Cosel quietly. "It is in vain; you can do less with me by threatening than by persuasion." She threw a contemptuous glance at him and left the room. CHAPTER XVII. Hardly had the carriage in which Count Watzdorf had come disappeared than Cosel called Zaklika to her. Being afraid of spies in her own house, Cosel told him to follow her into the courtyard, and there she tried to speak to him as if she were giving him some instructions concerning the house. Zaklika had guessed her thoughts. "We are watched here, are we not?" said Cosel. "Yes," answered the faithful servant. "Can we deceive them?" "The principal spy is Gottlieb, but he is stupid." "Gottlieb!" exclaimed the Countess. "Yes; the man that talks so much of his fidelity to you." "In the city everybody knows you, I suppose?" "Many of them have forgotten me," answered Zaklika. "Could you bring some news?" "If I must, I will." "It is dangerous for me to remain here," continued Cosel. "I must escape. I have confidence in you alone; you must advise me how it can be done." Zaklika was silent and thoughtful. "It is difficult, but if we must--" "Then," said Cosel, "I must take my jewels and money with me." Zaklika did not say a word; he pulled his moustache and lowered his eyes. "Could you assure me that we shall be able to cross the frontier before our escape is noticed?" "I will do my best." His face was covered with perspiration; it was evident that he doubted the success of the enterprise, but he did not wish to show it. "We should have done it a long time ago," said he. He snapped his fingers and frowned. Cosel looked at him with fear and curiosity. This silent, energetic man was so different from the others, on whom she could not count; he astonished, but at the same time rejoiced her. She felt that he was a man. "I have a boat," said he, "hidden in the bushes. During the night I will go into the town and learn everything I can; then I will think how we could escape. You must not call me--they will think I am shut up in my room, as has happened often before." At that moment Cosel perceived Gottlieb stealing towards them, and not wishing that he should guess anything, she nodded to him. The German swiftly approached. "Gottlieb," said she, "I would like some flowers planted, for I think I shall stay here a long while. If you go into town you must try and get me a gardener, for the Pole says he does not know anybody." Gottlieb looked at them both as if trying to guess whether she was speaking the truth, and began to assure the Countess that he would do anything to please his beloved mistress. Cosel entered the house, and Gottlieb tried to learn something from Zaklika, but it was in vain. Towards the evening the Pole, as they called him, disappeared. This aroused the suspicions of the spies; they tried to open the door of his room, but found it locked. The room was on the ground floor, so they looked into it through the window, opposite to which was the bed. A man was lying there. This quieted the spies, and they let him sleep. In the meantime Zaklika unmoored his boat, and, jumping into it, allowed it to be carried down by the stream, which bore it swiftly towards Dresden. In a couple of hours he perceived the lights of the capital. He already knew where to go for news. In the Dresden Court, where every one squandered money, the bankers were very important people, and among them was Lehman. He came from Poland, he was a laborious and honest man, shrewd in money transactions, but scrupulously honest. Cosel had sent Zaklika several times for him, and they had had some important transactions. The Jew, who had the best of opportunities for learning people's characters, had recognized in Cosel a noble soul; he had entire confidence in her, and respected her very much. Zaklika knew that even after Cosel's downfall Lehman had given her proofs that he remained faithful to her, and he thought he could trust him and ask him for advice. Having left his boat near the hostelry of a Wend, as in those days there were still many of them in Dresden, he drew his hat over his eyes and went into the town. When he had passed the gates, although it was late, he recognized by the movement in the streets that there was an entertainment in the castle. Zwinger and the garden of Hesperides were illuminated. The King was giving a torchlight masquerade to the Countess Denhoff. Zaklika did not go near the castle, but went directly to Judenhause, situated in Pirna Street, in which Lehman had a modest house. Zaklika was sure that he would find the banker alone at this hour, and he was anxious for nobody to see him. An old servant opened the door to him, and showed him into a room at the rear of the house. Lehman, a quiet man, with steady black eyes, shook hands with him, and, in reply to Zaklika's inquiring look round, said,-- "You are safe here; no one can spy on you in my house. What is your news?" "Bad news," answered Zaklika; "it couldn't be worse. They hunted us from the Palace, from the house in Dresden, and now they wish to drive us from Pillnitz--or perhaps something worse. We must help that unfortunate woman--persecuted as she is by these cowardly villains." "Yes," said Lehman; "but we must be careful, and not hurt ourselves in the attempt." "Cosel must escape," added Zaklika. "To where?" asked the Jew. "She would be safe only beyond the seas." "I hope the King will not ask his neighbours for our extradition." Lehman moved his head. "The Countess," went on the faithful servant, "must take what she can with her, for anything she leaves, the rapacious people will seize, as they did that which she left in the Palace." The banker nodded. "But it would not be safe to carry the money with us in our flight, for we might be caught and deprived of everything. You must help the Countess to save the rest of her fortune." "Believe me," said the banker, "I am willing to help the Countess. I knew her well; she was the only pearl amid all that mud; but you must understand that it would not be right for me to endanger myself and my family for her sake." "God alone will know of your good deed, and you know that neither I nor the Countess would betray you." "Well, I consent," said the Jew; "but you must be careful that nobody sees you going out, for I, too, am watched by spies." "I will be careful," said Zaklika. "Everything you give me I will send you whenever it best suits you," added the Israelite. Lehman took from a sideboard a bottle of wine and two glasses. "No, thank you," said Zaklika. "I must hasten, for I want to learn some news to take to my mistress." "It is always the same old story," said Lehman, gloomily; "those who drink with the King they are in favour; they enjoy themselves from morning till evening, and they send to Königstein those who are in the way of their amusement. You must not ask for pity or heart, for the least sensitive people are those who are lascivious. The King uses all of them, bestows favours upon them when he needs them, and he despises them." "What about the Countess Denhoff?" "She gathers money, that's all; and it seems the King already thinks of marrying her to somebody." Lehman shrugged his shoulders. "You wish to learn something," continued he. "Here the people are changed, but not the things." They talked a little while longer; then Lehman led Zaklika to the gate at the rear of the garden, and gave him a key for it. Zaklika, wrapped in his mantle, went on further. He did not think it would be dangerous to mix with the crowd, to approach Zwinger, and see what was going on there. He was already in the street leading to the castle thronged with _nobles vénitiens_, when somebody slapped him on the shoulder. He turned, surprised--the fool Fröhlich smiled at him. "How did you recognize me?" asked Zaklika. "Besides the King, nobody here has such broad shoulders as you have," whispered Fröhlich. "What are you doing here? I heard that you were with Cosel." "I left her," answered Zaklika, "There was nothing to do after her downfall." "You are right," said the fool; "one must always take care of one's neck. Then you returned to the King's service--or perhaps you are with Denhoff?" "Not yet," answered Zaklika. "But tell me, what do you think of her?" "She is like those little black animals that jump and bite, but which it is difficult to catch," said the fool, laughing. They were still talking when a passing Spaniard, with a mask on his face, stopped, and began to look attentively at them. Zaklika wanted to go, when the masked man approached him, raised his hat, and seized him by the hand. Fröhlich disappeared immediately. The unknown asked Zaklika imperatively,-- "What are you doing here?" "I am looking for a position," answered he. "Do you no longer like the service in which you were formerly?" "They do not need my services there now." "What kind of position are you seeking?" "I am a nobleman," answered Zaklika. The Spaniard muttered something, then he said,-- "Where is Cosel?" "Probably in Pillnitz--I am not sure." "Come with me." "Where?" "Don't ask; you are not afraid, I hope." Zaklika went, and he soon noticed that the stranger led him to Flemming, who was at home, drinking with some friends. Masked men went to and fro; those who preferred the wine remained. Flemming expected the King. There was a great noise in the house. The Spaniard entered, and whispered something to Flemming, who then came to Zaklika, and conducted him to a separate room. The Spaniard followed them. "When did you leave Cosel?" asked he. "A few days ago." "What was she doing then?" "She was settling in Pillnitz." "Does she intend to stay there?" "I think so." "Why did you part from her?" Zaklika understood that he must win their confidence, and he answered,-- "She dismissed me, for now she does not need many servants." "Do you know Pillnitz well--the people and the roads?" "Very well indeed!" "Would you accept another service?" "Why not?" "Even were you obliged to act against your former mistress?" "The King is my only master," said Zaklika, "for I am a nobleman." Flemming laughed. "Come to me in two days," said he. "Very well." Flemming wanted to give him some money; but Zaklika refused to accept it, and withdrew. Thus he was sure he had two days in which to save his beloved lady. He wrapped himself in his mantle, and visited some friends in the suburbs; then he took his boat and went towards Pillnitz, sculling hard against the current of the river. CHAPTER XVIII. Among other items of news that Zaklika gathered was this--that the next day another masquerade was going to be given in the old market square. There was not a day without either concert, opera or ballet, or some kind of entertainment. Musicians brought from Italy, singers, and composers, were so well selected that Dresden Theatre was the first in Europe. Lotti was the musical composer; Tartini gave concerts; Santa Stella was prima donna, Durastanti was called the princess of opera singers; Senesino and Berselli were famous tenors; Aldrovandini painted scenery; Bach was musical director. Distractions were not lacking. The King himself, very often masked and disguised, took part in these entertainments, for he was fond of incident, and willingly bore the unpleasantness of such amusements. The King sent round numerous orders, for he wanted to see the square crowded. The preparations had commenced on the preceding night. Zaklika arrived at Pillnitz at dawn, and found everybody sleeping; he entered his room unperceived, and waited there until his mistress should get up. As soon as he noticed the windows of her chamber were open he began to walk under them until the Countess had seen him, and went out to talk with him. Zaklika reported everything to her exactly, especially his conversation with Lehman. He suggested that the best way would be to carry the money and jewels to Dresden during the day, so as not to arouse any suspicions. The heavy boxes would have required two or three men to carry them; but Zaklika, being of extraordinary strength, could manage them alone. The Countess consented to everything. Horses hired by Zaklika were to wait for them at dusk in the forest on the shore of the Elbe. He hoped her departure would not be noticed before he reached Dresden, and that they would be in Prussia before the pursuit commenced. Once on foreign soil, Zaklika expected they would not be molested. Zaklika was hopeful of accomplishing their escape, and he rejoiced at the thought, but when Cosel told him that she would stop in Dresden and glance at the masquerade, he turned pale. "It cannot be," said he. "You would throw yourself into the lion's jaws! They would recognize you, and then--" Cosel shook her head. "I want to, and it must be done," said she. "I must see him--it is not a fancy, but a need, a medicine. I must look at them in order to shake off the longing from me, and learn to despise the man whom I loved." "But you expose yourself--" "I know it," interrupted Cosel. "They could seize me and shut me in Königstein or some other castle; they could kill me, but I must be there. To defend my life I shall carry a weapon--the rest you must leave to me." Zaklika wrung his hands, but, knowing Cosel, said not a word more. The Countess entered the house in order to pack what she wanted to give him; Zaklika went to Gottlieb to tell him to have a carriage ready to take different things to the Countess's children to Dresden. Happily the German did not suspect anything. Zaklika chose a groom who was stupid and not acquainted with Dresden. He himself put the boxes in the van, covered them carefully, and they went on. On the road, for further safety, he made the groom drunk, so that when they came to the capital, he did not know by which streets they went. At Lehman's house he opened the gate with the key the Jew had given him, took down the boxes, and carried them into the banker's room. Not a soul noticed him. When he returned to the van, the groom was asleep; therefore he seized the reins and returned to Pillnitz. In the meantime, Cosel was taking leave of Pillnitz, gathering her things, writing her letters, and everything she was obliged to do in such a way that none of the servants might see her doing it and betray her before the time. Dinner was served at the usual hour, when at that moment the Counts Friesen and Lagnasco came from Dresden, to make sure of what she was doing. Cosel had so much strength that she received them with almost a merry mien and without betraying her secret. She pretended to be resigned to her fate, to be occupied with her garden and house, and perfectly indifferent to all that was going on in Dresden. She played her _rôle_ so well, that the two gentlemen were perfectly deceived. Count Friesen asked her to lend him quite a sum of money. Cosel, smiling, said to him,-- "My dear Count, I am poorer than you would imagine. It is the King's custom to take away that which he has given; at any moment I may lose everything I possess. I am sorry, but I cannot help you." Friesen accepted the excuse without being angry. The guests, chatting about Court, amusements, the King, remained till evening. Happily they were obliged to return for the masquerade, for the King would not forgive them their absence, and they took their leave and departed. Dusk was beginning to fall, and the Countess, complaining of headache, announced to the servants that she would retire very early. Zaklika gave orders that everything should be quiet, and Cosel locked herself in her chamber. When darkness had completely fallen on the earth, Zaklika, armed with pistols, rapped at the door leading into the garden. A figure dressed in black slipped out and seized Zaklika's arm. They went towards the Elbe, where they entered a boat together, and were soon flying down the stream. In about a quarter of an hour they landed, and found a carriage and four. In those adventurous times, no one was astonished at a woman escaping at night. Zaklika, having put Cosel into the carriage, sat beside the driver, and they drove to Dresden, alighting at a certain hostelry where another carriage was ready for them. Zaklika tried once more to persuade the Countess to give up her plan of visiting the masquerade in the market place; but she did not want to listen. He was obliged to put on a mask and a domino and accompany her. That day the streets were a scene of still greater animation. The houses in the street leading to the castle were ornamented with flags and tapestry and lighted with lanterns. The street was so crowded with people, carriages, and litters that it was difficult to move about. When they came to the market square, they found it thronged with people. Music was playing in the galleries. Round the square stood booths, in which ladies dressed in oriental costumes were selling toys, drinks and dainties. Thousands of lamps threw their light on a kaleidoscopic crowd of masks and dominoes. Singing, music, bells, laughter, shouting--all contributed their quota to the general hubbub. In the windows of the houses one could see overdressed women, and here and there sombre figures of poor people, who were obliged to look on from their miserable dwellings at this luxury and listen to the wild outbursts of laughter. At the end of the street, Cosel stopped--she had not strength to advance further. Zaklika seized the opportunity and begged her to return. Instead of answering, she moved forward, looking keenly around her. A few steps in front of her stood a _noble vénitien_. He wore a black hat with feathers, a black velvet dress, a small mask and a golden chain. Around him swarmed many masques. Cosel recognized Augustus--Hercules and Apollo that he was, there was no mistaking him. She hesitated for a moment--then went up to him. Although her dark domino disguised her well, it could not entirely conceal her identity from any one who knew her well. The King glanced at her and shivered, but did not wish to believe his own eyes. Cosel passed him casually several times. Augustus drew towards her and made as if he would speak to her, but fear held him back. She challenged him with a look, and he went up to her. The conversation began in French; the Countess changed her voice, which was trembling. Augustus did not take that trouble, and began to look at her attentively. "Upon my honour," said he, "beautiful mask, I flatter myself that I know every one of you here, but--" "You do not know me." "And do you know who I am?" "Yes, I know you." "Who, then, am I?" Her voice trembled, then the words flew straight to his ear,-- "An executioner." The King drew himself up haughtily. "A bad joke," said he. "No, an honest truth!" "If you know who I am," said he, "but dare to speak that way to me, then I would say that I too know who you are; but it cannot be." "No, you do not know me," said Cosel, laughing. "That is what I think. You cannot be the one whom I take you for, for that one would not dare to come here without my permission." "A woman would not dare to come here?" said Cosel. "A woman would ask your permission?" And she laughed. The King shivered, as if he recognized the laugh; he seized her hand, but she withdrew it quickly. "Beautiful mask," said Augustus, "you perplex me, and you pretend to know me." "No, I do not know you," answered Cosel. "Some time ago I knew somebody who resembled you; but that one had a noble heart and the soul of a hero, while you--" The King became angry. "Mask," cried he, "this surpasses the limits of carnival freedom." "The freedom is boundless." "Then go on," said the King, "and I?" "You?" Cosel's voice failed her for a moment, then she proceeded,-- "If you are not an executioner, then you are a plaything in the hands of your executioners." "Cosel!" cried Augustus, seizing her hand. "No, no!" she cried, pulling away her hand and laughing ironically behind the mask. "How could she be here and suffer to look at her funeral banquet? I have seen the woman whose name you have pronounced. There is nothing in common between her and me. Cosel is killed and buried by her wicked enemies, while I am alive." The King listened gloomily. Suddenly Cosel drew near to him and whispered a few words into his ear, and, before Augustus could overcome his surprise, she had disappeared. The King wanted to follow her, but she, protected by Zaklika, vanished in the crowd and hurried behind the booths. Here she turned her black mantle, which was lined with red, and then went back into the square from another side. She went straight to where she expected to meet the Countess Denhoff. There were three booths opposite the town hall. In one of them, ornamented in the Neapolitan aqua-fresca style, was sitting the Countess Pociej; beside her stood Count Friesen with a guitar, the Countess Bielinska, disguised as a Venetian lady, and the Countess Denhoff in a Neapolitan costume, glittering with precious stones. She was a little woman, with a withered face and painted cheeks. Her booth was surrounded by young men, among whom the most conspicuous was the French ambassador, Besenval, who was making her laugh with his witticisms. Cosel succeeded in getting a good view of her. The Countess Denhoff, under the influence of her intent look, shivered. Cosel stretched out her beautiful hand for a glass of the lemonade which Denhoff was selling. "Beautiful lady," said Cosel, "have pity on me, I am thirsty--I do not ask for alms, for I know that you ask to be paid well for everything." She showed a gold piece of money. Denhoff, as if she guessed a threat, handed her a glass of lemonade with trembling hand. "One word more," said Cosel, drawing near. "Look at me!" Having said this, she took off her mask in such a way that only Denhoff could see her. "Look at me, and remember my face; it is the face of a foe whose curses will follow the inconstant coquette to the grave. Look at me; I am the same of whom you were afraid, whom you wanted to imprison, whom you robbed of the King's heart, who will curse you day and night. Remember that you shall meet a worse lot than I. I go away pure, innocent, betrayed; you will go from here soiled, without honour, an outcast of the outcasts. I wanted to see you and tell you that I know the blackness of your character." Denhoff was frightened, and began to faint. There was a great disturbance round the booth; the King rushed to it; but Cosel escaped adroitly and disappeared with Zaklika up a side street. They heard behind them a tumult of voices, the wave of crowding people shouting and soldiers calling. Zaklika had his pistols ready. Cosel walked swiftly in front of him. The noise grew fainter. Knowing the streets well, Zaklika was able to conduct Cosel safely to the gate of the city. Unhappily, before they reached it, there came an order to close it and not let any woman pass. Having learned this, Zaklika led Cosel to Lehman's house. They found the banker at home, sitting quietly with his family. Both entered quietly, and Zaklika asked for men's clothes for Cosel. Lehman gave him a black mantle and an old hat, and, shivering with fear, he let them out by the back door. In the street they met a detachment of soldiers. The officers were dismounted, and walking in the street. Zaklika took the Countess's arm and led her along the middle of the street. Cosel dropped her head, and covered her face with the brim of her hat. When they came near the soldiers, some of them looked at them attentively, but did not stop them. They overheard the conversation of the officers, who said,-- "Has somebody stolen the most precious jewel?" "Ha! ha! ha! They seek Cosel, who avenged herself on the King." "Cosel! but she does not exist now." "They are still afraid of her." "When Teschen fell into disgrace, nobody thought of her any more, but Cosel still rules, for they shiver at the mere mention of her name." The others laughed. An hour later a carriage rolled towards the Prussian frontier. Cosel was thinking of her last adventures, while Zaklika, sitting beside the driver, listened to hear if they were being pursued; but they were looking for Cosel in Dresden and Pillnitz. CHAPTER XIX. At the beginning of the eighteenth century Berlin was a small city. It had only been recently built, and its principal characteristic was cloister-like order and tranquility. It was full of soldiers. Everything was prescribed, the business transactions as well as the pleasures. No other city could be more melancholy, after gay Dresden, than was Berlin. In the larger streets there were rows of houses, built there by order. The city was quiet and empty, although it already had five districts and large poor suburbs. Here and there stood palaces built in a pretentious but tasteless style. In Spandau shone the Queen's Montbijou; in Stralause, the King's Belvidere. Here everything was new, like the state itself: the oldest buildings were thirty years old. A few statues were erected in this desert; a couple of large squares were waiting for animation. One bridge had been built across the Spree--it was called "New Bridge," and instead of Henry IV., they put on it the Elector Friedrich Wilhelm. They began to build the King's castle, and its architect, Schluter, ornamented it with so many garlands, that its walls could not be seen beneath them. Berlin had then the beginnings of a great city; it wanted only life and people. A theatre, library, and museum were hurriedly built, and filled as they could with what they could. In the meantime they did not spend their gold in manufacturing porcelain; they purchased soldiers instead, paying their weight in gold for them. And, in fact, the most interesting thing in Berlin was the army--drilled like a machine, regular as a watch, moving like one man. Here one could see the battalion of the biggest and tallest grenadiers--the most famous in the world--composed of men of every nationality, and an example of the perfection that the mechanics of militarism can reach. Those big grenadiers were well paid, although the strictest economy was applied to other things. Berlin, after Dresden, looked like a monastery after a theatre. When Cosel's carriage entered the streets of the capital, and the beautiful Countess glanced at those dusty and empty thoroughfares, her heart was ready to break; but she expected to find peace here: here she wanted to wait for the change of her lot. A servant sent ahead had already rented a house, which, after the palaces she was used to, appeared poor to her, although it was only cold and uninhabited. The next day Zaklika arranged it as comfortably as he could, while Cosel sat in a corner and dreamed of her brilliant past. But in Berlin nobody could remain incognito. The third day Zaklika announced to her the visit of Marshal Wartesleben, the governor of Berlin; and another marshal, Natymer, commandant of the gendarmes, often passed through the street and looked at the house. It was known in high circles that the dweller in that house was the Countess Cosel, and her arrival was agreeable, for they knew also that a considerable amount of money came for her to the banker Liebmann. Notwithstanding the good relations existing between Dresden and Berlin, Cosel would not expect still to be persecuted here. Only here, in that silent solitude, amid the city that slept at dusk, did her misfortune appear in its full size. Her heart was filled with bitterness. She spent the days sitting motionless, looking at the wall and thinking about her past. She was asking herself whether it was possible that one could forget true love, and pay for happy moments with ingratitude. The King's character seemed to be a monstrous conundrum. She recollected his tenderness, the proofs of his attachment to her, his oaths--and she could not understand how he could change. She had doubts about the man, who seemed to her to be a wild animal. She could not understand how he could go back on the past, and contradict his former conduct towards her. She asked herself whether she had done anything so bad that she might look upon her present downfall as a penance for her sins. A few days later Zaklika entered her room, although she had not called him. Cosel looked at his sad face, and asked,-- "Some bad news?" "It seems that there is no good news for you in this world," answered he. "Spies already surround the house, and I wanted to tell you to be careful. If I am not mistaken, sooner or later somebody will come and offer you his friendship; you must be careful what you say." The Countess frowned. "You ought to know me by this time, I cannot lie even by silence. I had the courage to tell him the truth to his face; I shall have it now, and shall tell the truth to any one who is willing to listen." "What benefit will it be to you to make them angry?" said he sadly. The stubborn woman said not a word more, and Zaklika left the room. Three days after this an elegant young man asked to be announced to the Countess. It was the Baron von Sinen. The Countess knew him well in Dresden, and she told the servant to show him in. He said he was very much surprised, while visiting Berlin, to hear the Countess was there. Cosel looked ironically into his eyes and asked,-- "And where were you when I was leaving Saxony?" "I was in Dresden the very evening that you made that poor thing Denhoff faint; but then I could not inquire what had become of you." "I am glad you could forget me," said Cosel, "as I do not wish for anything but to be forgotten." "I think," said Von Sinen, "that they would be glad also to be certain that you have forgotten the wrongs they did to you." There was silence for a moment, then Von Sinen whispered,-- "I could tell you much interesting news." It seemed that he wanted to gain Cosel's confidence. "I am not curious," said Cosel, smiling sadly. "I have no interest in anything now." "We enjoy ourselves immensely," continued Von Sinen, as if he had heard nothing. "It is nothing new to you, who participated in so many splendid feasts; but--" Evidently he wanted to make her speak. Cosel was silent. "The place is very well known to you," continued the Baron, "for in Laubegast--" "I lived there happily," whispered Cosel. "Flemming gave a great feast to the King and Denhoff--on the plain near Laubegast, opposite Pillnitz." "Ah!" exclaimed Cosel. "In the first place six regiments went there," continued the visitor. "On the hills they placed cannon, and disposed the army in such a way that the Court might see the imitation of a battle. Everything succeeded admirably. The regiments advanced firing, and although, with the exception of a few who were trampled on, nobody was killed, one could have sworn the battle was a real one. The King was looking at the spectacle, Denhoff was beside him, he was surrounded by a splendid Court." Cosel smiled ironically. "Not far off they put up magnificent tents. Under one of them the King dined with the Countess Denhoff, Pociej, Bielinska, and the cream of the Court." "Were you there?" asked Cosel sneeringly. The Baron blushed. "No, I was in another tent," replied he; "but I saw everything very well. Several bands of music played during the dinner, and every toast was announced by a salvo of cannon." "How charming!" interrupted Cosel. "And that is the end of it?" "No, it is only the beginning. When the dinner was over they did not clear the tables, as Flemming wanted to give the rest to the soldiers; but as there was not enough bread for them, he ordered a silver thaler to be put in every small piece of bread. Then they sounded the bugle for the attack. The soldiers marched in military order towards the tables, but the first ranks were broken by the following, the second by the third, and so on. The tables were upset, heaps of soldiers were sprawling on the ground. The spectacle was magnificent; we split our sides with laughter. Then the retreat was sounded. "When evening came, dancing began, and lasted till seven o'clock in the morning. During the whole time Flemming was going from guest to guest with a bumper, praying them to drink. He himself was drunk first, and when the King started to go, he threw his arms round his neck and exclaimed, 'Brother, dear brother, if you leave me now, our friendship is gone,' and to our great surprise the King was not offended at such familiarity." "For he did not want to spoil his amusement," said Cosel, laughing sarcastically. "But when he is tired of a man he only nods, the man disappears and the comedy is over." She began to walk to and fro. The Baron said,-- "I do not wonder at your bitterness." "Yes," she broke in, "if I had no heart--if I did not feel the wrong, but tried to make a bargain of it, I could talk differently. But I did not profit by the example left for me by Haugwitz, Aurora, Esterle and Teschen, who went hand in hand at Leipzig fair." She laughed spasmodically. "No, I am different. I thought there were hearts, souls, consciences; that love was not lechery, that promises ought to be kept, that the King's words were holy. All that was only my illusion. Consequently, while the other women are happy, I am dying of humiliation, longing, and shame." The Baron von Sinen was moved and confused by the complaints of that still beautiful woman. Cosel noticed it. "Listen," said she, "I know that you came here neither from curiosity nor in sympathy, but by order." "Madam!" exclaimed he. "Do not interrupt me, but listen! I forgive you, for every one of you cares more for a career than to be men. Repeat to them what you have heard from me; let them know what I think of them; and if you wish to be well rewarded, tell the King that you have heard from Anna Cosel's own lips that she will do as she told him, she will shoot him for his treachery and unfaithfulness. In one, two, ten years, the first time I meet Augustus, I shall fire at him. I always have a pistol with me, and shall not discard it until I have accomplished my vengeance." The Baron was mortally pale. "Countess," he exclaimed, "you force an honest man to be a traitor. I am a nobleman, and I am in the King's service. I shall be obliged to repeat what I have heard from you. It is my duty!" "That is what I wanted you to do," said Cosel. "But it would give to your numerous foes a new weapon." "One less or more does not amount to anything. They use lies, calumny, treachery. The villains feel in me a being that cannot suffer their villainies; my honesty is a continual reproach to them. How can they forgive a woman who did not wish to be as soiled as they are?" She laughed bitterly, while the Baron felt very uneasy. During that conversation her eyes were in turn wet with tears and burning with fire. Cosel possessed all the characteristics of Medea--everything that an ideal turns into reality. When she became silent, the chamberlain still stared at her as if he were mesmerized. "I am very sorry indeed," said he at last, "that you force me to contribute to your misfortune." And he was sincere there. "No one can make my misfortune greater," said she. "You are mistaken if you think that I regret the loss of palaces and luxury. No! I suffer because I have lost my faith in a human heart. Give me back his heart, and I will give up for it the crown of the world. I loved him! My whole life was bound up in him--he was my hero; he was my god; but the hero turned clown, his godhead is smirched." The Baron tried to tranquilize her, but she cried,-- "O my golden dreams, where are you?" Von Sinen could hold no longer. Pity was stronger within him than any other consideration. "I implore you," said he, "to go away from here! I can say no more." "What!" said Cosel. "Is it possible that even here I am threatened? Would the King of Prussia surrender a woman as Augustus surrendered Patkul?" Von Sinen stood silent; it was evident he could not say any more. "Where is there to go?" she murmured to herself. "I could not live too far from him; my heart still longs for him. Let them do with me what they please. I am disgusted with life. They have taken away my children--they have left me only bitterness." The chamberlain had seized his hat. "I pity you," said he; "but as long as you do not change your sentiments your friends can do nothing for you." "My friends?" said she, ironically. "You have more than you think," said the visitor. "I am the first." "What! You my friend! I could find three or four such as you are. They are willing to console the widow and share her riches!" Von Sinen was so confused that he could not answer. He bowed distantly, and, pursued by Cosel's scornful looks, left the room. CHAPTER XX. Cosel's enemies tried every means to excite the King against her. He did not wish to mention her, but it was no use. The deadly grudges were taking various disguises, mostly fear for the King's safety. They tried to represent the unfortunate woman as being very dangerous: she was free and still very rich; she might become very threatening. Flemming, Löwendahl, Watzdorf, Lagnasco, without asking the King's permission, sent spies, and planned how they could seize her riches as they did those of Beichling. Some of them acted under the influence of vengeance, others of cupidity. Cosel had not wronged any of them during her influence, and many of them were beholden to her for their freedom and elevation. When Von Sinen returned from Berlin he did not appear immediately at court, for he was still under the spell of pity for the unfortunate woman, but Löwendahl spied him out and went to see him. "How did you find Cosel?" asked he. "Does she still speak about the promise of marriage? Does she still threaten?" Von Sinen answered sadly,-- "The fact is that she is very unhappy." "Unhappy! It's her own fault! But speak precisely--tell me what you have seen and heard," pressed Löwendahl. "Frankly speaking, my heart bleeds at the thought of what I have seen and heard. She is still angry, and never will forgive. But in her misfortune she arouses respect. She is marvellous and grand." "Consequently dangerous!" said Löwendahl; "but she must have lost much of her beauty?" "She is more beautiful than ever--she is beaming with beauty." "So much the worse!" said Löwendahl. "The King might see her, and, being tired of Denhoff's withered face, she would capture him again." "There is no doubt about that," said Von Sinen. Little by little Löwendahl learned what he wanted to know in order to repeat it to the Countess Denhoff. The very same day he went to pay her a visit, and during the conversation he mentioned that there was news from Cosel. "Where is she?" asked the Countess. "She is in Berlin, and uses her liberty to blacken our King and his company," said Löwendahl. "But the worst thing is that she threatens to kill our lord." Denhoff screamed and rushed from the sofa. "But that is dreadful! We must warn the King," she said. "Yes, we must try to deprive her of her freedom." The Countess did not answer, for it entered her mind that the same fate might be hers too. Löwendahl guessed her thoughts, for he added,-- "The King was never severe towards those whom he loved; the best proof of it is those ladies whom you have met here; but there are some cases--" Here the Countess Bielinska, the mother, entered, and having learned what the question was, she became indignant. "Truly, the King is too good for that mad woman! She challenges him! We must put an end to her daring!" They agreed that Denhoff should warn the King; but, upon reflection, the mother said that she could do it better. Löwendahl, having entrusted his vengeance to such hands, went out. In the evening of the same day, there was an entertainment in the garden of the Hesperides, as they then called the garden surrounding Zwinger, now the famous picture gallery. The garden was laid out in accordance with the taste of those times; the flower-beds were surrounded by trimmed box trees; there were many fountains, grottoes and mythological statues. During the evening the lighted Japanese lanterns made it still prettier than it was during the day. On the balconies surrounding Zwinger, bands played lively melodies, which were carried afar on the sweet breezes. In the middle of the garden was an enormous tent, destined for dancing. The King came dressed in blue, silver and white lace; he was looking quite young. The Countess Denhoff also wore a pale blue and white dress which was very becoming to her. Forcing herself to be merry, she greeted the King with some jests. Her sister, the Countess Pociej, helped her to entertain the King, who, as he grew older, was more difficult to amuse. Augustus was gloomy and looked tired. By a preconcerted arrangement, the Countess Pociej suggested that formerly he amused himself better with Cosel, and that perchance he regretted her. The gallant King replied that in the presence of such charming ladies he did not remember and did not regret anything. Countess Denhoff seized the opportunity of saying something about Cosel; but, as usual, she did it awkwardly, and her mother, waiting for the opportunity, came to her help. Then both began to lament on the theme of Cosel. The King did not like that, for he was quite silent. At that moment both women were frightened, but at last the King said,-- "Dear Countess, pray be easy about me. I am watched by many guardians, some asked and some not asked; and nothing will happen to me. I do not like to talk about these matters. Better let us go and look at the dancing." Thus the project of an attack was not carried out at that moment: but it was repeated in the evening by Flemming and Löwendahl, as they drank with the King. The King let them talk and he listened. "Löwendahl, listen," said the King sneeringly, "it is a fact that you give me a great proof of your attachment to my person, warning me of the Countess, who is your relation, and to whom you should be thankful for all that I have done for you. I ought to reward you for it; but I cannot help telling you that it seems very strange to me." Löwendahl became silent, and the intriguers had learnt that they must use some other means. * * * * * Although Cosel wanted to lead a quiet life in Berlin, her beauty, her wit, and her fame were too much known for her company not to be sought. She knew many people in the court of Frederick since his visit to Dresden. The officers were so much bored by continual military reviews and quiet evenings in the palace of the Queen, that they were glad to have some other distraction. The King himself spent most of his time in Potsdam and Wurterhausen, rather than in the capital, but he never failed to be present at the change of guard at ten o'clock in the morning, to give audience to his ministers and to take a walk. About noon he took a modest meal with the Queen; in the afternoon he worked hard and did not appear until the evening. In the company of a few ladies and officers they played picquet, ombre and trictrac--they smoked, and thus passed the time until eleven o'clock; at that hour everything was officially ended. This monotony of life was varied only by receptions given by some dignitaries. Life here was quite different from what it was in Dresden, at which they quietly laughed here, especially at Augustus' military amusements, which nobody took seriously in Berlin. The gorgeously dressed Saxon soldiers could not be compared with those of Prussia, clad in their modest blue uniforms. Instead of fanciful flags, here was used only a white one, with the proud motto, over a flying eagle, _Nec soli cedit_. In these times the motto seemed too bold; the future justified it. There were no two characters more opposite than those of Frederick of Prussia and Frederick Augustus of Saxony. Since Fraulein von Pannevitz slapped the Prussian King's face for the kiss he tried to steal from her, he had not looked at any woman, and was the most faithful husband. He and the whole of his family led such a thrifty life, that they not only rose from his table sober, but even hungry. The order in the country and the army was pedantic; the customs were Spartan. Before each repast prayer was recited; the cooking was bourgeois; no one thought about the court balls. They used to eat from earthenware, and only when there was a dinner in honour of somebody did they take out the heavy silver, which was locked up again the same evening. The King had some fancies, but they were quiet--different from those of Augustus. When the Queen left the company after a meagre supper, the men gathered in the smoking-room, where the King treated them to pipes. During the smoking it was allowed to criticize some one. In the centre of the room there stood a simple table, round which sat ministers, generals, sometimes a guest. Every one received a Dutch pipe and a mug of beer. To make somebody drunk was a great point with the King. To sneer at savants, the aristocracy, officials, was the greatest pleasure. The jokes were sometimes interspersed with quarrels in which mugs were freely thrown about--many were hurt in these encounters, but nobody was ever killed. At times a debate would be arranged--on the theme that savants were ignorant. Morgenstern would address the house; dressed in a long, blue robe trimmed with red and embroidered with hares; and wearing a red vest, a big wig and a fox's brush instead of a sword. Such were the entertainments of the Prussian court. In Dresden they laughed at Berlin; in Berlin they laughed at Dresden, considering it the ante-chamber of hell, for Frederick Augustus of Saxony did not believe in anything, while Frederick of Prussia was pious after his own fashion. Once when a new butler was reading a prayer before supper and came to the words, "May God bless thee," he thought it would be more decent to change it into, "May God bless your Majesty." The King did not like it and said, "You rascal, read it as it is written; for in God's face I am as good, rascal, as you are." No wonder, then, that after meagre suppers, after entertainments in the smoking-room, there was a longing for different society, for better jests, for more elegant conversation. Cosel's acquaintances began to visit her; the wearied woman opened her door to a few of them, and a small circle of people gathered quietly in the evenings, for in Berlin no noise was permitted. King Frederick, although he was well aware of this fact, for he knew well what was going on in his capital, said nothing at first. It encouraged a few officers and courtiers. They used to come towards seven o'clock, and as Cosel could not sleep, they usually chatted till midnight and after. They would bring gossip, and the Countess did not conceal her rancour towards Augustus. Many things said here were passed to the smoking-room, where they were repeated to the King. Then Frederick smiled, but he shook his head, and seemed to be surprised that Cosel was so daring. One evening, as the usual young guests were gathered in Cosel's house, there came an old general, who was an habitué of the smoking-room. His presence made the young men careful in their conversation, but did not stop Cosel from bitterly criticizing Augustus. The old general shook his head and listened; he seemed to wonder and not to believe his own ears. He remained until every one had left the house. Cosel was surprised. The old man, who had spoken very little, said respectfully to her as he took his leave,-- "Countess, permit me to make a remark to you. Time flies pleasantly in your house; but although the doors and windows are shut, a great many things get out. Any breeze can carry gossip to the banks of Elbe; our neighbour may frown on our King, because such things are said here against our good neighbour and ally. The King would be very sorry--" Cosel frowned. "Then even in my own house," said she, "I cannot say what I please?" "Yes, you can," said the General, "but one can also go where one does not wish to go." "Even I?" "Dear Countess," said the General, sighing, "it might happen even to you. A military order prevails in our country. I would advise you to play trictrac; it amuses, and is less dangerous." Cosel dropped her head sadly. "You may think," continued the General, "that I am grumbling, as old people do. Well, then, I will tell you that somebody advised me to warn you." Having said this, he quietly left the room, and the Countess threw herself on the sofa and laughed bitterly. But she did not listen to the warning, and when her guests gathered again, her words were many and loud, in utter defiance of the severity with which she was threatened. One morning the Governor-general of Berlin came to Cosel's house. He saluted her civilly, smiled, twisted his moustache, and then asked her,-- "Is it true that you wish to change your residence and go to live in the quiet city of Halle?" "I, in Halle?" exclaimed Cosel. "And what should I do there?" "The air is very healthy there, the views are lovely, and it is quiet and secluded. There is no more agreeable place to live in than Halle." At first Cosel did not know what to answer. Then she said,-- "But I never intended to go to Halle." "It is rather strange," said the Governor-general, "somebody spoke about it to his Majesty, and the King ordered that every comfort should be assured you. The King's orders cannot be disobeyed; the best way, then, will be to go to Halle." Cosel wrung her hands, and the tears began to flow down her cheeks. "Then it is an order," she said, finally, "it is a new exile--why is it?" "The King thinks you will be more comfortable there. You know that in Berlin every word echoes far. There in Halle, no one will hear anything. There is more freedom." He had risen. "You may go there to-morrow, in the morning," he added. "The weather is lovely; but as the roads are not always safe, His Majesty offers you a few men to escort you. It is great gallantry on his part; you should be thankful to him for that." General Wartesleben bowed very elegantly and went out, leaving the Countess as one turned to stone. The blow came from Dresden--there can be no doubt about that. They wanted to force her to be silent--to accept her fate. Her unbending spirit rose in indignation; every such blow made her more energetic. She ordered her trunks to be packed and the horses to be hired, and the faithful but gloomy Zaklika worked hard without saying a word. When Cosel was ready to enter the carriage, a small group of curious men gathered round the house; but seeing that woman clad in black going majestically to the carriage surrounded by dragoons, they were frightened and scattered, for they thought that a victim was being conducted to the scaffold. CHAPTER XXI. In a narrow street in the city of Halle, in the first floor of a modest house, a strange woman had for some time attracted the attention of the peaceful passers-by. There she sat all day long, looking out at the sky, with unseeing eyes, and her mien, her great beauty, and the intense sadness of her face attracted a curious crowd. No one in Halle knew the lady, but from her sadness they guessed she was very unhappy. She never looked at the human faces; her gaze was fixed on space. Only when many people gathered and began to whisper, with curious looks at her, she started and left the window. The door of her house was always shut; nobody visited her; a servant obtained her meals from a restaurant. Only from time to time a young, elegantly dressed man knocked at the door. He went in and stayed for a few moments; then he returned, sad. The students called him the lover of the beautiful unknown, although he did not look like it. The beautiful mysterious lady--for every one believed her to be a lady--was the sole topic of conversation in Halle at that time. The landlord and his wife, questioned by their friends, even the bribed servant, would not give a word of information about her. When questioned, they threw a frightened look round, and muttered something about not knowing anything. Besides the curious, from time to time a soldier walked past the house, looking in at the windows; then a man, whose mien indicated that he had been a soldier. That beautiful unknown lady was the Countess Cosel, but how terribly changed! The latest incident had broken the spirit of the woman, filled her soul with fear, and driven away all hope. She was now sad and in despair, and continually crying. The vengeance that persecuted her was so implacable, that now she expected everything--even death. In Berlin she was free--she could escape; in Halle she was a prisoner. Zaklika, who had accompanied her here, told her the next day that all the doors of the house were watched. She was still free, but she could not take a step. She wanted to go to church on Sunday, but, seeing that she was watched, she returned home. The landlord and his wife were very civil, but could not be trusted. The burgher had fox-like eyes, and his wife was pale and did not dare to speak a word. Zaklika tried to make friends with them; they ran from him as from the pestilence. A few days later the Chamberlain Von Sinen was announced. He came in sad, modest, and confused, as if he did not know what to say. "With what do you come?" asked Cosel, "for I know that you do not come in sympathy, but by command." "You are mistaken," answered Von Sinen. "It is both; I preferred to come myself rather than let any one else be sent here." "Speak, then," said Cosel, "I am ready for anything." "Were you only ready to have more resignation," said he, "everything could be repaired." "What do they require from me?" Von Sinen sighed. "The King has sent me to ask you for the paper which he signed for you," said the Chamberlain. "And he thinks that I shall surrender it, so that from a wife I shall become a mistress, whom he can dismiss whenever he likes." And she added, "If you have come only on that errand, then return and tell the King that Cosel will never sell her honour." "Madam, for heaven's sake," said the Chamberlain, "do not be stubborn. If you return that paper, you can yet recover your freedom--everything." "Augustus' heart is what I want," whispered Cosel. "But he has none in that breast glittering with diamonds; he is as cold as are the stones. I shall never get back that which is dearest to me--faith in mankind." Von Sinen remained a couple of hours; but not being able to prevail upon her, he stayed in Halle several days, giving her plenty of time to think it over. He visited her each day, trying to persuade her by all possible arguments; but she was persistent in her refusal. "I shall not give back the paper," she repeated. "It contains the defence of my honour and my children's. I shall die, but he shall not have it." The second day after Von Sinen's arrival, Cosel called Zaklika to her. He looked awful--pale, angry, and silent. When he looked at people, they shrank from that face full of hate, seeing in it a grief only looking for the opportunity to change into madness. They could not talk long in the house, being surrounded by spies. Zaklika used to come and go as though he had business to do, carrying something out and then bringing it back. Only thus could they speak. Cosel said to him,-- "Do they watch you, too?" "Not yet." "You must leave me, and be entirely free." Zaklika shivered and stared at her. "I? Leave you? And what am I to do with myself? to what shall I devote my life? Then I can only die." "No," said Cosel, "it is only the beginning of my imprisonment. You must be free in order to help me to get back my freedom." Zaklika became thoughtful. "Speak, then," said he after a while. "You will know where I am. I trust you, you must think about means; you will try and free me. There are still a few thousands with Lehman; I will give you a word to him--you will take the money." Zaklika was indignant that she should offer him money. "It is not for you, but you must have it to free me." She looked at him. He nodded obediently. "In the first place, go and try to find out whether they will let you go; you may tell them that you do not wish to serve me any more. Do what you please. Carry in your breast my treasure that I entrusted to you. Do you understand me?" She extended to him her trembling hand. "Only you do I trust, for only in you is a human soul. Do not betray me, like the rest!" "I?" exclaimed Zaklika, indignantly, and his eyes shone so fiercely that Cosel retreated. "I?" repeated he, trembling. "I can die, but not betray." "Then you must be free, without arousing suspicion. Go!" Zaklika went out, and he did not reappear until the next day towards evening, when he brought with him a new servant, and took his leave from his mistress. Cosel had enough strength to play a scene of anger, for the landlord and his wife listened at the door. He left the room, and went to an official complaining that Cosel did not want to let him go, to which he had right, for he was a Polish nobleman, therefore a free man. The Prussian laughed, for he knew how many Polish noblemen had been caught by the Prussians, and obliged to serve in their army, but he did not say anything. Perhaps, had Zaklika not been so pale and looked so miserable, he would have forced him to accept service in the regiment of gigantic grenadiers, but Zaklika was looking wretched, and it would have cost much to feed him up. Therefore they did not hesitate to let him go. He returned at once to Cosel, but, knowing that he had quarrelled, they did not listen to him again at the door. "Go to Dresden," said Cosel, "and tell everybody that you have left me. Lehman will give you the money. Take it in gold. You will hear what becomes of me. If I am free, you will come to me; if not, help me to escape. If you arouse suspicion, and they would capture you, then destroy the paper I have entrusted to you, but do not give it to any one. Do not destroy it while you have any hope of escape; destroy it only at the last extremity, but they must know nothing about its destruction, so that they may be always in fear of its discovery." She extended her hand to him. He kissed it and cried, but said not a word. Then Cosel wrung her hands, and exclaimed,-- "There are still some hearts!" Zaklika went out as though intoxicated. The next day, when Von Sinen came to see her, he found her more merry, more resigned and quieter. He thought that perchance she might return the paper, that she would have pity on herself, but he soon learned that he was mistaken. Cosel said to him when he entered,-- "I pity you. You will not gain the King's favours, my brave relation, Löwendahl will not care for you; Flemming will not make you drunk, and you will not get even a thousand thalers. I am so stubborn--mad! Is it not true?" "Then all my efforts were in vain?" "Yes," said she, taking a ring from her finger. "I pity you, my unsuccessful messenger, and I should like you to preserve a souvenir of my goodwill: accept this ring. It is no longer an agreeable souvenir for me, it makes me ache like a wound. Take it, pray!" Von Sinen accepted the ring. He tried once more to persuade her, but Cosel laughed. "Spare yourself the trouble and me the worry. I know your arguments, they will not persuade me." Before leaving Halle, the Chamberlain came once again. He was sad, but did not say anything. Cosel was surprised at his return. "I pity you so much," said he, "that I cannot refrain from telling you what you have to expect." "I know that it is nothing pleasant," she interrupted, "but it would not change my determination. I shall not return the promise signed by the King. He was perfectly free to give it to me or not, but the King cannot ask for the return of his promise given to a woman, and thus cheat her. I cannot even suspect that it is the King's will. Such vile men as Flemming and Löwendahl might wish to get hold of it without the King's knowledge in order to make him pay for it. The King cannot ask it from me!" She turned and left the room. The same day Von Sinen left Halle; he went away with a strange feeling. The first time he was sent to her, he fulfilled his duty with the cold blood of a diplomat; little by little the stability of this woman, her bravery, perseverance, character, made such a deep impression on him that he was ashamed of his rôle. He pitied her and felt humiliated. He was going back more angry with those who sent him than with the unfortunate woman who had sent him away with such an unshaken bravery displayed in defence of her honour. When he arrived at Dresden he had plenty of time for rest. The whole Court was making preparations for a great festival, which was going to be held at Moritzburg; they had not time to call him and ask him to report the result of his mission, and he did not hasten himself. He was glad that he could for at least a few days stay the decision of Cosel's lot, which he thought would be still worse. Moritzburg was a hunting lodge, built not far from Dresden, in the woods. It was a charming little castle surrounded by old trees. The King invited the whole Court there, many foreigners, as well as his former favourites, the Princess Teschen, the Countess Königsmark, together with the Countess Denhoff and her sister Pociej. The site of the entertainment was a plain where game was to be driven from the forest to be shot. Hard by was a lake on which boat races were to be held. The crowd of guests was a great one; the entertainment succeeded perfectly, and as the guests did not retire to the tents prepared for them very sober, the next day they were obliged to hunt for wigs, shoes, and swords in the woods and bushes. Von Sinen mixed with the crowd, and wandered here and there; all this amusement seemed to him wild. The King was in an excellent humour, and was very amiable to his dismissed favourites. The Countess Denhoff burned with jealousy when he talked with the Princess Teschen, Königsmark looked sneeringly at Denhoff when the King was chatting with her. Augustus was entirely taken up with the illuminations and the magnificent feast, and when towards midnight everything was over, he sat down to drink with his friends. Here they let their tongues go; Flemming, Vitzthum, and Frisen could talk as much as they wished, even about those ladies towards whom Augustus was respectful. They passed in review all the gross and scandalous stories of the Court. Löwendahl was sitting at the other end of the table. "It seems to me," said the King to him, "that I have noticed Von Sinen." "He has returned from Halle," answered the Marshal sourly, looking at the King. "Von Sinen was sent to Cosel, what news has he brought?" "The same as always," answered Löwendahl. "You should have offered her anything she wished in exchange for that paper, even freedom." "She said that she would not part with it." Augustus frowned. "One must have done with her once for all," added Löwendahl. "Yes, to-morrow we will send a letter to the King of Prussia, asking for her extradition," said the King. "Then we will see what can be done." "And where does your Majesty order her to be put in the meantime?" "Let her be taken to Nossen Castle, perhaps she will think it over there. I cannot bear the daring war she has declared against me. I have had enough of it. Denhoff splits my head with her!" Those words, spoken in a moment of anger and under the influence of wine, were seized upon and utilized the next day. Flemming reminded Augustus of them. In the letter to the King of Prussia, asking for Countess's extradition, they gave as the reason daring speeches against Augustus, as well as a plot against his life. The public threat justified it. The letter was sent by a courier to Berlin. King Frederick did not hesitate for a moment. Lieutenant Ducharmoi, of the regiment of the Prince of Anhalt-Dessau, was called by his order. "You will go to Halle," said the King to him, "and there you will find the Countess Cosel. You will take her under escort, on your responsibility, and you will conduct her to the frontier of Saxony; there you will give her into the hands of a Saxon officer, who will give you a receipt." Ducharmoi went immediately to Halle, where he found Cosel. Although prepared for anything bad, she paled at the sight of an officer. Ducharmoi, after having saluted her, told her that he was commanded by the King to conduct her to the frontier of Saxony, where she would be delivered to the Saxon authorities. She stood for a moment as if struck by a thunderbolt. "What an injustice! What barbarity!" she exclaimed, and two streams of tears flowed down her cheeks. From that moment she said not a word more. They ordered her to pack her things, and put them in a hired carriage. Ducharmoi offered her his arm, and she descended to her carriage without looking at anybody. The horses went off; the carriage being escorted by a detachment of Prussian cavalry. During the whole of the journey she gave no signs of life. At last the carriage stopped. Cosel shivered; through the window she saw the Saxon uniforms worn by a detachment of dragoons, who were to conduct her further. She called Lieutenant Ducharmoi, who approached her carriage. Then she emptied her pockets; she found a gold box and a beautiful watch, and handed them to the officer. "Pray, take that as a souvenir from me." Ducharmoi hesitated. "I beseech you to accept," said she, "it must not become a prey to those horrid Saxons." The money she gave to the Prussian soldiers. Then she drew the curtains again, without asking what they were going to do with her. CHAPTER XXII. From the moment Cosel passed into the hands of the Saxon authorities imprisonment was likely at any time. She passed the night in Leipzig. In the morning an official, wearing a little sword and a big wig, silently executing the orders he had received from his superiors, entered the room in which she had spent a sleepless night, crying. He brought the King's order, instructing him to examine all her things, and to take them away. She looked at him contemptuously, and did not say a word. He sealed all her boxes, and took the papers and jewels; he searched in her trunks, but could not find that for which he was looking. This humiliating inquisition lasted a couple of hours. Hardly had she been permitted to rest a moment after such moral torture, than she was ordered to again enter the carriage--not being told where they were going to conduct her. A detachment of cavalry surrounded the carriage--they rode till the evening. Against the sky, burning with the setting sun, there appeared the walls and towers of a castle, and the carriage, passing through a narrow gateway, entered the courtyard. The place was entirely unknown to her. The castle was empty and had been uninhabited for some time. A few men were standing at the door. They were obliged to conduct the weakened lady up the stairs leading to a room on the first floor. It was an old habitation, with small windows, enormous fireplaces, thick walls, without any comforts, and sparsely furnished with the barest necessities. Cosel, thoroughly tired, threw herself on the bed. She passed a sleepless night, tormented by horrid thoughts aroused by her imprisonment. The dawn was breaking, the sky was growing red-gold in the east, the servants still slept; only the guard pacing in the corridor broke the silence when Cosel rose and went to the window. The view from it did not remind her of anything. In front of her there was a vast plain, stretching towards the blue of a far forest. Here and there rose clumps of trees; a few roofs could be seen, and from behind the green columns of smoke were rising. The castle stood on an eminence, which descended sharply towards a village. On the right hand there was a highway bordered with willows. The road was deserted. She did not know the country. From the room she went softly to another, which was larger, in the middle of it stood an oak table, and against the walls a few benches and chairs. Over the fireplace there was a battered coat-of-arms, cut in the stone, of which there remained only the shield and helmet. Behind this room, and like it, vaulted, was a small round room in the tower, on the other side of the castle. From here one could see forests, hills, and villages, and here and there in the distance the towers of some knightly castle, built like an eagle's nest on a crag. Still the country was unknown to her. In the room in the tower there was some furniture; an empty wardrobe stood against the wall, and on one of its shelves was an old Bible, worm-eaten and covered with dust. Cosel seized it, but the book slipped from her hands, and the yellow leaves scattered on the floor. In that room there was an iron door, leading somewhere into the mysterious rooms of the castle, in which no living human voice was heard. The day was breaking. The swallows flew round the windows. Cosel returned to her rooms. The women servants that accompanied her woke up and offered to serve her. She dismissed them. Having stayed her hunger with some warm milk, she went again to the window; she sat on the stone bench and began to look on God's world, although she had nobody in it. She turned her eyes on the road, where she noticed some vans, men, and herds--clouds of dust. But she soon tired of them and sat at a distance from the window. The hours were long. At noon they brought her luncheon. One of the servants persuaded her to eat. Cosel went to the table, and, looking at the modest meal, began to cry. The luncheons at which she entertained the King were different! Then again she went to the window and looked on to the road, not willing to avow to herself that she hoped to see some one there. She believed that Zaklika would seek her out. But neither on that nor the following day did she see anything except shepherds, herds, and vans. No one looked at the castle. She wandered from window to window; but all round the country was quiet and deserted. Towards evening she perceived a small peasant boy picking flowers near the wall, and she threw him a piece of money that she found in her pocket, and, leaning out, she asked him the name of the castle. The boy muttered, "Nossen," and ran away frightened. She did not know even the name, but she remembered to have heard it, and guessed she was in the vicinity of Meissen and Dresden. She again thought of Zaklika, but what could he do alone against walls, guards, and the King? The third day she was looking on the road when towards noon she noticed a horseman. He was riding slowly from the direction of Dresden. He dropped his reins and looked curiously round the country; he had raised his head towards the castle. He seemed to be looking for something. He wore a grey mantle, and she thought it was her faithful servant. She shivered, and began to wave her handkerchief. The cavalier had also taken out his handkerchief, and, apparently wiping his forehead, made signs with it. It was indeed Zaklika. His mien and his movements were easily recognized, even from a distance. Her heart began to throb. He at least did not forget her; he could save her. Riding slowly and looking at the castle, he disappeared behind the hill. Zaklika had remained a few days in Halle and watched. He wanted to follow the Countess, but the Prussians ordered him to leave the country. He made his way to Dresden, where he went directly to Lehman. The banker received him with evident fear; he locked the doors, and first asked him whether anybody had seen him. Being assured that Zaklika had not met any one in Dresden, Lehman breathed more easily. But he could not speak for quite a while, and when he began to speak, he seemed afraid of his own words. "It is difficult to know," said he, "what was the cause of that, but now there will be no measure to her misfortune. The King is angry, and the King's anger is cold like ice. When some one offends him, he is inexorable. Cosel is lost." Zaklika listened. "Yes, she is lost!" continued Lehman. "When the King wrongs some one, he persecutes him, and will not let him appear in his presence. Cosel has refused to return to him that promise of marriage, and he will never forget that. They have confiscated her all. Löwendahl received orders to search for her money and jewels. Pillnitz is taken by the Treasury, and the other estate also." Here Lehman approached Zaklika. "They have taken everything from me too. The King sent for it. The books showed I had it; I could not refuse," he added. "What! everything? But not that secret sum that the Countess told me to take from you?" He took a paper that was sewn in his sleeve. The banker took it with trembling hands. "And do you know," said he, "what would become of both of us if they seized that paper? They would send us to Königstein, and my children would become beggars. Flemming and Löwendahl would seize the pretext to look into my safe." And he trembled. "Then you have given them that sum also?" said Zaklika, wringing his hands in despair. Lehman looked at him for a long time; he seemed to be wrestling with himself. "Listen," said he. "Swear to me upon that which you hold most sacred, that you will not betray me even should they threaten you with death--" Here the Jew took from a drawer a diamond cross pawned by the Princess Teschen. "Swear to me upon that," said he. Zaklika took the cross, and, raising his hand, said quietly,-- "I swear!" Then he added,-- "It was not necessary to ask me for an oath: my word as nobleman would be enough. Zaklika has never betrayed any one, and never will." Lehman looked at him, and he was as white as a sheet. "Suppose they should catch you and find money upon you?" "In the first place the money might be mine; then the Countess may have made me a present of it." "But they take everything that used to belong to her." "They know that I never had anything, and they will not search me. You will give that money." Lehman still hesitated. "I may have misfortunes on account of you, but it must not be said that I did not help some one in misfortune." He opened the safe, took out a bag, and began to count money on the table. Zaklika breathed again and wiped the perspiration from his forehead; then he sat thoughtful, leant on his elbows, and fell asleep from fatigue. When Lehman had finished counting, he turned to him, and perceived that he had fallen asleep; only then did he understand what the silent man had suffered if at that moment he could sleep so soundly. He went quietly to another room, and there he waited till Zaklika should awaken. He wished him to do so as soon as possible; for notwithstanding the pity he had for the man, he was afraid to have him in the house. Zaklika, who had fallen asleep from fatigue, but in whom the soul was vigilant, woke up soon, and, almost frightened, jumped from his place. He rubbed his eyes; he was ashamed to appear so feeble. He glanced at the money, put it in his money belt, and buckled it under his dress. Lehman was waiting, and when Zaklika took his leave he came to him, and, placing his hand on his shoulder, said,-- "Only God knows whether we shall see one another again. I pity you, but I cannot stop you from an honest deed. You have noticed my hesitation, but you must remember that I live for my children. Now, listen to me. I had in my possession a great deal of money belonging to the Countess, and in our hands money increases rapidly. Our account is closed; I have paid everything; but in the case of such misfortune a man should reckon differently; therefore, take this with you, and may God lead you." He took a bag, and, handing it to Zaklika, said,-- "From this moment you do not know me. I do not know you either." "It is for her," said Zaklika, shaking hands with him. "Go through the garden," said the Israelite. Zaklika was too well known in the city to show himself. He had left his horse in a suburb, at the house of his friend, a Wend. During his wanderings he had been struck by the similarity of the language to his own, as he listened to these Slavs talking. Speaking a similar language, he soon struck up acquaintances among them. The name of the fisherman with whom Zaklika became acquainted was Hawlik. He had a piece of land reaching to the bank of the river, but as the soil was not very good, Hawlik was not a farmer, but gained his living by fishing. Year in year out he lived his life in poverty and sorrow. Zaklika often used to visit him, and they both chatted of their misery. The Wend remembered better times. "All around us used to belong to our people," said he, "but the Germans squeezed us out by different tricks, and now it is dangerous even to speak our own tongue. They do not give us any chance in the cities; it is enough to be a Wend to be pushed out. Our number decreases, but there is no help for it. It seems to be God's will." Every time that Zaklika wanted not to be seen in Dresden he went to Hawlik, where he put up his horse and slept in the attic, and where he was always welcome to partake of the modest repast. They were glad to see him now also. They never asked him any questions--what was he doing or what had he come for. Zaklika went to them to spend that night, much troubled whether it would be safe for him to show himself in the city and get some news; he was afraid of being arrested. Early in the morning, having wrapped himself up carefully in his mantle, he went across the bridge to Narrenhaus. He expected to meet Fröhlich as he went to the castle, and learn something from him. In order to be sure of not missing him, he sat on the steps of the fool's house and waited. Fröhlich, dressed in his pointed hat and adorned with silver key, coming out of his house, noticed a man sitting, and, not recognizing Zaklika, exclaimed,-- "Hey! Do you take my house for a hostelry?" Zaklika turned; the fool recognized him. "What is the matter with you?" he exclaimed. "You look as if you were married." "I have returned from a journey." "You are a Catholic, then you must have been in purgatory?" "I wandered through the world," answered Zaklika. "But tell me what is going on here?" "You wish me to be a historiographer," laughed the fool. "You had better ask what is not going on." "Do you know what has become of my former mistress?" asked Zaklika. "I do not know who was your mistress." "The Countess Cosel." Fröhlich looked round and put his fingers on his lips. "Who pronounces that name?" said he. "There is nothing to laugh at, and you know that I live by laughter." "But you can tell me at least what has become of her?" "Then you do not know? Where have you been?" "Far." "I think that even afar they talk about that. That woman in whose slavery our lord was, it seems, is now imprisoned by him, and her captivity will last longer than her domination." "And where is she?" asked Zaklika. "They say that she is in Nossen Castle, but to be sure they will build something finer for her," laughed the fool by habit, but sadly. "No! I would not like to be a woman. Speaking frankly, it is not much comfort to be a man either. If I had my choice, I would like to be a donkey. Nobody eats donkey's meat, his skin is thick, and when long-ears begins to sing, everybody runs away and leaves him alone. If one adds that he has always a good appetite, and that he can live on old broom, one sees that there is no happier being in the world." "Nossen! Nossen!" repeated Zaklika thoughtfully, having forgotten about the fool. "I am talking about an ass, and you about Nossen! Do not prattle about sad things, and good-bye!" Fröhlich, having put the official smile on his lips, went away. Zaklika returned to Hawlik, from whom he learned where the castle was; and he started in its direction the same day. He was very glad that Cosel had noticed him coming, for he knew that he would bring her some consolation. He went to the inn in the village, where he assumed the rôle of a buyer of skins, and thus, while apparently going round on business, had plenty of time to learn all about the castle. The building was old, and Cosel's guard was composed of a few old men. They did not let any one in, but they did not watch her very strictly. The windows were very high, and nobody thought that an escape could be accomplished through them; consequently there were no sentries. The soldiers spent their time smoking pipes in the courtyard, and at Cosel's door. In the rear of the castle one could approach the windows very easily. In order to have a good pretext for longer sojourn at the inn, Zaklika simulated being unwell. The innkeeper was glad of it, for he had to feed the horse as well as take care of the man. At supper he learned that they had brought to the castle the lady who attempted the King's life, as well as how many soldiers guarded her. Two women servants, a cook, and a boy composed the whole court of this lady who formerly was surrounded by a crowd of servants dressed in cloth of gold. They were telling wonders about the prisoner. Zaklika remained a couple of days without raising any suspicion, and as he gave a couple of thalers to the innkeeper on account of skins, he felt more assured, and one day he went out towards noon to look at the castle. He convinced himself that from one side, where was the forest, he could steal through the undergrowth near to the walls; but he could not find out whether there were any windows from Cosel's room on this side. He proposed to see that later. Towards evening he returned to the inn, drank the bears'-fat recommended to him by the innkeeper, and went to bed, thinking how he could deceive the German and remain longer in the inn without exciting suspicion. CHAPTER XXIII. The next morning, as Zaklika was drinking warmed beer in the common room, there entered, with a great noise, three soldiers from the guard of the castle. Zaklika immediately recognized them as soldiers whom he had seen in Dresden, and one of them began to look at him attentively. "Well," said the soldier, leaning on the table, "I seem to know you." "To be sure," answered Zaklika, "for I was a long time in service at the Court, till I took to business." "Ah! you are the man who breaks horse-shoes!" exclaimed the soldier. "Yes, I could even stop an ox by taking it by the horns; but now I don't know whether I could do the same even with a sheep." The soldier saluted him smiling. Zaklika called for beer for him, and they became friends. "We are now doing penance," said the soldier. "We are in Nossen watching a petticoat! It is frightfully dull there." "They might at least have given a few pretty girls to the Countess," said another soldier. "How long are you going to stay here?" "Who knows? And it is so dreadful to have nothing to do." "Why don't you play cards?" said Zaklika. "With whom? And then we don't have much money." He gaped, and drank the beer. When they started to return to the castle, Zaklika accompanied them to the gate, then, still talking, he entered the courtyard and the corridor. The other soldiers were not surprised at the newcomer; on the contrary, they were glad he came. They began to chat together. They found cards, and won from him two thalers. This pleased them very much. As he was going, he expressed a wish to see the castle, and nobody objected to it. The officer was in the town, playing the guitar to a butcher's daughter. He was not able, however, to do anything more that day. Zaklika stayed on, pretending that he was not well, purchased skins, and looked about for a way of stealing into the castle. They did not suspect him, but the difficulties were great from the position of the castle. The part of the castle in which the Countess was imprisoned adjoined the empty portion of it. There the old steward and his family were living. Through the soldiers, Zaklika became acquainted with him. He was avaricious, and had a large family. Treating him with beer, Zaklika learned from him which way the windows of the Countess's rooms looked out, and also that the iron door of the tower, of which the steward had the key, led to a large empty hall. Zaklika told him he was very fond of old buildings; but to this the steward made no answer. Another day they were talking about the Countess, and Zaklika tried to arouse pity for her in the steward. They looked at one another--the steward was silent again. "The Countess," said Zaklika, "has still many friends at Court, and some of them think that she will return to the King's favour. I would not be surprised if some of them appeared here one day and offered you a handsome sum of money for a moment's conversation with her." The steward muttered something. "What would you do in that case?" asked Zaklika. "It would be a devilish temptation," answered the steward. "I would do as Luther did, I would throw the inkstand at the devil!" But he smiled. "Suppose someone should offer you thirty thalers?" asked Zaklika. "For thirty thalers they would hang me," laughed the steward. "But it is not a crime to let the Countess talk for a few minutes with a friend. However," continued Zaklika, "we are talking just in fun; but I am sure just the same that someone would give you even fifty thalers." The steward looked at him with wide-open eyes and stroked his beard. The thought of getting fifty thalers intoxicated him. "If you know someone who would give me fifty thalers, then tell him to come and see me," answered the German. "Here he is," answered Zaklika. "I thought so." "Conduct me to the empty hall when the women are not with the Countess; I shall not be long with her." "Were it not for the women everything could be done very easily. Unfortunately, they are with the Countess by turns." "Tell your wife to invite them." "No, a woman should not know about anything." "Yes," said Zaklika; "but she can invite them without knowing why." The consultation lasted quite a while, and they agreed that at the next opportunity the steward should let Zaklika see the Countess. One day, as she was in her chamber, she heard a knocking at the iron door of the tower. With throbbing heart she rushed there and knocked at it too. At that moment the door opened and Zaklika appeared. "I have only time to tell you that I am in the vicinity, and that I will do anything to come to your rescue." "Help me to escape!" said Cosel. "It is impossible just now," said Zaklika; "at least it requires a great deal of time. You must rely upon me--I will do my best. Drop a cord from the window in the tower, and I will attach a paper with the news to it, for it will be impossible for us to see one another." The steward began to grow impatient. Zaklika slipped into the Countess's hand a bag of money, and whispered,-- "You must bribe one of the servants. I am at the inn called 'The Golden Horse Shoe.'" The door was shut, for the women might come at any moment, but the Countess grew hopeful. Zaklika, that poor servant, on whom she hardly deigned to look from the height of her majesty, had not betrayed her. The steward took the fifty thalers with unconcealed joy. He was glad of the opportunity of making some money, and from that time it was he that ran after Zaklika, who had already conceived a plan to free the Countess. The next day the steward showed him the castle, and during this visit Zaklika noticed that there was a door in the wall near the road; it was encumbered with stones, but they could easily be cleared out. But it was not enough to leave the castle, it was necessary to have the means of gaining the frontier and finding a hiding-place that could not be easily discovered by Augustus' spies. Zaklika thought that if he could cross Silesia and reach Poland, they could hide there, for he knew that the Saxon, as they called Augustus in Poland, had many enemies. To purchase horses and hire people for the flight was a difficult task in Saxony, where the King had many spies. The next day Zaklika attached a paper to a string, telling the Countess that he was going away to make preparations for her escape. Before going away, he had a conversation with the steward, hinting to him that there might come an opportunity for him to earn not fifty, but a thousand thalers. "With a thousand thalers you could go quietly into the Rhine provinces and live there with your family in your own house." The old man did not say a word, only nodded. Having drunk lots of beer with the soldiers in saying farewell, he told them he would come back for the skins, and that he was going to Dresden. After his departure, Cosel was in a fever, waiting for news. Every day she rushed to the window and drew up the string. She did not think of difficulties; it seemed to her that the man ought to free her immediately when she had told him to do so. In the meantime, she decided to bribe one of the servants. Both of them were gloomy and unfriendly, but the younger was more accessible. She would talk a few words at least with her every day. Cosel was in the habit of treating every one in a queenly manner and assuring them of her favour. She was always majestic, thinking that she was the King's wife. But little by little she assumed a more gentle manner with the young servant Madeleine. She could not, however, make her friendly till she began to complain of the older one. The money acted still better, but a month passed before she could count upon her. Zaklika had not returned. He could not act quickly, for this reason, that he was known in Dresden, and the purchase by him of a carriage and horses would arouse suspicion. Therefore a great amount of cunning was necessary to purchase what he needed without attracting attention. Through the Wend he made some acquaintances in Budzishyne, and there he worked out his plans. It took a good deal of time, however, and the autumn passed by and winter came, and it was the worst time of the year for flight. Zaklika went to Nossen in order to ask Cosel to be patient until the spring. The steward was paid to open the door, at which Madeleine kept watch, and they were able to talk freely and come to an agreement that they would try to fly in the spring. There was no doubt that the steward, tempted by the money, would give in. The winter was long, and such kind of enterprises, when they drag, are apt to furnish a chance for repentance on the part of those who help to accomplish them. The steward, being tipsy on one occasion, said something about it to his wife; the rest she got out of him. The shrewd woman thought that when one betrays it is better to betray everybody, and take all possible benefit out of it. According to her opinion they should agree to take the money from Zaklika, and then communicate the plan to the authorities in order not to lose their position, and thus not be obliged to fly into another country. The steward smiled at the shrewd idea of his cunning wife. They awaited the spring. The Countess was so sure of Madeleine that she told her all about it, and asked her to go with her. The woman became frightened at the idea. She wrestled with herself. Under the pretext of seeing her family, she asked permission to go to Dresden. She had a sister in the service of Countess Denhoff--she went to see her. The women consulted each other and agreed that it would be best to tell the Countess's mother of the plans of Cosel, for which act they were sure to be well rewarded. The fear of the women may be imagined when they learned that Cosel could escape. Löwendahl was called up at once. The first step was to arrest both women. The same day a double guard of soldiers went to Nossen to replace those that were there. They doubled the sentries, arrested the steward, and led him in chains to Dresden. During the night sentries were placed under the windows. In the morning Cosel found in the anteroom an unknown officer, who, accompanied by an official, searched all her things and inspected the doors and locks. She was angry, but did not dare to ask any questions, being afraid that Zaklika might be detected and arrested. Happily nobody here knew him by his name, for he had taken precautions to assume another. They found no proofs of the proposed escape, for she had destroyed the paper written by Zaklika; but from that time life in Nossen became unbearable. New servants were sent, who treated the Countess with great severity. She defended herself only with pride and silence. When the official had left the room, the young officer, having a more tender heart than the others, said to her,-- "I am sure the Countess does not remember a lad whom she has seen many times as the King's page. I am here on a sad duty, and I came here only to spare you some suffering if I can. You must try not to make your position worse." Cosel looked at him proudly. "If you wish to prove to me your sympathy," she said, "tell me then what they have discovered and how." "I do not know the details," said the officer. "The orders were given by Marshal Löwendahl. They have changed the garrison and the servants; the steward of the castle is arrested." "And who besides?" "Nobody else, besides the servants, I believe," answered the officer. "I will come to see you every day. I shall be very severe in the presence of the servants, but I will do anything to please you." He saluted and went off. A few days passed by in fear and uncertainty. Zaklika, having learned in Dresden that the plan of escape was discovered, kept quiet, waiting to see if they would try to arrest him. He understood that he could not show himself near Nossen, and in the meantime he felt it would relieve the Countess if she knew he was still free and that she could count on him. In consequence he dressed as a beggar and stole at nights to the castle. During the day, lying in the thickets, he noticed that the string was not at the window, and that a sentry was beneath it. Communication with the Countess was therefore very difficult, and he racked his brains how he could do it. Wandering through the country, notwithstanding the snow and cold, he met a pedlar named Trene selling various wares for Christmas. He had a small van which he used to draw to an inn, to which the women came to make their purchases, while to the houses of the richer people he carried the goods himself. Zaklika had known this pedlar in Dresden. He stopped him and reminded him that he used to make purchases from him at the Wend's house. "In Nossen," said Zaklika, "you can do good business, for in the castle the Countess Cosel is imprisoned. I am sure she will purchase some presents for the servants." The pedlar's eyes sparkled. "Thank you for the advice," said he. "I never should have thought of it." "When you are there," said Zaklika, "remember me to her, for I was in her service formerly." "What shall I tell her?" asked the pedlar. "Tell her that her servant who used to break horseshoes is free, and wanders throughout God's world. Where are you going from Nossen?" asked Zaklika. "I think home, for Christmas is not far off, and I would like to spend it with my family." "Then perhaps we shall meet on the road." The pedlar, like all sellers when it is a question of gain, knew how to act. When he came to the town he went straight to the castle. The soldiers wanted to drive him away; but he raised such a din that the officer came out. He was more indulgent, and sent to the Countess, asking her whether she would admit a pedlar. For distraction's sake Cosel consented. The modest wares of the poor pedlar did not satisfy her refined taste, and she was looking contemptuously at them, when Herr Trene whispered to her,-- "I was asked to tell you that your faithful servant, the horseshoe-breaker, is in good health, and wanders free through God's world." "Who told you this?" asked Cosel. "He himself," answered Trene. "I met him in the neighbourhood." When the Countess had heard those words she purchased a lot from him, and the pedlar was surprised at his good luck. He left the castle happy. He also did good business in the inn, and was obliged to stay overnight. The next day he met Zaklika on the road to Dresden. He greeted him cordially. "Did you tell her about me?" asked the Pole. "Yes," answered Trene, "and evidently the Countess was pleased. I did good business. I thank you." In the meantime the prisoners were questioned in Dresden. The steward was intelligent enough not to avow anything whatever, and they released him; but he lost his position. The women were released too, but not rewarded. The King ordered that Cosel should be watched carefully. He knew her too well, and was aware that she could be dangerous. When he learned of the plan for escape, he ordered Stolpen Castle to be prepared for her. It was a stronghold, built on basalt rock; the same which Cosel had once visited with the King, and it was while riding there that she met the Slav woman, Mlawa, who foretold her future. At once orders were sent to Stolpen to furnish the St. John's tower, in which the Bishop of Meissen used to imprison refractory priests. Augustus was offended and angry. The unconquered will of a woman mocked his might; a woman dared to ask him to keep his promise, and accuse him of breach of faith. It was unpardonable daring; and whoever drew the lord's anger upon himself, for him there was no mercy. Two days before Christmas there was a great stir in Nossen Castle. There was sent from Dresden another detachment of soldiers and a carriage, with the King's order to transport Cosel to Stolpen. The surprised officer did not dare to enter the Countess's room with the new order, which announced to her a still harder lot. Cosel, hearing an unaccustomed noise, rushed to the door. She still hoped at times that Augustus, whom she had not ceased to love, would have pity on her, and she thought that as a Christmas present he had granted her freedom. She stood trembling when an official entered and bowed to her profoundly. The apparition of the scribbler was the worse message for her. He was holding a paper in one hand, spectacles in the other; he was trembling too. "What do you wish?" asked Cosel. "I have brought an order signed by His Majesty the King, who has kindly designated Countess Cosel Stolpen Castle as her place of abode." The Countess rushed screaming towards the wall as though she would tear it down. The servants tried to hold her, but she pushed them away vigorously with cries and moans. The official stood by as if turned to stone. They were obliged to conduct her by force to the carriage, in which she was taken to Stolpen, and lodged in St. John's and Donat's towers, on the 25th of December, 1716. CHAPTER XXIV. Old Stolpen Castle was then in a half-ruined condition. The summits of its towers had been destroyed by lightning, and the old building would hardly shelter a small garrison. The commandant of the castle, Johan Friederich von Wehlen, occupied one of the uncomfortable towers; the other, called Johannisturm, was destined for the unfortunate favourite of Augustus. The former inhabitant of luxurious palaces was now obliged to be satisfied with two rooms, one of which was intended as the kitchen, the second for the Countess herself. When she looked round this bare and dreary room, lighted by small windows, she gave way to despair, and continued to weep so bitterly that they were obliged to watch her continually. Her guards and servants, specially chosen that they could not be bribed, stood motionless at the sight of such an outburst of grief. Wehlen, an old soldier, who never made war against women, lost his head and patience. It was a hard thing for him to be severe on this unfortunate, but still beautiful woman. The first day of Christmastide, celebrated with such solemnity throughout the world, was spoiled for him by the scene of despair. The sentries walking under the walls were afraid of the crying and screaming of that unfortunate lady. She spent the whole night in this way, till finally she fell upon the bed, half-dead from exhaustion. The women whispered that she would die. The third day Cosel rushed from the bed and asked for some paper; she wanted to write to the King. They had foreseen this wish, and the order was for all her letters to be sent to Löwendahl. Augustus had strictly forbidden any communication to be brought him from Cosel, and ordered her correspondence to be burned; but she was not forbidden to write and to have some hope. Cosel still believed in Augustus' heart. When the first outburst of despair had passed, she looked around and recognized the walls which had frightened her so much when she visited them with the King. From the windows she could see the thick high walls surrounding the castle, and in the distance the blue mountains covered with woods, bare hills, and the country which looked as if it were uninhabited. This made her the prey to solitude, reminiscences, watching the soldiers, harassing the servants who were at the same time her guards and executioners. Wehlen had received the strictest orders to watch her carefully, a responsibility which in those days might cost him his own life. Those who wrote the instructions, it is true, had recommended politeness towards the woman; but the watchfulness must be so strict as to destroy all hope of flight. At first glance such a thing as flight seemed impossible. The castle was surrounded by high walls; the St. John's tower was strong, and it had been lighted by so many windows that the sentries walking beneath them could see what the prisoner was doing. Two courtyards had to be crossed before the tower could be reached. At the gateway were sentries; the castle was on a high mount dominating the country, every one approaching it could be seen. There was nobody except the commandant, two officers, a handful of soldiers, and the Countess's servants in the castle. Nobody could enter it without the commandant's special permission, and the gates were always shut. Old Von Wehlen, who had never seen the Countess, and concluded that the King did not care for her because she was old, was amazed when he set eyes on her for the first time. Cosel was then thirty-six years of age, and God had granted her eternal beauty and strength. Her face bore no traces of suffering, and perhaps she was never more charming than then. The brightness of her eyes, the freshness of her complexion, her majestic figure, and statuesque shape, made those who looked at her wonder. In cynical disdain, and as if sneering at her present position, Cosel assumed the manners and speech of a queen. She gave her orders, and in her voice there was pride in proportion to her misfortune. The days were long, weary and monotonous. Cosel filled them with memories and sometimes with hope. She cursed Augustus' cruelty, but she could not understand how the one who had loved her so tenderly could become such a terrible executioner. The letters that she wrote became by habit a necessity. By the silence she knew that it was in vain, but at the same time she felt better when she had committed her thoughts to paper, which could be only scorn for other people. When they had packed up her things in Nossen, some one had picked up the old Bible, and the Countess was constantly reading its pages, in which so many sorrows are expressed. Those stray leaves aroused in her the desire to read the whole book. She sent to the commandant to buy a Bible for her. He asked permission from Dresden; they ordered her desire to be gratified; and from that time the Bible was constantly on her table. In reading it she found, if not consolation, at least forgetfulness. From it she learned that for thousands of years life had been constant torture. Thus she found the spring! The spring, which awakes everything to life, was only going to prolong her sufferings. The swallows came to the old nests to repair them again; the trees began to open their buds towards the sun. Over the earth there blew a warm air, mingled with the scent of flowers. Even around the castle some life appeared; the ploughmen went freely to the fields--she alone could not move. Cosel used to stay at the window for hours deep in thought, and did not notice that a soldier, astonished at her beauty, would often look at her, and ask himself what this angel-like woman could have done to merit imprisonment. Old Von Wehlen, smoking his pipe on the ramparts, looked also at her windows, and his thoughts were bitter; his heart heaved, for he felt that he loved his lord Friederich Augustus less. He pitied her. The space in which she could walk consisted of a small room in the tower, which the sun could not warm. At the foot of the St. John's tower there was a piece of land, surrounded by the wall of the fortress--enough space for a comfortable grave. In that corner there grew wormwood, wild thyme and wild pinks. Wehlen thought it could be turned into a little garden; but to make the garden, permission would be necessary, for it would make it pleasanter, and to show pity for the rebellious woman would mean to make her bolder. Consequently he made a garden for himself, thinking that the Countess would at least look on the flowers. Cosel looked from the window, and noticing that they were digging, she withdrew, thinking that they were making a grave. Only when, after some time, she perceived some flowers there, she smiled at them. It seemed to her that if, instead of sitting on the stones, she could rest on the earth, she would revive. The flowers could be her confidants and companions; but considering herself a queen, she could not ask for it--she preferred to suffer. At last, considering that she could not escape from it, old Wehlen told the servant to tell the Countess that she could go there. And when one morning she went down to see her garden, the air seemed to intoxicate her; she was obliged to lean for a while against the wall. From that time she used to spend whole days in the garden, taking care of the flowers, which she planted herself then. Thus passed the spring and summer without any change or hope. There was no answer to her letters; nobody came to see her. Out of an immense fortune taken from her, they paid her about three thousand thalers, which she could use as she pleased; but the commandant controlled all her expenses, and she could not transact any business without his knowledge. Since coming to Stolpen she had been waiting for Zaklika; but month after month passed, and there was no news from him. Once, however, a Jew pedlar, who used to bring her different things, whispered to her that the one who used to break the horseshoes was still alive, and that she should see him. Those few words were sufficient to awaken in her a slumbering hope. In the meantime Zaklika was working constantly. His plans of facilitating the escape of the Countess from Nossen being ruined, he was obliged to begin anew. He knew that Cosel was imprisoned in Stolpen. This cruelty they tried to justify by spreading reports that Cosel, when in Berlin, had tried to plot against the King's life, that she had threatened to kill him, that she was mad, and called herself a queen. And they ended in whispers that Augustus was ashamed of the levity with which he had given her a promise of marriage although the Queen was living. That promise, notwithstanding all efforts, they could not find or get back. It was the first time that Augustus had acted with such cruelty, and it frightened even the Countess Denhoff, although she could not flatter herself that she was much loved by the King. It was true that her court was quite brilliant, but her following had no political weight. Even those who had helped her to rise, in order to get rid of Cosel, kept away from her. Watzdorf alone, who thought through her to overthrow Flemming, was attached to her, and served her by asking the King for considerable sums of money, which she squandered lavishly, sometimes spending 10,000 thalers on a ball. She was then already not counting on the King's long-continued favours, and she looked after Bosenval and the young Lubomirski, who seemed to be fond of her. Augustus' cold and sometimes cruel treatment of his best favourite warned the others to be armed against the caprices of their lord, who could take everything from them. Thus Hoym, the Countess Cosel's ex-husband, whom the King needed but did not like, remembering the fate of Beichling, Imhoff, and even his ex-wife, had sold his estate in Saxony, sent away the money, and, resigning from the Saxon service, had retired to Silesia. With Denhoff the reign of omnipotent King's favourites was ended. The actors of those comedies and dramas grew old and died out. The King himself lost his taste for noisy amusements. Leipzig fair alone could distract and animate him for a while. Zaklika had been for a long time thinking of the best means to help Cosel. He did not know Stolpen; he went to see it. He could stop safely in the town, for they paid no attention to travellers. Here he learned everything--who was the commandant of the castle, and that it was difficult to get in. Zaklika racked his brains to find a way, and he returned to Dresden with the determination to act openly. He had plenty of acquaintances from former times, but no friends. In the meantime, however, there came some lords from Poland, through whose influence he might do something. Zaklika thought that the best way would be to try to enter the military service, and be sent to the garrison at Stolpen. The way was long and difficult, but Zaklika had an iron will and boundless self-sacrifice. With the Polish lords his old name was of itself a good recommendation. When he appeared at the Court, they were quite surprised, for they knew he had been with Cosel; but no one asked him what he had been doing since her downfall. Zaklika told every one that he had been in Poland for some time. When the Bishop of Cracow, Sieniawski, came to Dresden, Zaklika decided to try through him to purchase a grade of captain in the Saxon army. On the Bishop mentioning Zaklika's name to the King, Augustus frowned, but ordered him to be called. He had not seen him for several years, and found him greatly changed. He looked at him suspiciously, but finding him bold but quiet, and learning that he left the Countess of himself, he raised no objection to his entering the army. The only question was to purchase the commission, which he soon was able to do. Zaklika had saved some money; he soon concluded the bargain with the German, and once again he wore a uniform, still more magnificent than before. Great disorder reigned in the Saxon army; sometimes officers did not see their regiments for years; they preferred to remain in the capital, and boast before the women about their marvellous bravery. They did not respect orders, and led a dissipated life. All that was the worst in the country served in the army; adventurers, gamblers, usurers, blacklegs. The generals lived on the soldiers, and the latter, being driven to despair, and following the example of their officers, lived as they could. Such disorder was favourable to Zaklika for carrying out his plans with money, and it was not difficult, having become acquainted with comrades, to find the way to replace some one in the garrison of Stolpen, which was considered a horrid prison. Old Wehlen being, as he learned, a quiet and a good man, continually playing draughts and smoking tobacco, would not be difficult to deceive. Cosel was greatly astonished when, after several long months of waiting, the pedlar Jew announced to her that the horseshoe-breaker would appear again. CHAPTER XXV. Another spring appeared, and for the second time the garden became green; then the same flowers raised their heads towards the sun. Cosel opened the window; the day was warm; the air quiet and mild. While sitting in her little garden she could see the soldiers and officers passing through the courtyard, from which she was separated by a low wall. The proud lady did not like her fallen grandeur to be looked at, but, being weary, she was glad sometimes to see a human face, forgetting that she was queen. And sometimes a soldier stood looking at her with commiseration, and the younger officers lost their heads when they looked for long into her burning black eyes. One of those who walked very often in the neighbourhood of the garden as a pretext for approaching the beautiful woman was young Wehlen, nephew of the commandant. The old man kept him for two reasons; to have a partner for his game of draughts, and to look after his military career. Henry von Wehlen did not like the service, but his mother, wishing him to be made heir by the commandant, who was an old and rich bachelor, persuaded her son to obey him. This twenty-year old Wehlen found life terribly dull on the basalt rock of Stolpen, but could not escape from it. What bliss, then, for the young man dreaming in solitude was the arrival of such a beautiful if unhappy prisoner! At the first sight of Anna, Henry lost his head. He could not understand how they could keep such an ideal of an earthly goddess between walls, and let her die little by little. With the ardour of first, pure, exalted, but concealed love, young Wehlen was attracted towards the beautiful woman. The old commandant did not notice these sentiments in his nephew. He was the most prosaic of men, and did not care for feminine beauty. Formerly he had a smile for them all, but now for none of them. It was Henry who had carefully suggested to him to permit the Countess to enjoy the garden. Very often acting as lieutenant to his uncle, he was practically master of the castle, and Cosel knew well that she could count on him, although she seldom deigned to look at him. She preferred to wait for Zaklika. How great was her surprise and pleasure one day, on going into the garden, to perceive Henry Wehlen and Zaklika in the courtyard, talking quite amicably. The latter she recognized by his voice, for the uniform altered his appearance very much. She could hear the loud conversation; Zaklika was telling him that he succeeded Captain Zitaner, who was in a great hurry to visit his family. "Captain von Wehlen," said Captain von Zaklika, "it is not very cheerful staying here among ruins. Had I known it was such a horrid place--" "It is a bad place," answered Henry von Wehlen, "for those who want merry-making; but those who are fond of beautiful nature can live here very happily." Cosel listened, but she turned away in order not to betray the interest she was taking in the conversation. "Captain von Wehlen," said Zaklika, "if it could be done, you should introduce me to the Countess." "With great pleasure," said Wehlen, who was glad to have a pretext for approaching the Countess. They both went towards the wall of the garden. Captain von Wehlen saluted the Countess. "Permit me to introduce to you Captain von Zaklika, newly arrived." Cosel turned, apparently with indifference, and bowed slightly to the new-comer, who stood pale, full of emotion, looking at that beautiful face, still alight with the same charm which first shone for him under the linden trees in Laubegast. After a moment of silence the Countess said,-- "Are you here on a visit?" "No, madam, I am on service, which I daresay will last quite a long time, for I doubt whether anybody would care to exchange with me." "It is surely the worst prison any one could find," exclaimed the Countess. "In a dark room the world is unseen, and so forgotten; but here the whole vast horizon lies before one's eyes, separated only by a big wall." The officers stood speechless. "What have you done that they send you here?" added the Countess. "It is the caprice of destiny." Then they saluted and went off. Wehlen took Zaklika's arm, and conducted him into the third courtyard of the castle, where he occupied a couple of rooms, and where he also wanted to lodge his new comrade. "Captain von Zaklika," said he, "I am sure this is the first time you have seen the Countess Cosel. What do you say about her beauty? Is she not worthy of the throne?" He said this with such enthusiasm that he betrayed his secret, which he did not perhaps intend to hide before Zaklika. "I do not wonder at your enthusiasm," said the latter; "but from your enthusiasm one would imagine you were in love." "We are both soldiers," answered Wehlen, "and honest folks; why should I deny it? I have lost my head looking at her. I am not ashamed either. There is not another woman like her in the world." "But," said Zaklika, "you should remember that a woman who was the King's wife would not look upon another man. Then so many misfortunes have withered her heart; finally, she is a prisoner for ever!" "For ever!" interrupted Wehlen. "What lasts for ever? She is so beautiful!" Zaklika smiled. "You are so young," he said. "You are right; I am young; but who could resist the charm of her looks? You have seen my uncle, his grey hair, wrinkled face, quenched eyes. Well, he looks at her from afar and sighs, till a game of draughts makes him forget her. The soldiers look at her as at a picture; then how can a youth of twenty resist her beauty?" The same day they went to look over the castle, and already Zaklika tried to form some plans of escape. He found there was only one way to get out of the castle, and this was a subterranean corridor from the tower to the chapel, from which there was a narrow passage to the outside. Seeing this, he already had a plan. The Countess, dressed in man's clothing, would go down and slip into the exterior courtyard, where no sentries were posted. From there one could reach the door in the passage during the night. It would not be a difficult matter to get a couple of horses in the town, and the frontier was not far away. A few days later he found an opportunity of entering Cosel's room without arousing any suspicion. The Countess extended her hand to him. "You have made me wait too long," said she. "I could not do otherwise," answered Zaklika. "The one who uses the last means must be careful. The question was not one of my life, but of not failing to deliver you." "Yes, you are right," said Cosel. "I must preserve you for a last resource, for you are most faithful. Young Wehlen may be used first." "What for?" asked Zaklika. "To deliver me from here. He is madly in love with me. He knows the castle well. Do not mix in anything; let him do it. Help him as you can without taking part openly; prefer not to see anything. I will try to escape with him." "But he is a crazy boy," said Zaklika. "Only crazy people succeed in accomplishing crazy enterprises," said Cosel. "But suppose he does not succeed?" asked Zaklika gloomily. "No matter; they cannot do anything worse to me. I should only regret having exposed the young man. You will remain in reserve." "But I don't think he will have courage to do it," said Zaklika. "Leave that to me. I will manage the whole thing." A noise on the stairs stopped further conversation. Zaklika changed the subject and then went out. He was hurt at Cosel's rejection of his help, but always submitted to her, determined to obey her will. Wehlen took him into his confidence and told him he was ready to give up his own life for the Countess. "I am sure you would not betray me," said he. "No," answered Zaklika; "you may be assured on that point; but do not betray yourself." Soon Zaklika noticed that Wehlen began to visit the Countess quite often, to talk with her while she was in the garden. Zaklika was obliged to play draughts with the uncle and to chat with him. Henry was constantly rushing about, and by his redoubled energy and some preparations that he easily noticed, Zaklika guessed that the flight was soon to be attempted. Not being in the secret, he did not want to interfere, but once he whispered to the youth,-- "For Heaven's sake, have a care, captain. I do not know your thoughts and plans, but I am afraid that the others may notice, as I have, some unusual preparations." Wehlen was a little bit frightened; he took hold of Zaklika's arm, led him to a remote corner, and asked,-- "What have you noticed, then?" "Well, I have noticed that you are preparing some _salto mortale_." "I do not understand what you mean," said Wehlen. "The whole thing is that I am madly in love." "You must try not to show that love to others, and not let them see what I see." The same day Zaklika went to the tower and found Cosel walking about feverishly, wearing a different dress than usual. "Zaklika," she said, "do not interfere with anything--be blind. Play with the old commandant. In case of alarm, keep him as long as possible." "If you succeed in escaping, what shall I do then?" asked Zaklika. "Then come where I will tell you." She did not wish to say a word more. Zaklika left the room with a sad presentiment. Wehlen, whom he met in the courtyard, was feverish, looking every moment at the setting sun. The old commandant called Zaklika to have a glass of beer and play the usual game of draughts. The sergeant who locked the doors and brought the key usually found them absorbed in the game, which lasted late into the night. The evening was beautiful. Zaklika played absentmindedly, listening to the smallest noise in the castle, and the commandant, winning each time, laughed at him. "What is the matter with you to-day?" he asked. "I have a headache." Having played a few games, they began to chat. Wehlen filled his pipe. The night was growing dark; they lighted candles. Henry was absent, and this was unusual. "I am sure he went to town," said the commandant. "He is weary here, and I prefer him to go out rather than sigh at that proud lady, who imagines she is a queen and does not deign to look at anybody." Zaklika did not answer. Everything was quiet in the castle, and the time at which the old corporal used to bring the keys was near; there was a knock at the door. The old soldier, looking like a highway robber--a mercenary who had seen military service in every country, entered. He was pale, and his face was strangely twisted. The expression of it struck Zaklika; he was horrified. The commandant did not like him. His name was Wurm. "I have to make a serious report," said Wurm. "What is going on?" cried the commandant, rushing from his chair. "At this moment your nephew is running away with the Countess Cosel!" The commandant rushed to the door like a madman. "It is no use to hasten," laughed Wurm savagely. "I knew it would come to that, and I watched them; I am sure of a good reward." "It is an impudent lie!" cried the commandant. "I have done my duty," said Wurm coolly. "At this moment the soldiers are keeping them in the passage behind the chapel, and Captain Henry, who is so fond of giving me slaps on the face, will be shot." The corporal smiled with hellish delight. The commandant trembled, and knew not what to do. The fear of his beloved nephew made him almost crazy. "Captain von Zaklika," cried he, "help me! save him!" "It cannot be done," said the corporal. "Tomorrow the King and the whole Court will know about it. Too many people have seen it. I have fixed everything right. I have avenged myself, and if you like to be avenged on me, I am ready for anything." At that moment there was a noise in the direction of the tower. The soldiers were conducting the prisoners. The Countess was pale, and Henry was staggering, for he had wounded himself with a pistol, and he would surely have killed himself had they not bound his hands. Cosel was behaving like a mad woman; Henry stood quietly. The old commandant came to him wringing his hands. Zaklika was behind them; he pitied the poor boy who had fallen into the snare. Nobody looked at Wurm, who smiled triumphantly and cynically. The uncle was obliged to put his nephew into prison and send a report to Dresden. He was unable to write it himself; the old soldier cried like a child. He called the secretary, and, sobbing and cursing, he accused his nephew, begging for mercy and giving as a reason his youth, and putting his own services in the balance. He did not spare his own blindness; but finally he accused the corporal, who, instead of preventing the misfortune, dishonestly waited for it in order to profit by it. The sentries were doubled, and they passed the night in uneasiness. The commandant put the corporal under arrest also. The report was sent by courier to Dresden. The rising sun shone on Stolpen Castle, which seemed gloomier than ever. Cosel was in convulsions. About noon General von Bodt and several officials came from Dresden. At first old Wehlen handed his sword without a word, but the General returned it to him; by the King's order only Captain Henry Wehlen and Corporal Wurm were to be court-martialled. Before the sun set the sentence of death had been carried out. The old commandant's tears and prayers were in vain. Cosel heard the firing, and she shivered; she guessed that the man who loved her was at that moment paying for his love. Zaklika stood pale, like a corpse. The same day Commandant von Wehlen left the service, after having written a bitter letter to the King. Corporal Wurm had been put in chains and sent to the Königstein fortress. CHAPTER XXVI. Such was Cosel's first attempt to recover her freedom. She cried over the poor young enthusiast who had given his life for her, but she wept also over her own lot. She told the servant to take all the flowers from the garden to Henry's grave. After that event, everything was changed in Stolpen. The command was given to Bierling, who was still more strict, but less intelligent; he was passionate, impetuous, arbitrary, and proud, possessing all the faults of old soldiers, and had been more successful than he deserved. He forbade the Countess to leave the tower; the guards were changed, and Zaklika was ordered to return to his regiment. Taking advantage of the fact that the commandant was drunk every evening, Zaklika went to take leave of Cosel. He found her crying; she could hardly speak. "Then you also abandon me! Are you afraid?" cried she, bitterly. "They have ordered me to return to my regiment, and I must go in order to serve you better." "And I--have I to weep here for ever?" said Cosel. "Have I to die here?" "I will do anything you order," said Zaklika. After a moment of reflection, she said,-- "Go, and think what can be done; you will know best. I have lost my common sense. God and man have abandoned me. But, remember, if you too betray me, I shall curse you!" Then she told him that in Pillnitz she had buried a box of diamonds under a certain tree. Zaklika was to dig it up, sell the stones, and use the money in preparing for flight. The approach of a servant interrupted their conversation. For several years following, the faithful servant could do nothing else but let her hear from him through the pedlar. They would not have been any more strict with her, but for another attempt to fly similar to the first, and which ended as unfortunately as the preceding one. This time the Countess was sure of success. She ordered Zaklika, when he had found some pretext to visit her, to wait for her at a certain place on the frontier, and so have horses and money in readiness. The certain amount of freedom they granted her, she used in gaining over Lieutenant Helm, who, like Wehlen, fell madly in love with her. This love was still more poetic, more passionate than the first one. It lasted two years, till the Countess, having tested the man, having learned of his plan, consented to try. Lieutenant Helm was captivated not only by Cosel's beauty, but also by her intellect, eloquence, and poetry; for by this time the constant reading of her Bible had made of her an inspired divine. Her speech, dress, movement, and looks, marked an unusual state of mind, which was accompanied by such assurance, such a deep faith and unshaken dignity--that her attractiveness was increased not only in the eyes of this one man, but of all with whom she came in contact. Zaklika was surprised at such a great change. She was beautiful, as before; but the expression of her face was more severe; misfortune had impressed its mark upon it, but had not lessened its charm. Her liveliness of movement was replaced by dignity; her words were uttered with an impressiveness that made them seem inspired by some mysterious source. She seemed to be some priestess--some sibyl. Zaklika found her reading the Bible with a pencil in her hand. She looked at him and extended her hand. The man's eyes moistened. "Do you see?" said she. "I am still alive. God has permitted me to live, and He has not done so in vain. I know that I shall outlive my persecutors and forgive them. God granted me life to open my eyes to great truths. I must be free, for I have great things to accomplish." "Are you not afraid," said Zaklika, "that--" "I was never afraid of anything," interrupted Cosel. "That young man will do what I tell him, and now I possess the secret of seeing clearly ways and means. He will not betray me, neither will Fate!" They agreed about the place and the day. He did not ask any questions about the plan, but he had fears for the lady; he had a presentiment that it would make her lot worse. She dismissed him with a nod like a queen. Lieutenant Helm, whom he had seen only for a moment, seemed to him to be as enthusiastic as was the unfortunate Henry von Wehlen. Zaklika, obedient to Cosel's order, obtained leave of absence, for he was still in the military service, which gave him a certain safety, and he went with his friend the Wend to wait on the frontier. Cosel was coming there the same night. Zaklika waited with unspeakable uneasiness. The night passed in undisturbed quietude; then came day, and he waited in vain. The two following days and nights passed in the same manner: nobody came, there was no news. On the fourth day a merchant coming from Stolpen told in the inn how the Countess, imprisoned in the castle, after having escaped with an officer who helped her to fly, was captured. That was all he could learn. He returned to Dresden in order to learn more, and so act according to the news he received. The merchant's narrative was true. Zaklika went to Stolpen. He had no need to go to the castle: in the town nothing else was talked of. Helm had been working the whole year in digging a narrow passage under the walls, leading behind the fortress in the direction in which there were no sentries. The opening was adroitly hidden with stones. Drunken sentries and the absence of the commandant seemed to promise success. During the night the Countess, dressed in man's clothes, succeeded in leaving the tower unperceived. Helm was waiting for her in the third courtyard, from which they could escape to the outside by the passage he had made. He quietly removed the stones. The Countess passed first; Helm followed her. Notwithstanding the darkness, they succeeded in slipping down the basalt rocks to the foot of the mount. Not far off horses were waiting for them; but before they reached them the alarm was given in the castle. A servant who entered Cosel's chamber to see whether the lady was quieter than she had been in the day, during which she was feverish, noticing that the window was open and the bed empty, began to scream, thinking that the Countess, in a fit of madness, had jumped on to the rocks. Everybody sprang to their feet. While searching in the castle, they noticed the opening under the walls, and they set out in pursuit. The man who was waiting with the horses, hearing the alarm, returned with them to the town. Cosel and Helm began to run across the fields to the bush, thinking to hide there; but the commandant, knowing that his life would be in danger if he failed to capture the fugitives, gathered as many people as he could in the town, ordered torches to be lit, sent men on horseback in all directions, and before dawn they were discovered. The Countess and Helm had pistols, and they wounded a soldier in self-defence, but the shot attracted the attention of others, and they were speedily captured. The officer was court-martialled like von Wehlen. They took him to Dresden, where he was to be shot on the New Market square. His relations were very influential, and they did everything to save his life. About noon a detachment of soldiers conducted Helm to the place of execution. A large crowd gathered to look at the beautiful, golden-haired youth, who did not lose his courage in the hour of death. He was placed against the wall, the soldiers aimed their rifles, the officer was ready to give the order to fire, when the King's aide-de-camp galloped up with a pardon. Helm was led back to the barracks; but no one knew what was to be done with him. The crowd scattered. At Stolpen Castle, except for new precautions and a change of commandant, nothing was altered. They did not touch Cosel, who enjoyed even the little liberty she was allowed before. Cosel was mourning in her heart the death of another victim of her love, for the news of his pardon was slow in reaching her. Zaklika returned to his quarters, and began preparations for that which he thought was his duty. But being more experienced than those who preceded him, he wanted to be certain that the last attempt to fly was certain of success. He was not discouraged at all because Wehlen had lost his life and Helm broken his career. The only question was, would it be better to quit the military service and go to live at Stolpen or not? A few months passed. During this time Zaklika learned that a friend of his, Von Kaschau by name, a good but very dissipated fellow, was in the garrison of Stolpen. He went to see him, and when the old soldier perceived him, he was overwhelmed with joy. He asked the commandant to let Zaklika stay at the castle. The commandant, being unwell, and needing Von Kaschau to do his duty for him, consented. The two friends went to Kaschau's rooms, drank beer and chatted, naturally about the prisoner. "I do not like to judge others," said the old soldier, "especially His Majesty, our King, but I do not see any reason for his severity to that woman! What could she do? The most would be that some one would fall in love with her, like Helm, for she is still beautiful. Nothing has injured her charms--neither prison, nor grief, nor tears." "Had you seen her in her full splendour, as I did when I was at the Court," said Zaklika, "then you would know how dangerous she was. The King was not afraid of her pistol, but of her eyes and the influence she had over him; for if she could speak for an hour with him, he would lie at her feet and pray for pardon." Kaschau laughed. "Yes, but then he would lie at the feet of Fraulein Dieskau or Osterhausen--the old wheedler!" "I would like to see her," said Zaklika, "for it would be interesting to see such a woman again." "No one stops you from doing so," said Kaschau. "During the day you cannot steal her away; you may go there and bow to the former goddess." Zaklika went to the tower and knocked at Cosel's door. As there was no answer, he entered, and beheld Cosel standing thoughtfully over an open Bible which was lying on the book-covered table. She was robed in such an odd dress that he feared she had lost her reason. She wore a full black robe with long sleeves and a girdle with cabalistic signs on it. On her head was a red handkerchief, arranged in Oriental fashion, with a roll of parchment on which some Hebrew sentences were written. She was beautiful indeed, but quite different from that Cosel who received the Danish King in a robe covered with diamonds. She did not take her eyes from the book, but remained thinking. After a while she looked up at him, and said in surprise,-- "Are you a spirit or a living being?" "I am your faithful servant; I have come to ask your orders," said Zaklika. "Then there are faithful servants; and I, a prisoner, can still give orders? To whom?" "To me," answered Zaklika, "as long as I live." "How did you come here?" Zaklika pointed to his uniform. "Now is my turn," said he. "I will try to be more intelligent, and perhaps I shall be more lucky." Cosel smiled bitterly. "Everything is written above, predestinated, unchangeable--no one can escape his fate." "And why should it not be my fate to give you liberty?" She shook her head. "For this reason, that I shall be free in another way," said she. "Formerly I was blind, but now I see my destiny in this book. There is no favour in this world; there is only iron, unbreakable, unavoidable necessity. One must submit to it. In the Old Testament alone is wisdom." Zaklika did not know what to say to that. "Do you remain here?" asked Cosel. "I do not know yet. Tell me what I have to do; I am ready for anything." Cosel turned over several pages, and began to read: "'And he said again, Be not afraid; strengthen yourself and be wise, for thus will the Lord do unto all them against whom ye fight.'" Then she said,-- "You must await God's voice." "But am I to quit the military service or not?" asked Zaklika. "Throw down that horrid livery--that coat of slavery of the Amalekites," said Cosel with animation. "It will take some time to sell the commission before I could come to Stolpen." "Go, then, and return," said she. "You are the only man who serves me faithfully." Zaklika left her. In the courtyard he met Kaschau. "What have you been talking about with her?" asked he. "I could not talk at all," answered Zaklika. "She was reading the Bible. I did not want to interrupt her. I must come again." "I doubt you will have a better chance. Now the Countess seeks distraction in holy books. It is better." They spent the day in walking on the ramparts and chatting till the moment of locking the gates. Then he took leave of his friend and returned to his quarters in Ochatz, where he sold his commission, gathered as much money as he could, and came to Stolpen, where he purchased a little house in which he settled. [Illustration: The Countess Orzelska] CHAPTER XXVII. Many changes took place at the Court in Dresden. Cosel was avenged without putting her hand to it. Her foes disappeared one after another. Amid the ruins King Augustus the Strong was always standing magnificent, throwing away gold, seeking pleasures, but not being able to find them. The Countess Marie Denhoff, being afraid that she might meet the fate of Cosel, thought it would be wise to marry, and the King did not oppose it. The King enjoyed himself the best in Leipzig fairs, and preferred short amours to those which would fetter him for a long time. The beautiful and statuesque Sophie Dieskau claimed him for a while; but the King found her cold as an icicle, and he married her to Herr von Loss. After that he was in love for a while with Henriette Osterhausen. These temporary love intrigues were followed by the reign of Anna Orzelska, the daughter of Henriette Duval. The King seemed to become younger at his beautiful daughter's side, who, clad in a uniform embroidered with gold, accompanied him to military reviews, man[oe]uvres, and hunting. The King was always eager for distractions, and the arrival of Anna Orzelska furnished him with an opportunity for the display of still greater splendour. Amid different pleasures furnished by the King's fancy, there were moments when Augustus thought that he was a military genius, and wanted military parades. In 1727 the King was spending the spring in Pillnitz, where the troops were camping. They tried new cannons which were able to break the rock on which Königstein was built. "I know some rocks," said Count Wackerbarth to the King, "which would resist those cannons." "Where?" asked Augustus. Wackerbarth looked at the King, and it seemed as if he were sorry for what he had said. "Where?" repeated the King. "At Stolpen; the basalt rocks would resist." "In Stolpen!" exclaimed Augustus, and he was gloomy. There was a moment of silence. The King walked to and fro impatiently; it was evident that he was tormented by some fancy which he did not want to satisfy. "In Stolpen!" repeated he. "One could try the cannon on those rocks." The general looked timidly at the King, who, as if he were pricked by that look, exclaimed,-- "Why should we not try the balls on the basalt rocks? We cannot destroy the castle, and a few shots--" Wackerbarth was silent, and waited for orders, still not believing that Augustus wanted to show that he was superior to the childish consideration. "Send two cannons to Stolpen," said he, "and give orders for them to be trained on the rock. To-morrow I will see the trial personally. Yes, to-morrow morning very early, for it is warm already towards noon." He turned and went off. Orders of the King were always executed, notwithstanding all difficulties. The cannons were sent to Stolpen during the night. Zaklika was sleeping in his solitary house, when, about midnight, he was awakened by a great noise and shouting of impertinent soldiers. He thought that Saxony was being invaded by the Prussians, but soon he recognized the Saxons by the exclamation, "_Herr Jesus!_" repeated continually. Then he went out and asked the officer what had happened--why such haste. "The King," shouted the officer, "will be here this morning." "The King! In Stolpen?" "Yes, yes; he will try cannons against the basalt rocks." "Where?" cried Zaklika, amazed. "Here, at the rocks on which the castle stands," said the officer. The conversation was interrupted. Zaklika could not believe his own ears. The King was going to fire at the castle in which he had imprisoned that unfortunate woman! The King in Stolpen! His hair stood on end to think what suffering it would cause the Countess. He wanted to rush and tell her, to give her courage to bear such a trial bravely. "It cannot be!" repeated he to himself. "At the last moment the King will be ashamed, and will not come! It could not be!" The dawn was breaking when Zaklika left his house and rushed to the castle, where everybody was awake. The news that the King was coming electrified the soldiers and officers. In the town and villages soldiers were urging the population to make the emplacements. Crying, shouting, and loud commands were heard all around. One of the batteries they had already begun to build in the park near Röhrpforte, the other at Hanewald. When Zaklika arrived at the castle he found the gates already open. They were sweeping and cleaning; the commandant was hoarse with shouting; the officers did not know what to do. Round the St. John's Tower the Countess's servants stood half-dressed, for they thought it was an alarm of fire. They asked each other questions as to what they should do. At the open window was Cosel. She was pale and trembling. Zaklika rushed up the stairs. She met him at the door with the exclamation,-- "The King is coming to me!" "Not to you," interrupted Zaklika, "he comes to try his cannon balls on the rocks." Cosel laughed. "You are a simpleton!" cried she. "I have dreamed of him for a week. My spirit hovered over him and attracted him. He was searching for a pretext; he wishes to see me. He knows that I love him, that I shall forgive him. He is free; he wishes to marry me as he promised. I wish to be beautiful! I want to remind him of that Anna before whom he used to kneel. The King!" exclaimed she in ecstasy, "my king! my lord!" "Call the servants," added she. "Tell them to take out my dresses!" Zaklika rushed out and called the servants, then sat on the stairs, silent, full of grief, half-dead, unable to move. The day was bright. They counted minutes and seconds. Merciless soldiers slashed at the peasants, urging them to work; the batteries were rising before their eyes. It was a most charming May morning. The scented trees were sprinkled with dew; all nature, like a baby in the cradle, was awake smiling. Amid the quietude of nature, everything in the castle was noisy, moving, seething like a bee hive. The soldiers dressed in their best uniforms; the officers in new armour. The commandant learned, to his great despair, that the King's provisions were not coming to Pillnitz, and it was necessary to receive the lord. What could they find worthy of His Majesty's palate? They killed a couple of deer in the park, they found a few bottles of wine; but how could the simplicity of the camp table agree with the King's accustomed luxury! In fact they had only one decent glass with the arms of Saxony worthy of lordly lips, but the plates and the other things were very poor. The priest lent a table cloth from the church; the innkeeper furnished a great many things. The cannons were placed in the batteries. It was already four o'clock--at any moment they might expect the King, who said he would leave Pillnitz at daybreak. The commandant put a soldier on the tower, to let him know when he should perceive dust on the road. The artillerymen aimed the cannons so as to be sure the balls would strike the rock. Everything was ready when the soldier on the tower gave the signal. At that moment the mayor of the town, with the councillors carrying a rusty key on a tray, went out on the road. In the church, ringers were ready to receive the lord with a peal of bells. The inhabitants of the town were dressed in their best clothes, and crowded the streets and market square. The clouds of dust approached swiftly, and at last they perceived, galloping at the head on a magnificent steed, a good-looking, majestic man. He was followed by aides-de-camp and a small retinue of courtiers and guests. At the gate the King hardly nodded; the mayor and his councillors bent to the ground; he went immediately in the direction of the castle. Here the garrison was drawn up at the gate; the drum was beaten and the commandant came out with a report. But the King seemed uneasy and in bad humour. He did not say a word to anybody. He turned his horse to the battery at Röhrpforts, looked for a while, and then hurried to Hannewalde. In front of that battery there rose a black mass of basalt rock. From here the St. John's tower and its windows, in one of which was a white figure, could be clearly distinguished. But the King did not raise his eyes. At that moment General Wackerbarth arrived from Dresden, and stood behind the King in silence. Augustus was in a hurry: he nodded. The artillerymen put a light to the touch-hole of the cannon, and there was a loud report which was echoed in the surrounding mountains. A sharp ear could catch at the same moment a dreadful cry of despair and grief. The King, however, could neither see nor hear anything, his attention being absorbed by the cannon and the result of the firing. The first shot directed at the wall built of basalt, made a hole in it, but the iron ball was broken into pieces. The commandant brought some pieces to the King, who deigned to look at them, and shrugged his shoulders. The other shot was directed at the rock itself; the ball was broken into pieces, but the rock withstood the blow. The King, growing feverish, ordered a third and fourth shot to be fired; the result was the same--the rock could not be broken, except for a few splits where the ball struck. From the first moment that Cosel heard of the King's coming, she was half-mad. At first she thought that Augustus was coming to see her; she dressed with feverish haste and the greatest care, looked long in the mirror and smiled to herself. "I am sure," she whispered to herself, "he is coming to see me. It is the end of my captivity, and the beginning of my triumph." She rushed from one window to another. From one of them she could see the road coming from Pillnitz. She noticed clouds of dust, and her heart throbbed--she cried. Then the pealing of bells and the beating of drums were heard--the King was entering the castle. Then silence. She pressed her heart with her hand, and waited. It seemed to her that she would hear him on the stairs--that she would see him at the door, full of pity and benevolence. The silence lasted too long, then the report of a gunshot resounded, shot and cry. Cosel fell on the floor. Suddenly she rose, mad, bewildered, and rushed to the wardrobe. Her hands trembled; she opened the drawer and took a pistol that was hidden among silk dresses. Then she went to the nearest window, looking round. From this side she could hear the noise of the broken rock and the bursting of the cannon balls on it. Cosel leaned out; her eyes were aflame; her bosom heaved. She waited. At each shot she beat her head and pressed her heart. Wild laughter was on her lips and tears filled her eyes. After the fourth shot, everything became quiet. Cosel did not move from her place, and held the pistol in her hand. Soon the sound of the tramp of horses resounded on the road. Cosel leaned out and looked. It was he! Augustus, riding on a path near the walls! She screamed. He raised his head, stopped his horse, and touched his hat with his hand; he was pale. Cosel leaned out still more, as though she would jump through. "Sire! my lord! Have pity on me!" cried she. Augustus did not answer; and Cosel laughed bitterly. "To expect pity from you, vile tyrant! From you who break your promises and then imprison those who ask you to fulfil them! What do you care for human life? What do you care for human heart? Cosel, a prisoner, despises you and curses you: yourself, your family and your country! Die, you villain!" She aimed and fired at the King. The pistol shot resounded in the castle mingled with laughter. The King, hearing the whizz of the ball, came to his wits; he saluted smiling, and galloped off in the direction of Pillnitz. The commandant's efforts to offer the King a luncheon were wasted. CHAPTER XXVIII. When Zaklika, alarmed by the pistol shot, entered Cosel's room, he found her lying on the floor senseless. Beside her was a pistol, still smoking. He guessed everything. The servants rushed to help the lady, who seemed to be dead. Many people heard the shot, but Augustus never said a word about it to any one. Hence they came to the conclusion that they must not speak about it. It took the Countess quite a long time before she assumed her former order of living. Now she was persuaded that she could not expect anything. They did not, however, forbid visitors to see her, and later on she was allowed to go into the garden. Zaklika remained in town, but did not arouse any suspicion as he kept quiet. Cosel used to ask him to do different errands for her, but she never spoke about flight. Only the next year she was irritated by the news of the gorgeous festivities given in Dresden in honour of Frederick William of Prussia, who visited Augustus with his son Frederick, since called the Great. Cosel listened to the description of the festivities, and was irritated at the thought that formerly such splendour was displayed for her. It again aroused in her the desire of escape, and of revenge upon the tyrant for her suffering and humiliation. Several times she was ready to say to Zaklika, "Now is your turn." He expected it, and waited. He was ready to die for her sake, but did not wish to awaken the danger himself. One day when the Jewish pedlar brought to Cosel, together with some goods, a newspaper describing the last entertainments given for the King of Prussia, and among the others the same carousal that was for the first time organized for her, she became indignant. Zaklika came in at that moment. She was walking to and fro thoughtfully. "Are you still ready to risk your life for me?" she asked. "Yes!" answered Zaklika simply. "Have you any means of freeing me?" "I will find some." "I pity you; you were the most faithful to me," said she; "but I must escape from here, I must." Zaklika stood thoughtful. "Do you need much time?" "I cannot calculate," answered Zaklika. "I must act so as to be sure of success." Cosel nodded, and Zaklika went out into the park, he needed solitude to think over the matter. For a long time he had several plans, but every one of them had some drawback. All the former attempts were unsuccessful because the flights were discovered too soon; therefore it was necessary to make a plan which would not be discovered before Cosel should be beyond the Saxon boundaries. Unhappily Zaklika had nobody who could help him. He could count on the faithfulness of his Slav brothers, Wends and Servs, but they were timid and not artful at all. He came to the conclusion that it would be best to fly during day-time. At the gate there was no strict control over who came in and who went out; they let in pedlars to the Countess and to the commandant; the men did not attract special attention. Therefore he came to the conclusion that during some rainy day Cosel could pass the gates covered with his mantle. He would follow her, and conduct her beyond the park, where he would have saddled horses, on which they could cross the plains towards the woods and mountains. Zaklika was thinking for several days, but was unable to find anything better, and he at last decided to tell her about the plan. She thought it very good. "The first rainy day," said she. "It is no use to wait; we must try our luck. I have decided to defend myself. I hope you will do the same." "I hope it will not be necessary," said Zaklika. For several days there was fine weather. Zaklika was coming in and going out continually. Thinking that he should not return again to Stolpen, he sold his house, and converted everything he could into ready money. At last the sky was covered with clouds, and it seemed to promise rain for several days. Zaklika, covered with his long mantle, was continually coming in and going out of the castle, not answering the questions made to him by the sentries, as if telling them that he did not like to talk much. The trials were very successful. One Friday it rained hard from the early morning. When dusk began to fall everything was ready. Cosel gave the servant leave to go to the town. Covered with a long, military mantle, with a cap pushed over her eyes, Cosel went first to the St. Donat's gate, and no one paid any attention to her; at the second gate the soldiers looked at her, but let her pass. A few minutes later Zaklika, dressed in the same manner, passed the first gate quickly, in which he did not meet anybody. At the second gate the soldier muttered,-- "How many of you are there?" Zaklika uncovered his face. "Devil knows you," said the soldier. "I know only that there came in one, and two go out." "What are you talking about?" "I am not blind." Zaklika paid no attention and moved on. The soldier stopped him. "But they all know me here," said Zaklika. "Go to the commandant and explain to him, otherwise I shall not let you out." They began to quarrel. The corporal came. Zaklika complained to him, and they let him out, and he disappeared in the bushes beyond the park; but the soldier grumbled. "Why are you angry with him?" asked the corporal. "When I am at the gate, I must count how many people I let in, and how many out. There entered one clad in a long mantle, and two of them went out. The first looked as if he never was a soldier. Suppose it was the Countess?" added he, laughing. "You talk nonsense!" said the corporal, with uneasiness. He stopped, thought for a while, and went to the St. John's tower. Here he learned that all the servants had been permitted to go to town. He rushed up the first flight--the room was dark and empty; on the floor above--nobody either. The corporal hastened to the commandant, who rushed out and began to search with the soldiers in the castle. Time was passing by; dusk was already quite thick. There was no doubt that Cosel had escaped! They struck the alarm, and the commandant, dividing his soldiers into several groups, rushed out to chase the fugitive lady. In the meantime Cosel ran to the horses, which were ready at a certain spot; in her great haste she lost her way. Zaklika reached them, and, not finding the Countess, rushed to seek her, but not daring to call, for the alarm was already given. He lost much time, but he found her standing under a tree. He seized her by the hand, and conducted her to the horses. Cosel jumped on her horse, and Zaklika was ready too, when the soldiers arrived and surrounded them. Zaklika cried to Cosel to run, he barring the road to the soldiers. A few shots sounded, and the faithful man, struck by a bullet in the forehead, fell to the ground moaning. At that moment a soldier seized the reins of the Countess's horse. She killed the aggressor on the spot; but there rushed forward another and a third, and she was obliged to surrender. The commandant arrived when the two cold corpses were already on the bloody ground--the third was dying. "Countess," said he, "look how many lives your fancies of escape cost!" She answered nothing, but, jumping from her horse, came to the dead Zaklika. She put her pale lips on his forehead, covered with blood. The dead man's hand was lying on his breast, as though it would defend the King's promise of marriage to Cosel that had been entrusted to him. She took it with her. She was led back to the castle, where she spent long days sitting and reading the Bible. Zaklika was buried at her expense. "Nobody would care about my funeral," she said to herself. "Now I am alone in the world. My children do not know me." * * * * * In 1733 Augustus died, and the commandant of Stolpen came personally to announce to her the news. For a long time she stood speechless; then she wrung her hands, and, throwing herself on the floor, began to cry. Imprisonment, cruelty, wrongs, oblivion, could not take from her womanly heart the love which she had for him. From that moment he was again for her the dear Augustus. Five days later there came an official from Dresden, sent by the Kurfürst, who was then Augustus III., King of Poland. He asked to be announced to the Countess. "I am sent to your Excellency," said he, "by our most gracious lord, to announce to you that you are free, and that you may live where you please." Cosel rubbed her forehead. "I? Free?" said she. "What do I need freedom for now? The people have become strangers to me, and I am a stranger to them. Where can I go? I have nothing; they have robbed me of everything. You want to make me ridiculous; you wish that those who bowed down to me should now point the finger of scorn at me?" The official was silent. "No!" she added. "I do not want freedom; leave me here. I am accustomed to these walls, where I have shed all my tears; I could not live in another place." So they let her stay in Stolpen, where she outlived Augustus III., and the Seven Years' War. She died in 1765, being eighty-five years of age. To the end of her life she preserved traces of her great beauty, by which she became so famous. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: Maurice Saxe, the famous French general.] [Footnote 2: This was the name familiarly given to the King, and the popular song, "_Mein Lieber Augustin_," referred to him.] THE END. GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LTD., ST. JOHN'S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL, E.C. 
37621	----	Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id=f_kMAQAAIAAJ&dq 2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. 3. Alternate spelling of author's name: Józef Ignacy Kraszewski. THE JEW TRANSLATED FROM THE POLISH OF JOSEPH IGNATIUS KRASZEWSKI BY LINDA DA KOWALEWSKA NEW YORK DODD, MEAD & COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1890 By DODD, MEAD & COMPANY. * * * _All rights reserved_ PRESS OF Rockwell and Churchill BOSTON CONTENTS. CHAPTER I.--Sestri-Ponente. II.--Judaism and Poland. III.--Education of Jacob. IV.--Aqua Sola. V.--A Simple History of Love. VI.--From Genoa to Pisa. VII.--Voyage on Foot. VIII.--The Sabbath. IX.--The Eve of an Insurrection. X.--The Pursuit of a Husband. XI.--A Political Meeting. XII.--A Siren. XIII.--Akiba. XIV.--Alea Jacta Est. XV.--A Perilous Interview. XVI.--The Jews in Council. XVII.--Reunion of the Nobles. XVIII.--The Country Wills It. XIX.--A Father's Grief. XX.--Muse Cultivates the Russians. XXI.--Lia. XXII.--The Old Mother. XXIII.--Russian Politics. XXIV.--The Seducer. XXV.--Between Two Fires. XXVI.--The Reconciliation. XXVII.--Jacob in Flight. XXVIII.--Love of Country. XXIX.--The Gordian Knot. XXX.--The Insurgents. Epilogue. CHAPTER I. SESTRI-PONENTE. On a warm afternoon in the autumn of 1860 the best, or rather the only, inn of Sestri-Ponente was full of people. Firpo, the host of the Albergo e Trattoria della Grotta, was little accustomed to such a crowd, except on Sundays and fête-days. As this was only a simple Thursday, his sunburnt cheeks reflected a smile of satisfaction. Sestri-Ponente is situated an hour's distance from Genoa, on the sea-shore "_in vincinanza del mare_" and on the grand route from Savona to Nice. Sestri, beside dock-yards for the construction of small merchant-vessels, which is its chief source of wealth, possesses also a fine beach where it is possible to bathe in safety. It has this one superiority over Genoa "_la superba_" which lacks sea-bathing. Genoa has all else; even her trees seem dwarfed near her stately edifices; she has a magnificent harbour, and if one is determined to bathe in the sea he can hire a boat to take him some distance from the quay, where the water is not full of all sorts of _débris_. Once in clear water a rope is tied around his waist, and he can seat himself on the steps fixed to the back of the boat. If he slip, the honest boatman draws him out of the sea, by the rope, at the end of which he looks like a new species of fish suspended on a hook. Those who dislike this method are at liberty to bathe in the saltwater of the port or in the marble bath-houses of the Piazza Sarzana; but to bathe where the beach is more or less rocky one must abandon Genoa for the fashionable Livourne, the charming Spezia, or the modest Sestri. The wealthier classes congregate at the former resorts. Sestri is patronized more by quiet people who wish to economize, who prefer a peaceful life to the distractions of the gay world, and the fresh sea-breeze to the feverish gayety and gossip of a crowded watering-place. The scenery is somewhat sombre, but not altogether deprived of the picturesque; in grave and classic lines, like that of Poussin, are delineated vineyards, groves, gardens, and luxurious villas, to-day used chiefly as country-seats for the Italians. Here and there the spires of little churches and of convents rise to heaven and complete the panorama. The steep banks extend on one side as far as Genoa, on the other to Savona, and are then lost in the immensity of the sea, a mighty space of blue and green. From a distance the Albergo della Grotta makes a good appearance. This pretty little palace was formerly the villa of a rich noble, and was never intended to be an inn. Its approaches are lined with laurels, pomegranates, and orange-trees, and it is reached by a steep path with steps cut in the solid rock. Everywhere traces appear of the fastidious taste of some former owner, and in the midst of all this beauty, without regard for the neighbouring nobility, is a prosaic inn. This shows that the conditions of life are changing everywhere. It is not only in Italy that one meets edifices which do not respond to the exactions and the needs of actual society. How many palaces are changed into breweries, how many villas transformed into inns, how many beautiful private gardens have become plantations! The opulent _parvenus_, only, have preserved some remains of the noble dwellings of the extinct or ruined nobility. The great lords have built for the bankers. The shell still remains, but the mollusk has departed. The principal ornament of our villa was that which its name indicates, a grotto constructed with great skill, recalling the time when the Roman Cæsars established oyster-parks on their roofs and forced nature into every extravagance. This grotto formed a vast _salon_ occupying an entire wing of the house, and, thanks to the _bizarre_ ornamentation of stalactites, had every appearance of a natural cavern. The walls were of gypsum of all colours. A labyrinth lighted from above led to a fish-pond and a fountain, from which the water flowed slowly, its musical plashing being a genuine refreshment on a hot summer's day. On entering this subterranean place for the first time one experienced a sense of melancholy, but gradually the eye became accustomed to the twilight and the illusion disappeared, and was followed by a delicious feeling of refreshment and enthusiasm. To-day this grotto serves for the dining-room of the inn. Tables are set in the middle and in the dark corners, and on the rocks surrounding the fish-pond is placed a table where at times the workmen employed in the neighbouring forges eat, drink, and sleep. When they cede this place, it is only to tourists or to English families. Here all classes fraternize over their wine and macaroni. The host serves with the same zeal the lords or the drivers. Who knows that he does not prefer the latter, for the lords seldom return, while the post-drivers, like an intermittent fever, come back every other day. The cuisine of this inn was no better nor worse than any other Italian cookery. The wine was agreeable enough to a palate that was not too _blasé_, and a grateful freshness made the grotto a delightful retreat during the day, for no brawling crowd or discordant music ever disturbed the place. Over the skylight the pomegranate and orange trees intermingle their branches, and when all was still could be heard the murmuring of the sea, a fine view of which might be had from the flat roof of the grotto. Sestri is a village which is animated only at times by travellers, and to which the railway gives but a fugitive vitality. Few people stop here, for before them near at hand appears the vision of Genoa, and each one hastens to reach "la Superba." Only the visitors of the Villa Palaviccini, which is near, meet at Sestri with the occasional tourists who do not dislike the _brodi_ of Signor Firpo. The inn, as we have said, was, for a sultry afternoon, unusually full of people. Two diligences painted blue, as well as other vehicles, had arrived from Genoa and Nice. The host naturally conducted his guests to the grotto, which he loved to show off as a wonder. The tables were soon taken by the travellers, who, once comfortably seated, began to examine each other with a certain distrust. Near one of the tables was seated a young man of medium size. At the first glance one would judge from his expressive face and regular features that he was an Italian; but examining him more closely certain characteristics of the Oriental type would be discovered. Sorrow or labour had prematurely furrowed his high forehead, and the energy of his glance denoted a strong character. He appeared like one who had conquered himself after long internal combats. His was a sympathetic face and drew men to him. His costume, not extremely elegant, yet comfortable and in good taste, attested, if not a great fortune, at least a fair competency. Before him were spread the remains of a frugal repast of fruit, wine, and cheese. A short distance from him was a group of three persons, one of whom was a woman. She was a clear brunette with red lips, and had passed her first youth, but was still very attractive, almost beautiful, and the natural gayety of her manner was augmented by a charming air of good-will toward all. She appeared to be the idol of the two men seated near her. One of fine physique, dark complexion, and quiet manners was evidently her husband, or else a very intimate friend. The other cavalier was blonde, slender, and timid as a young girl, blushing on every occasion. The trio ate slowly, and seemed to try to shake off the melancholy impression produced by the singular dining-room. On the other side a man sat smoking, with a bottle of wine before him. Under his long black disordered hair he knitted his brows. Although still young he bore the traces of a dissipated life. His bronzed complexion, his thick lips, his low, square forehead which made him resemble the sphinx, indicated that he was the descendant of a non-European race. He looked like a carving in basalt, but in basalt worn by the storms of passion, to-day extinct but formerly tumultuous. One was reminded on regarding him of those lakes which, agitated in the morning, are calm under the soft breeze of evening. Farther off lounged two Italians, easily recognized by the carelessness of their attitude in spite of the presence of a lady. Their nationality was furthermore betrayed by their olive complexions and long black hair falling over their shoulders. The younger wore a mustache _à la Victor Emmanuel_, which gave him a military air. The second and stouter man was an artist. They both had that air of content worn by men who are at home and breathe their native air. Separated from them by an empty table a pale, blonde young man seemed to seek solitude. This was a son of Germany. Despite his phlegmatic manner and apparent indifference one could divine nevertheless that he had experienced some misfortune. Clad poorly and with a certain negligence, forgetting his bread and cheese he looked dreamily at the grotto and his neighbours, absorbed entirely in awaiting the morrow, yet as though he dreaded it. All the company was silent and a little sleepy. From time to time could be heard voices at the table where the only woman of the party was seated; at times the clinking of glasses and of bottles; then the silence became more profound. Suddenly a stranger entered by a little back-door. All eyes were turned toward him. There was something in the sudden appearance of this man that was startling. He was very pale and thin. His garments, gray with dust, proved that he had travelled long on foot. Fatigue had marked his visage, and imprinted on his features that melancholy beauty which interests at first sight all men truly worthy of that name. His eyes were sunken, but their expression was soft as the glance of a woman, and attested almost superhuman, sufferings. His haversack, his staff, and his miserable appearance showed that he travelled on foot rather from necessity than from preference. He sought timidly with his eyes an obscure corner; then, seeing that almost all the tables were occupied, he moved slowly to a seat near the German; but scarcely had he taken off his straw hat and wiped the sweat from his brow, than his figure contracted under frightful suffering. He seized the table convulsively to steady himself, but his strength gave way and he fell unconscious to the ground. In the fall he overturned his chair, and it was a miracle that he did not cut his head on the stalactites of the grotto. He remained stretched at full length, pale as a corpse, and retaining on his features that expression of calm which death gives. All the travellers, led by the lady,--we must do them that justice,--rushed to his assistance. It was the lady who showed most presence of mind, and she proved a veritable sister of charity. In every woman there is a mother and a sister. She seized a carafe, and wetting a napkin applied it to the temples of the unknown, who sighing deeply opened his eyes, and soon came to himself. At first he seemed ashamed of his accident. He leaned on his elbow, his eyes timidly lowered, and stammered some unintelligible words of thanks. Short as was the time of this little scene the landlord had already heard of it. He hastened, speechless from fear of the formalities which would follow a sudden death in his inn, and he had already decided to beg the invalid to go and die elsewhere, when he was reassured by seeing the stranger again conscious. This first thought of Signer Firpo was characteristic of our age, which, in place of giving the hand to the unfortunate, repulses him, and does not recognize in the poor the right to be ill. The first sentiment experienced to-day when men meet is that of suspicion or distrust. Indifference has replaced the ideal. Society has turned its back on the unfortunate, and its motto is egotism. The innkeeper felt a little ashamed when he saw the solicitude of all his patrons for the unfortunate man. Nevertheless, he had no idea of harbouring during the night a traveller who fainted so easily and who had no baggage. Genoa is not far off. There are hospitals there, thought he. I must see that he leaves as soon as possible. What would have been the exasperation of the honest Firpo if he had known that hunger was the cause of the fainting? For the present he did not announce his charitable intention on account of his guests who gathered around the new-comer. A common feeling of compassion and charity drew these strangers to each other. They fraternized like old friends, conversing now in French, now in Italian, in order to understand each other. The woman sought with her delicate hands the wound on the young man's head, whence flowed the blood which stained his temples. The men talked in low voices about the accident, and with a forced smile the stranger muttered feebly:-- "It is nothing! Pardon and thanks! But the heat--fatigue--" "Or rather hunger," added the spectators, looking at the poor fellow whose sunken cheeks showed that they were right. Gradually calm was again established. Some one advised the invalid to take a little wine, and the woman brought him her own glass after having filled it. He raised it to his lips, thanking her timidly. "Will you come and sit with us, monsieur?" said she drawing near him; "after a little rest this weakness will pass away." Then she added:-- "These accidents are sometimes succeeded by another, and it will be prudent to be near us. We can watch over you. And if the question is not indiscreet, will you tell us whence you came and where you are going?" "I go to Genoa, madame," replied the unknown. "And you come from a distance?" "Quite a distance, from France. I have travelled on foot, and am very weary." There was a short silence. But the woman was curious and continued the rôle of interrogator. "Then you are not a Frenchman?" "No, madame." "I knew it by your accent." The other travellers approached the table where the stranger was seated, and the conversation became general. They talked of their travels, and during this time the invalid became stronger. His extreme paleness diminished as the blood circulated more rapidly in his veins. The woman fixed on him a maternal gaze. "You are truly unpardonable," continued she. "Being subject to fainting, you ought not to have undertaken such a long journey alone and in such heat. Although Italy is safe in the vicinity of Naples, and has lost her legendary brigands, who no longer exist except in romances, you might have been assassinated or at least robbed in some lonely place on the route that you have taken." The young man smiled sadly, hung his head, and replied in a low voice, "It would have been impossible, madame, to have followed your excellent advice. I had not the means to do so." "Poor boy," murmured his fair questioner, "this is frightful!" "I am an exile," continued he raising his head. "I am a Pole. I left my country on account of some college pranks for which I would have been sent to Siberia, with my future ruined. I hoped to find a warm welcome from compassionate nations. I sought it in Germany, in England, and in France. Everywhere beautiful words concealed a cold indifference. At last I thought of Italy. It has a people whose destiny not long ago somewhat resembled ours. Outlaws, they also sought from the world a little aid and sympathy. Alas!" He interrupted this involuntary confession, which had produced different impressions on his hearers. He had at first somewhat chilled the company, who, however, soon submitted to a more generous sentiment, and felt themselves captivated by his frankness. "We are, then, in a measure compatriots," said in Polish the blonde young man seated near the beautiful lady. "I am a little Polish, but Galician." The "but" sounded coldly on the ears of the outlaw, who nevertheless saluted him, and took in silence his outstretched hand. The dark man with majestic features arose in his turn. "I, also," declared he in a slightly ironical tone, "have the honour to present myself as in a measure your compatriot. I am Polish, but a Jew." The Galician turned quickly toward the last speaker, who was warmly shaking the hand of the exile. "In this general recognition," added the lady's second cavalier, "permit me also to consider myself as somewhat your countryman. We are brother Slavs, for I am a Russian, but outlawed. Give me, then, your hand." "Outlaw or vagabond, it is all the same," said the man with the bronzed skin. "Permit me, then, as a brother in exile and vagabondage, as a pariah, to fraternize with you. I am a Tsigane, but a rich Tsigane, and that is a rare thing. It is the only reason why I am not rubbing down horses, and why I do not rob hen-roosts. Yes, messieurs, I belong to that condemned race who in the Middle Ages were driven out at the bayonet's point, and who are to-day under the supervision of the police. The only exception made is for our sisters under twenty years who have white teeth, a sweet voice, and _la beauté du diable_. To reassure you, I repeat, messieurs, that I am very rich; that, surely, is a corrective for the worst reputation. I am not, however, a Tsigane king. I am only an idler by profession." He laughed sardonically, watching the effect of his words, then continued: "I bear on my face the indelible witness of my origin. No magic water can whiten my skin. No cosmetic can conceal my race." "Listen, messieurs," interposed the lady with vivacity, "if banishment and a nomadic life are the standard of your good-will, you can admit me to your society. My father was Italian, of that Italy which was not yet a country, but a 'simple geographical expression,' to quote Metternich. He emigrated voluntarily to England. My mother was of an old Irish family. My husband, Russian; and if that be not enough, my grandmother was Greek." A little man suddenly advanced from the midst of the circle brandishing an enormous parasol. He was dressed with great care, and wore a pair of spectacles, with shoulder-straps crossed on his breast from which hung on one side a lorgnette and on the other a game-bag. "Bravo! bravissimo!" cried he, taking a part in the conversation. "Pardon me for interrupting you, madame, but I desire to participate in this general introduction, and I flatter myself that I have rights which give me the priority. I am a Dane by birth. My mother was Scotch or English, my grandmother an Italian. I have long lived in France, and I believe that I am even naturalized. I hope, then, to have the right to dine in a company from all the world. What think you, my friends?" There was a general laugh, and he was admitted with frank and joyous cordiality. "I solicit the same honour," said the German with a heavy air; "I, also, am an exile." With these words he bowed and seated himself. "The question of country," said the Dane, "is today a simple question of money. With a full purse one is everywhere received, everywhere naturalized; with gold one has everywhere the right of citizenship. No money; no country! No money; move on! The only real outlaw, the true pariah, is he who has nothing. With money one can buy as many countries as he desires. That is why I do not feel the want of one." With these words he shrugged his shoulders and was silent, and one of the Italians arose. "My friend and I," said he, "do not wish to be excluded from this charming circle, and we have both a title to be received among you. In the first place, we are artists, who are always nomads in body and spirit. And though we are Italians, one is a Roman, the other Venetian. And we can tender the hand to the Pole, for we are brothers in poverty." "No! no!" cried the Pole. "You are not like us, despoiled of all. You know whither to fly from persecution. All Italy is open to you. You have a country, a king, and a government. We have only police, spies, executioners, and persecutors. We are always menaced with Siberia or death. Europe does not recognize even our right to exist." These words, vibrating with despair, threw into the conversation the dramatic note. All the men in this motley society--Italians, Poles, Jew, Dane, and Tsigane--gathered around the little tables, and even those who were least inclined to make new acquaintances could not resist the general impulse. The ice had been broken by the fainting and the confession of the Pole. We very often hesitate to make new acquaintances when travelling. The motive is usually a selfish one. Each encounter costs us some words of politeness, some courteous concessions, if our ideas are not in accord with those of our new friend. And all these concessions are a total loss, because before long we part at the next station. It is an expense that one can easily avoid. It is much pleasanter to be silent and to stretch one's legs without caring for a neighbour who will be gone in a few moments. For once the guests of Sestri-Ponente forgot all considerations of personal comfort. The woman had communicated to all the sentiment of charity which had seized her. Everything is contagious in this world, even virtue. A half-century ago, when there was less travelling, men were much more accessible to each other. To-day there passes before our eyes such a procession of specimens of human kind, from the prince without a crown to the _prolétaire_ without a shirt, that one reflects that caution is necessary. Man has become cosmopolitan, and he avoids sympathetic persons for fear he may become attached to them. The landlord, concealed behind the door, felt reassured on seeing him whom he thought dying, under the protection of the whole company. This protection relieved him from obligations, the very thought of which was terrifying. As a good action reacts on those who are the cause of it, the lady was radiant. She chatted with the Venetian and the Roman, interrogated the Pole, argued with the Dane, said some words to the Tsigane, even smiled at the phlegmatic German, and so charmed the whole company that each one commenced to dread the hour of departure. The conversation continued gayly as it had begun. "I am not altogether a cosmopolite," said the lady; "man needs a country, and he who has none has one joy the less in his heart, one love the less in his life, and in his thoughts a hope and a consolation the less. Rather than want a country one ought to choose and create one to love, for it is necessary for a young man to have an ideal love if he has not a real one. However, love of one's country does not imply hatred of others. It is a beautiful thing this human brotherhood." "Very well said," agreed the Dane, who, in order to put in his word, had left his macaroni. "But unfortunately, madame, this fraternity belongs only to fabulous and Utopian days, like the English republics and the patriarchal monarchies. It is a dream, like the imaginary cottages of lovers with idyllic roots and herbs for food, and the clear water of the rushing brook for drink; it is an idle dream, like any other nonsense that men have invented in this age of beefsteaks, of business, of bank-notes, and comfort. It is thousands of years since men coined the word 'fraternity.' Eh! madame, ask the Muscovite to love the Pole, and the English to love the French; demand, then, of the German to renounce his disposition to assimilate all the neighbouring provinces and to demand their ground for the cultivation of his potatoes; ask him then to cease singing the praises of his mother-country wherever he may be." "Oh! oh!" said the peaceable German shaking his head. "Behold already a satire on the most inoffensive of men." Then he resumed between his teeth, "Oh! Schiller!" "I have had the pleasure of reading all his works," replied the Dane, returning to his macaroni, "in a translation. He has written many beautiful things. But beautiful verses do not characterize a people, my dear German. I call you very dear, because I love exceedingly men in general, although I hate a few in particular. Well, very dear son of blonde Germany, I tell you, without remembrance of your monopoly of Schleswig and of Holstein, two principalities to which I do not belong,--I tell you frankly, Schiller, Goethe, Kant, Herder, and Lessing are not Germans." "How is that?" "Listen, peaceable son of industrious Germany; do not fly in a passion. I know you, that is why I maintain that neither Schiller nor the others belong to you." "To whom do they belong, then?" demanded the German, striking his knife on the table. "They are geniuses like Shakespeare. They belong to the whole world, and not to His Majesty the King of Prussia. They are not as well known in the country that has produced them as in other lands." "That is perfectly true," added the young Pole. "I feel that I understand Schiller better than most Germans, who go into ecstasies over his genius, and raise statues on all the street corners, and throw a flat contradiction over the poet's ideal by shutting themselves up in a narrow and egotistical nationality." "Enough, young enthusiast!" interrupted the Dane. "You are twenty-one or"-- "Twenty-two," said the Pole. "I will not permit you to discuss the subject of egotism yet. Wait a few years, until you become an egotist yourself. '_Nemo sapiens nisi patiens_.' I admit, however, that you have comprehended my meaning very well, and that you have argued fairly." A general laugh seized the whole company. "With your permission," added the Dane, taking up his lorgnette, which he had placed on the table, "this threatens to become a rather long international conference. It is necessary that I should reinforce the inner man to sustain the discussion. Macaroni is very 'filling,' but does not nourish overmuch. I shall send for something more substantial. Decidedly, these Italians for many generations of stomachs have cultivated an exaggerated taste for macaroni." "Do not trouble yourself about us!" replied the lady smiling. "Monsieur Pole," continued the loquacious Dane, "do not be offended if I invite you brusquely to dine with me. It is simple egotism. When I eat alone I am not hungry. To see any one eat gives me an appetite, and I divine in you a Polish stomach." The young man blushed deeply and murmured, "But--but"-- "No _buts_. It is a service which you can render me. Eat like a wolf; I will enjoy looking at you in coveting your appetite." With these words he sighed with regret and knocked on the table. A waiter in his shirt-sleeves came running in. Each one ordered his dinner. The conversation flagged, and the German, gloomy and indignant, went and seated himself in a corner. "Monsieur is provoked," said the Dane to him; "but monsieur is wrong. I esteem your nation very highly, and I render justice to all its general qualities. The Germans abound everywhere, like the trichina; and like it, the hardier they are the more surely they provoke the death of those who have received them. It is a credit to the people, though it be an offence in the trichina. If you dislike my opinion read Heine, who justifies me in all points." The German made a gesture of contempt. "Heine, a Jew!" said he in a low voice. The Dane alone heard him, and leaning towards his companion added, in an undertone, "I fear you will soon be obliged to seek your future where Heine saw it." Then lower still he pronounced this word, a title in one of Heine's works,--"Hammonia!" After a short colloquy the two men evidently came to an amicable understanding, for they shook hands. The _menu_ for the principal meal at the Albergo della Grotto was as follows: First a thick brodo, a soup that alone with Italians supersedes their beloved macaroni. Then a dish of fried fish and one of stewed meat; that, to say the least, was a little suspicious, for it had come from Genoa in the heat of the day, and was certainly somewhat fatigued by the journey. Afterward a roast, then cheese and fruit. The Dane grumbled, and said that the cooking was unworthy of the least of scullions; but the travellers were hungry, and they excused many shortcomings. The Pole had overcome his embarrassment and ate with evident enjoyment, although he feared that his new friends would divine his long fast. His companion was not hungry, for he had eaten at Cogoletto. The unfortunate young man considered this meal a Godsend, for he was saving his last sou to return home. Having lost confidence in "human fraternity," he relied only on his own strength and economy. "Am I permitted to ask where you are going?" said the lady, looking around the tables. "As for me," said the one whom she had succoured, "I go, or rather return, to Poland. It is two years since I left it, and I return impelled by suffering and hope. Aged by my trials, I have left on the way all my illusions." "I also return to Poland," added the Jew. "I consider it my country. Permit me to call it thus, for I love it, and that gives me the right." The two men pressed each other's hands like brothers, whilst the Galician seemed to be looking for something under the table, and feigned not to hear them. "I," said the Tsigane, "believe that I will go to Hungary. I say _believe_, for it is not yet decided; it is only probable. I have relations established there. They have left the tents of their tribe for more substantial dwellings. I wish to see them once more and to salute them in our ancient language. But for me every place is the same. I am never in haste; I have money, and wander where I will. My country is any spot that suits me, for there does not exist for us a country in the sense in which you use it. We have forgotten our land since we left it, and if we should return, she would not recognize her children. We should be like Epimenides when he returned and found that no one knew him." "Well," said the Dane to the Pole brusquely, "you have made a wonderful journey, and in the most agreeable way. Necessity is often a blessing in disguise. How often have I wished to be obliged to go on foot, but, unfortunately, there has never been any urgent reason for doing so, and I have always listened to the voice of sloth." "You wish for everything," said the Jew; "but at the same time you lack the will to obtain the object of your desires." "That is true. But that which I long for most is youth!" replied the Dane. "The route is truly charming enough to make one forget hunger and heat," said the Pole. "Walking along the shores of the blue sea, it seemed to me that the world was finished in emeralds and opals and sapphires. It was like Paradise,--an ideal land. What a poem is the ocean!" "The ocean is not at all poetical," said the Dane; "it only seems so in your youthful enthusiasm. To me the sea speaks only of oysters and fish." The lady smiled at this prosaic remark, and softly quoted,-- "_O primavera! gioventù de l'anno!_ _O gioventù! primavera della vita!_" "I intend to visit Italy, and I am going to Genoa," remarked the German laconically. "I, also," added the Dane. "We go anywhere," replied the Roman and the Venetian. "As for me," declared the Muscovite, "I am obliged to wander, because I cannot return to '_la sainte Russie_' until"-- "Until the tempest explodes there," finished the Dane. "Was not that what you intended to say?" added he. The Moscovite made an affirmative gesture. "As for me, I shall prolong my voyage," murmured the Galician. "I wish to see Italy thoroughly." "Then we are all bound for Genoa," resumed the lady; "this Genoa '_la superba_,' that we can already catch a glimpse of here, and which I am anxious to reach." "Madame, do not complain of the length of the route," observed the Jew. "The true happiness of life is in knowing where one aims to be, and then going slowly toward it. Genoa the beautiful is more beautiful at a distance than when near. The journey from here is ravishing." "I know something of it, for I have come on foot from Marseilles," said the Pole. One of the Italians launched out into enthusiastic praise of Italy "_la bella_." "I am not surprised to find love of country even among the Esquimaux, but I cannot comprehend an Italian that does not love Italy. Where else can be found so beautiful a country? At your feet eloquent ruins of past ages, overhead a sky of unequalled beauty, and everywhere wonders, with a climate which restores life to the dying. Italy reigns queen of the world; they have plucked the diadem from her brow, but she still continues calm and majestic. Barbarians have chained her beautiful hands, but she will soon rise again and shake off her fetters. Tell me, do you know a more beautiful land?" "I know one," replied the Pole mournfully. "A gray sky envelops it; its soil is stained with blood. The cemeteries alone speak of the past, and through these burial-grounds pass often despairing groups of chained men. It has no sapphire sea,--nothing but the cold, icy wind. But it is the altar of innumerable sacrifices,--it is my country." The Italians nodded their heads, and the Tsigane smiled ironically. "What matters it to a man," cried he, "whether he be here or there! Life is short, and death will soon oblige him to return to the darkness whence he came. Let us not become attached to anything or anybody. It is not worth the trouble." "What an error!" interrupted the lady; "it is by the heart that one lives. All else is the bitter peel of the fruit." "In that case one must become accustomed to the peel," said the Tsigane shrugging his shoulders. A servant came to announce to the lady's cavaliers that their carriage was ready, and he believed it his duty to add that the diligence was also waiting at the door to take the other travellers to Genoa. This interruption had the effect of a cold douche on the company, and a cloud passed over their countenances. "Thus," said the lady sighing, "we must separate. Destiny pushes us on again like the galley slaves who wish to stop on the way, and are relentlessly forced onward by their keepers. God alone knows if we shall ever meet again!" "No, we cannot tell," rejoined the Dane, adjusting his lorgnette; "but we shall certainly meet again the types which we resemble. As for myself, I am convinced that I have seen you all already somewhere, and that I shall meet you again, but perhaps under a form less attractive." This odd idea did not please the lady, who was no doubt offended at the thought of being considered an ordinary woman. "As for me, monsieur," said she haughtily, "this is the first time in my life that ever I saw you, and I tell you that"-- "That you do not desire to see me again?" "That is not exactly what I was going to say. However, your belief in types and not in individuals shocks me, I acknowledge. For what man has then a perfect ideal?" "Men are but men, be certain of that, madame. I affirm more: to believe in a variety of men is dangerous; there are only certain types many times repeated. We often think to find a new man, an unknown; but we soon recognize an old acquaintance who, between you and me, does not amount to much." "In the abstract you are right, monsieur," said she, glancing at the Russian, who smiled, and at the Galician, who appeared not to listen. "But," added she quickly, "we will not grieve about it. _En route_ and _Au revoir!_" "_Au revoir!_ but where?" "At Genoa." "At what place?" "At Aqua Sola," said one of the Italians; "there is good music there, and there we may easily find each other." Every one arose and saluted the lady, who held out her hand to the young Pole and wished him better health. The rest of the company prepared to leave, wishing each other a pleasant journey. The Dane took the diligence and the Tsigane an omnibus. The Italians went on foot. The German found it economical to glide into the vehicle of the _propriétaire_, in the midst of tomatoes and fruits. "We will go together," said the Jew to the Pole. "I do not wish to part with you. I have a carriage, and if you will not come willingly I shall employ force." "But I have no right to trouble you." "On the contrary, you will do me a service. Solitude fatigues me, and your company will distract my thoughts. It is a genuine favour that you will grant me. Come, no more doubts. Give me your hand, brother, and think no more about it." From the threshold of the inn the landlord saw the departure of the invalid with great satisfaction. And his joy was augmented by the fact that all had paid well, and that his first care now was to prepare a second dinner. "What good luck," said he to himself, "that that young stranger should have fallen into the hands of those people. If it had not been so he might perhaps have committed suicide here, and I should have been obliged to bury him at my own expense, for he did not appear to have a heavy haversack, and I do not believe he had a sou. May God deliver me from any more such tourists! Yes, I have had a lucky escape." CHAPTER II. JUDAISM AND POLAND. The two men traversed in almost uninterrupted silence the short distance which separated Sestri from Genoa. The route is simply a continuous line of straggling hamlets. On one mass of rock arose the ruins of an old tower; above the door was the image of the Virgin, patroness of the city. The light-house appeared in the distance, then the harbour, like an amphitheatre around which Genoa la Superba is built. This beautiful city is seen to best advantage from the sea. It is a city of palaces, with its colonnades, its porticos and staircases, its streets climbing toward the sky or sinking in sudden precipices. It has been likened to an enormous shell thrown up by the waves of the sea. The marine monster who lived in this shell has been replaced by a miserable spider; a life full of littleness has succeeded the life of grandeur of past ages. In this marble city the inhabitants to-day are somewhat embarrassed. The shell is too large for them,--this shell, in the bottom of which the turbulent Genoese Republic vied with Venice in its traffic and its aristocracy. New peoples are there, new ways. The Balbi and Palaviccini palaces now have the appearance of tombs, while at the port the modern Italian struggles for precedence in a new form of existence, perhaps as full of pride as in the vanished past. The carriage rolled softly through the streets which led to the interior of the city. "Permit me to alight," said the young Pole suddenly. "Why?" "To go in search of lodgings." "I thought it was agreed that we travel together?" "Yes; but I wish to live alone. I tell you frankly that I have scarcely enough to finish my journey. It is necessary for me to seek cheap lodgings." "Have you not accepted my fraternal offer to stay with me?" "Yes, perhaps; but poverty has its pride, as wealth sometimes has its humility. Do not be angry because I wish to retain my independence. It is so good to be free, when liberty costs only a bad dinner and a wretched bed." "I understand your scruples," replied the Jew. "If they were of any value I would heed them. I do not dream of chaining you to myself. My offer amounts to little, but it is made with a good heart, and if you find life with me insupportable you can leave me. In asking you to share my lodgings, if only for a night, I do not make any sacrifice, and you owe me no gratitude. Do not refuse. I can share with you without inconvenience, and it is you who will do me a favour. I am sad-hearted; solitude oppresses me, I do not wish to be alone. Come with me to my hotel. I do not ask you to amuse me, but only to be near me. My heart longs to overflow into the heart of a fellow-man. If I weary you, you are at liberty to leave me to my sufferings." "It would be foolish for me," said the Pole, "to refuse such a courteous invitation. Pardon my too susceptible pride. It was owing to my poverty." "I honour the sentiment," replied the Jew smiling. Then he cried to the driver, "To the Hotel Féder!" The Hotel Féder, like most of the hostelries of Genoa, of Venice, and of other Italian cities, is an ancient palace appropriated to this new service. The structure, half antique and half modern, has a strange appearance. At the foot of the court, obscure and abandoned, trickles an old fountain; a narrow path passes under the windows of the chambers, and on every side can be discovered traces of former grandeur, relics of a romantic age now superseded everywhere by the plain practical life of to-day, whose chief end is money-getting. The companions obtained a large room on the third floor with two beds, the windows of which commanded a fine view of the port, bristling with masts, like a garden of shrubs despoiled of their leaves by winter. In the distance the Mediterranean could be seen stretching away to the horizon. They had hardly entered the room when the young man fell exhausted into a chair, and seemed about to swoon for the second time. Some cologne revived him, and a slight repast soon dispelled his weakness, the result of long fasting and excessive fatigue. His strength returned with rest and nourishment. "And now," advised the Jew, "lie down on this couch, or perhaps it would be better to go to bed." "If you will permit me?" asked the young man timidly. "Nay, I beg you to do so." "And you?" "Oh, I will see Genoa this evening. Never mind me. I will amuse myself; all I ask of you at present is to sleep; and, mind, you must not even dream." He took his hat and cane and left the room. The young man fell like one dead on the bed, and was asleep before his head touched the pillow. Fatigue is not the same in old age as in youth, for then sleep soon restores the exhausted energies. The young traveller was awakened from his profound slumber by the discordant braying of the asses grouped under the windows of the hotel. He had forgotten the events of the past evening, and threw an astonished glance around the luxurious apartment. He who had for so long a time been accustomed to sleep in miserable lodgings now awoke in a pleasant room, and saw a simple but abundant breakfast spread out on the table beside him. The Jew returned from a sea-bath, prepared to do it honour. "Is it then very late?" murmured the Pole, rising from the bed. "No, not very late. I arose early to enjoy the freshness of the morning. Have you slept well?" "I know not." "How is that?" "I fell like a piece of lead. I rise as I fell without having stirred, without having moved even. I have slept the sleep of the dead." "And how do you feel at present?" "Strong as Hercules, thanks to you." "Ah, bah! thanks to youth. Does your head ache still?" "Not at all." "Then let us attend to breakfast." "You treat me too well, dear Amphitryon. This is a breakfast worthy of Lucullus and of the Sybarites. I have contented myself for a long while on awakening with a glass of sour wine and a piece of bread with cheese. A similar repast in the evening, and that was all. I cannot permit myself luxuries. I, a poor orphan, without future or friend, have never been pampered." "It is not necessary that this should hinder your eating," interrupted the Jew gayly. "I am hungry, and will set you an example. Let us begin. We will become better acquainted." "That is true; we do not even know each other's names." "Very well. I have the honour to present you Jacob Hamon." "And I," said the Pole in his turn, "my friends have christened me familiarly with the name of Ivas. In reality I am called Jean Huba. Huba, and not Hube, which is a German name. You will learn it if you know Poland a little, for I am from a Russian province, in the language of which Huba signifies champignon. It is like the Polish Gzybowski or Gzybowicz. This name became later an addition to the family name of the Pstrocki who came from Masovia to gain their living in a more fertile land. In full, I am _Jean Huba Pstrocki ex Masovia olim oriundus, in Russia possessionatus et natus_." "Have you any kindred there?" asked Jacob. "Neither kindred nor an inch of ground. I am an orphan in every sense of the word. My father, after losing his last cent, and seeing his little farm in Volhynie devastated by hail and other plagues, died, leaving me to the charity of men. From pity they sent me to school, where I passed the examination and entered the university." "Why did you leave the country?" "Because with us college pranks are considered as a crime; because we are not permitted to love our country, neither in its past nor future; because those who stifle seek the air. For writing some simple patriotic verses I was threatened with banishment to Siberia." "Always the malady of the oppressed," remarked the Jew. "Where veterans are seen tearing up all their rights, the young try to reconquer, and, in their unreflecting enthusiasm, often find exile, misery, and death." They both sighed, and Jacob asked:-- "Why do you dream of returning to a country from which you were obliged to flee?" "I know not myself" replied Ivas sadly; "I only know that I return to my native land. Suffering has pushed me to it. I have not learned to live in any other country, and exile is to me intolerable, morally and physically. I left home believing that ideas of liberty, concord, light, and justice vibrated in the hearts of other men as in mine. Alas! society is not what I thought it. It has no place for the oppressed, no hand to hold out to the dying, no consolation to offer to the afflicted, no shelter to the proscribed. I return, then, to the country I have left. There, at least, beat some generous hearts, while in Europe"-- "Europe has grown old," interrupted Jacob. "She is afraid of quarrelling. The world is in the hands of charlatans who profit by the sufferings of martyrs. Truth is no more comprehended. They mock at her. Men who are crafty and unscrupulous profit by everything in these days. Self-interest is the only spring of human interest. The heart has given out its last spark of generosity, and the world is drifting towards scepticism and intolerance. Men pride themselves on unbelief, for liberty has degenerated into an unbridled license. Revolution has set up a pedestal for the ambition of impostors, and the apostles of progress make money out of their dupes. Fortunately humanity will grow better." While he was speaking, the sun rose high in the heavens, and the heat, which was great, made it uncomfortable to walk abroad. The Jew closed the shutters, and the two companions continued their conversation in a subdued light and comparative coolness. "I ought to make myself known to you," said the Jew, after a short silence. "We understand each other already, but my exceptional position requires explanation. Our acquaintance, which commenced near Genoa, will not end here, I hope. You can tell me more of yourself later on, but it is right that I should be the first to make a frank confidence. It is a courtesy that I wish to show to our new-born friendship. "The word 'Jew' contains all my history. It tells my destiny, it divines my character. This known, the consequences are certain. The Jew, even while he has ceased to be a pariah in society, still remains no less an enigma. For several thousand years he has borne engraved on his forehead his holy mission,--a mission of, suffering, humility, and abasement. But from this deep abasement he comes out greater, to go forward toward the universal power he lends to the entire world. He builds and tears down thrones, dominates over governments, makes laws, and reigns in an invisible manner. It is with pride that I say it, the word 'Jew' has immense significance. "Pardon me if I forget myself in speaking of the Jews. I feel myself a child of that great family on the foreheads of which the finger of Moses has inscribed the mysterious name--Jehovah. "Before being a man I am a Jew. This word recalls much suffering, the first legislation worthy of humanity, the most ancient morals emanating from divine wisdom in the Ten Commandments. "As God is eternal, so are his laws. When nations were wandering and lost in the by-ways of polytheism and of anomalism (if I can by this word express the absence of laws), the one God is manifested to us; and to us is communicated the sacred fire, which we have preserved during all ages. "We are spread over the whole world, holding fast the word of God. During two thousand years we have not made proselytes: we have guarded the treasure for ourselves. The world is busy, toils and labours; and we live on, absorbed entirely in guarding this treasure. We are preserved in all our suffering, a distinct people, bearing everywhere our country in our hearts, in our holy books and our religious services, and in all the minute circumstances of life. But to-day, I fear, alas! that we have thrown from our shoulders this dear burden. The Jewish idea seems to have diminished with the cessation of persecution. But to return to my personal history. "I was born of one of those Jewish families scattered in the Polish villages. You probably know something of the Jews in Poland, a country that I love as well as you do, and on which I can cast only one reproach. The Poles, though deeply imbued with the idea of human dignity, refused the name of man to all those who were not noble. Poland, like the Republic of Venice, has not known how to reform herself. Caste prevailed to so great a degree that she has preferred to perish sooner than adopt a new mode of existence, and risk all in the defence of liberty. Nevertheless, in the lives of these people I recognize a great and brilliant spirit like our own. In speaking of Poland, I do not call myself a Pole, for I am a Jew, and we are a distinct people, it matters not what land we dwell in. In judging Poland's past impartially, one can perhaps criticise, but must acknowledge that it is full of poetry; it is a Homeric epoch." "Stop!" cried the young Pole, "you are a son of the present; do not excuse the past." "Why do you speak thus?" "Why? Because I was born in the midst of new ideas. I condemn the most brilliant epochs of our history, for they were the veritable cause of our ruin. We who are descended from those guardians of our rights are now their judges, and we justly consider as the greatest kings those who tried to crush the nobility to establish their own power." "You are partly right. Nevertheless, when I meditate on Poland, she seems to me strange, frightful, at times almost savage, but always grand and magnificent, chivalrous and noble. No one has a better right than the Jew to condemn the Polish nobility, yet it is necessary to judge a nation without personal prejudice." "We will discuss this subject at another time," interrupted the young man; "but there is really something strange in the fact that I, a noble Pole, should condemn the past more than you, a Jew. You are truly magnanimous!" Jacob smiled, and said, "I am older than you, dear brother, if not in years, at least in experience. Suffering, labour, and meditation, and perhaps, also, the sorrows of bygone generations, have prematurely aged me." "That is true; but tell me more about yourself." "Do not be impatient. I cannot do otherwise. We will travel over a rocky road, like the mineralogists. Every time that we encounter a curious stone we will strike it with our hammer to find out what it contains. So we will pause to discuss different subjects. But do you not remember that it will soon be time to go to Aqua Sola?" "Ah, yes! It is true that we shall meet my beautiful benefactress, who, like the Samaritan, gave me aid in my distress." "This Italienne who bathed your temples with water, and at the same time, perhaps, lighted a fire in your heart. But between yesterday and to-day there is an abyss. Who knows how many will keep the rendezvous at Aqua Sola?" "Do you think many will fail to put in an appearance?" "Experience has taught me to count very little on engagements twenty-four hours old, and not at all on those dating back several weeks." "The evening is still far off," said the Pole. "Very far. The sun is yet high in the heavens." "Then pray continue your autobiography." CHAPTER III. EDUCATION OF JACOB. "Who does not love to recall the occurrences of youth, however sad? I cannot boast of happiness in my childhood, yet the memory of those days brings tears to my eyes, and I repeat that which is written in one of our books: 'Youth is a garland of flowers; old age, a crown of thorns.' Even in comparison with maturity, full of power and intelligence, those years seem to me strewn with flowers, although they were unhappy. "My parents were descended from an important and once wealthy family, whose fortunes had declined for several generations. They found themselves for a time in the lowest degree of society, working in the village inns or occupying themselves in some little business or petty speculations in wheat or cattle. To speak frankly, my father was an innkeeper in a little village. He was a quiet, studious man, loving his books, and little calculated for business. My mother took care of everything. She was the second wife of my father, Joël, who had lost his first after the birth of a son, Joël, who was already well grown when I came into the world. "Joël, the elder, was of a gloomy character, silent, concentrated, a dreamer. He was absorbed in abstruse speculations, and was happy only when he was left in undisturbed possession of his books. He was generally esteemed on account of his learning, but his family suffered from his inaptitude for business, which was for us a question of life. "It has been, and is still, with the Jews, a traditional duty to amass wealth. This does not proceed from the character of the race, but from the conditions under which they live. The only rights accorded, or, rather, dearly sold, to the Jews can at any moment be revoked, suspended, or torn in shreds by the tribunal of the clergy. Where can justice be found? To whom can they complain? The Jew has been forced to seek in gold, which is worshipped by all nations, the means of obtaining justice, rights, and consideration. The poor Jew has no defence, no protection, but the head of the community to which he belongs. The Christians have, in a measure, made a religious duty of avenging the death of Christ on us; this Christ who was a Jew also. We are therefore obliged to cling to our money as the only safeguard, though the law of Moses condemns severely this love of gold. (Exodus xxii. 25.) "My father could not be accused of enriching himself at the expense of others. In the end, plunged as he was in metaphysical studies, which made him forget the affairs of this world, he lost even the little hoard that had been saved with so much difficulty. All the care and labour fell on my poor mother, who was much younger, and therefore interested in the future. I had two sisters younger than myself, and my half-brother was much older. "Our rural establishment consisted of a rented farm, and a tavern situated near a highway. The locality was much frequented. We were brought up in a continual bustle, which, however, did not disturb my father, who was too absorbed to notice it. My mother and two servants worked hard to satisfy their guests. It would have been a most profitable business, in spite of a neighbouring rival, if fortune had only smiled on us. But that which was made by the sale of brandy, hay, and oats was lost in other ways. In his transactions with the dealers in hides and cattle, my father always came out worsted. He attributed this ill-luck to the will of God; but my mother grieved bitterly over his lack of business tact. We grew poorer every day. The family jewels, my father's furs and clothes, all that we possessed of any value, were gradually parted with. "The owner of the tavern was a noble. Fat, hearty, always gay and good-humoured, he was a _viveur_; a heart good enough, but terribly dissipated. He cared not for the morrow, provided that to-day was passed agreeably. At all times he required money. He was our plague, although he was not wicked. Every time that he sent for Joël my mother wept, for she knew that he would have to take money with him. "At the manor-house, which was about half a mile from the tavern, there was always a gay company. When he was alone a single day, Micuta almost died of _ennui_. If no one came to amuse him, he ordered his horses, and went to visit his neighbours. His wife wept then, like my mother. She could not prevent his dissipation nor correct his faults, but, womanlike, she loved him in spite of all. To procure money with which to amuse himself was the sole object of this nobleman, and when he was told that he would ruin himself, he replied carelessly, 'Ah, bah! Providence will provide. I will die as I have lived.'" "Such types," said Ivas, "are common with us. Every district possesses several Micutas." "At the same time that he sent for Joël to bring him money," resumed the Jew, "his wife, Madame Micuta, sent to my mother, and begged her not to give him any. But how could she resist when he was determined to have his way at any cost? Joël always yielded to his demands. For his continual banquets it was necessary to have fish, meat, sugar and vegetables, spices and wine. And that was not all; the accounts increased, and my father was obliged to give his note and pay usurious interest. "Naturally I, too young to understand the state of affairs, looked on the world around me, and found it wonderful. The tavern was always full of travellers. Behind our garden was a forest of oaks, where I loved to wander, listening to the warbling of birds and the rustling of the branches overhead. Now, I cannot interest myself thus in nature; human beings interest me more. It is not given to every child to grow up in such a turmoil, and in the midst of a crowd of strangers continually going and coming. From it I learned that there were many people in the world, and at the same time that many of them were strangers. I realized that all these people were preoccupied, and cared nothing for us. My mother, in these early days, could pay little attention to me, occupied as she was, while my father prayed and read. We knew that she loved us, but she had no time to caress or to amuse us. I became accustomed at an early age to live alone. My thoughts were my companions, and a secret mistrust separated me from men. I loved, however, to observe them and to penetrate their characters. "I was still quite young when my father died, after a short illness. That day of mourning and lamentation is engraved on my memory. It was then that I pronounced for the first time the words, as is the duty of all Israelites whom the hand of God has stricken, 'Glory to Thee, equitable Judge, may Thy will be done.' "After the old man's death, which left me an orphan, our landlord turned us out of the tavern in spite of my mother's entreaties. She rented a little inn situated near a mill, on the border of a forest. This place seemed pleasant to us, but here began hardships which children only do not feel. Instead of the incessant noise of our inn, full day and night, we now seldom saw any one, save that occasionally an individual came to the mill, and this ran only six months in the year, on account of lack of water. "During this dull season we scarcely sold a barrel of brandy." "Around the little cabin murmured the pine-trees, and the narrow path which led to the mill was overgrown with trailing vines and herbs. We lived in this solitude on black bread and vegetables furnished by our little garden. My mother grew more despairing every day, and appealed to her relatives and to those of my father, but in vain. We were in rags, but yet we children were not unhappy. Presently I reached the age for study. My mother grieved over her inability to have me taught, and I remember that one day she left us under the protection of a poor Jew of the neighbourhood, and was gone for some weeks. She returned a little more tranquil, kissed my forehead and said, 'Rejoice, my son, thou shalt soon have some one to instruct thee!' "I realized so little the importance of this promise, that I was much more pleased with the sweet cakes which she brought me. You know what care the Israelites take in the education of their children, for it is in that way that we learn the laws and traditions of our people; it is, in a word, the shaping of our souls. From the rabbi, at five years, every boy ought to learn the Bible; at ten, the Michna; at thirteen, the Divine Ordinances; and at fifteen, the Gemara." Seeing an expression of incredulity spread over the lips of Ivas, Jacob paused. "I am aware," said he, "that these books have been ridiculed to you by men who are antagonistic to us. They know only the outlines of their teachings, and that very superficially or by hearsay. It is, however, to these customs which appear ridiculous to you that we owe the fact that we have not disappeared from the face of the earth, nor become absorbed by other nations. Obscure as the text is, it merits our gratitude. "I remember, as if it was yesterday, the arrival of my tutor. I was at the door of our cabin, when from a miserable vehicle alighted a being so deformed and of such a frightful appearance that he scarcely seemed human. The body of this creature was so bent by long study that he could not stand erect. He was hump-backed, and from his curved chest arose an enormous head, with a high forehead, from which shone a pair of piercing black eyes. His glance terrifies me even now in my dreams. It seemed as if he could penetrate one's inmost thoughts. The outer world was nothing to the owner of these eyes; he lived for books alone. Lame in one foot, he walked with difficulty, leaning on a cane. It was more of a hop than a walk. "Such was my mentor. He came from the village, was called Moché, and was celebrated in the vicinity for his great learning. His knowledge of sacred literature was most extensive. He recited by heart long passages of the Talmud and of the Kabala, without omitting a word, without forgetting an accent. His life was devoted to the instruction of children and to self-culture. The world did not interest him; he lived entirely in the past. No doubt he would never have consented to come to us, had he not been attracted by two boxes full of rare books, the heritage of my father. "Moché was a strict teacher, and insisted on the observance of all religious rules and traditions. He was a travelling encyclopedia which moved mechanically. I doubt if there ever was a more severe teacher. He fulfilled his functions without pity, almost with cruelty. "Deprived so suddenly of my liberty, I was forced to embrace so many studies that I thought I should lose my reason and become a fool. But, at any cost, I must learn to be a Jew, or perish. Mechanically my head was filled with words, with long tirades which I had to repeat without stopping, each intonation of which, required by the sense of the phrase, had to be learned with care. In spite of the brutality of this method, it was a spur to my intelligence, which gradually opened and put itself in motion. "I commenced to study with some understanding. It is difficult to determine what influence on the mind of a child the study of past generations has. It is certain that, on commencing the study of the Bible and the history of my people, I believed myself awakened from a dream after a long slumber. Once the first difficulties vanished, I applied myself so ardently to study that Moché was astonished. It was not his custom to encourage children by pleasant words, but he showed himself less severe toward me, without, at any time, becoming affectionate. The only thing that annoyed him was when I asked explanations of the passages which we studied. Then he was cross, and rapped my fingers with a little rod which served him for pointing out the letters. He wished to chase from my brain that which he considered premature pride. Moché often repeated to me, to pique me into emulation, that, following the rabbins, the world rests on the breath of children who learn the law of God, and not on the intelligence of savants. "Laugh, if you will, but these remembrances have a great charm for me." "That does not prevent me from laughing at your club-footed Moché," said Ivas. "I do not dream of poetizing him. I even say that his severity rendered him almost a savage. Although he was always polite to my mother, he did not hesitate to reproach her for not keeping up our customs more rigidly. Then he would threaten to go away. "For us Moché was a sort of bugbear. Yet when he was roused he became almost grand. Then the brightness of his soul became so apparent that you did not think of his body. When he recited to us the sufferings of Israel the tears rolled down his cheeks, he was excited almost to frenzy. His voice was broken with sobs, and he often sang the verses in an inspired voice. In these moments his hair was pushed back from his forehead, and his body shook with a nervous tremor, produced by extreme susceptibility and appreciation of the subject; his memory was prodigious. "Such is a brief sketch of my master, not flattering, but very like him. "It was he who made me read the first books of the Bible, or rather who made me weep over them. He was so conscientious that, having recognized in me a certain ability, he advised my mother to send me to a neighbouring town to finish my education. "Thanks to him, at thirteen, following our custom, I read publicly in the Synagogue passages from the Holy Scriptures, and I was made one of the ten officiants of the temple, the number necessary for the assembly to be considered complete. "It was exceedingly difficult for my poor mother to remove. But she resolved to use every effort in my behalf. Miserable as our existence was near the mill, it had some advantages, for our rent was very low, and we had fuel, thanks to the woods which surrounded our cabin, and vegetables from our little garden. In the town we should have had to pay for everything, even water. How could we live? How could she do it? How transport her children thither? And after getting there, on what resources could we subsist? "While my mother racked her brain to find an answer to these questions, my half-brother, having already amassed a little fortune by selling hides, came to pay us a visit. "This unlooked-for event was of great importance to us. We had not seen him for a long time. He was nearly thirty years old, and was married. His wife's marriage portion and a little heritage from my father formed a small capital, which he had known how to increase. The first year of his married life he had lived at the expense of his wife's parents, who were willing to do anything in their power. Afterward he established himself separately, and little by little increased his business. Fortune, which had frowned on our father, smiled on the son. This gave him courage; economical, cold, prudent, he devoted all his intelligence to the success of his projects. To be rich was his aim, and he was convinced that he should succeed. He was not yet well enough off to draw money from his business to aid us, but he brought us news of relations of my mother's, who, touched at last by her sad situation, sent her a small sum of money to invest in some business, the profits of which might educate my sisters and me. My mother wept with joy. We children were sad when we heard that we were to leave the mill and the forest, but we soon became accustomed to the life of a town. "The elder brother was received with great affection. My mother asked him if he knew of any way for her to invest the money. Joël, who wished to increase his business, proposed that she invest the sum with him and share his house. She agreed to the proposition, and the next day, impatient for the change, sent for a vehicle to remove from the cabin. "Here commenced the second period of my life. You have seen that my childhood was not cradled on a bed of roses, that I have suffered, and that suffering was the sun which hastened my development. As the sun's rays make the flowers blossom, so hardship forced my character to unfold. Those years have left me memories, for the most part disagreeable. Memories of ruin, of labour, of fighting against hunger, cold, and the contempt of men which paralyzed the intelligence, and prevented one from rising above bodily occupations. It is permitted to poets, or rather to those who give themselves out as such, to exalt in nature an impossible idealism and to rebel against materialism. But, alas! on regarding actual life, how many needs we have, and how much is required for mere existence! "Man in full strength can battle with nature and poverty and come out conqueror. It is, nevertheless, very difficult to rid one's self of the cares of each day, the rock of Sisyphus which rolls back on us continually. The Jews were very numerous in our town; indeed, they formed the larger part of the population. We had a synagogue with which I was very much impressed, for until then I had seen only the miserable cabins which we used for places of worship. I could for the first time form a just idea of our religious ceremonies, and of the sabbath which draws us away from the world, restores us to God, and brings us nearer, in a measure, to our lost country. The baking of bread, a part of which is given to the poor, the setting of the table, the prayers in common, the blessing of the wine, all the customs recall the patriarchal epoch when God was with us, and took, in a way, part in human existence. "To-day you Christians and we Jews have driven God from our presence, and we have forgotten him. Man made by the hands of the Creator believes himself a god, and anthropology is the contemporary religion. "In my brother's house we dwelt in unity as one family, of which he was the head. The women prepared in common the evening meal, and what was needed for the morrow. When the hour for prayer in the synagogue arrived, an old priest rapped on the shutters three times with his mallet of wood, and we set out toward the temple bearing our books under our arms. The synagogue was an old building, dating from the sixth century. It had cost the community much money, for when they were building it the proprietor of the place, who was a Catholic, the Prince K----, had little toleration. The Jews, who had for worship only a little wooden house with a worm-eaten roof, solicited permission to build a new temple; which was granted to them only because money was needed by the proprietor, and it was not plenty just then, there having been a war. The Jews profited by his necessity to buy from the prince a plot of ground and the right to erect thereon a brick synagogue. The traditions of the neighbourhood speak of a colossal sum paid for the privilege. During the construction the workmen were ordered to undo their work, and to pull down the carved balls which ornamented the roof and made the synagogue more imposing than any of the surrounding buildings. However, such as it was, with its style much less Gothic than was planned, it seemed to my childish eyes fully equal to Solomon's Temple. "I continued my studies with ardour. My teachers found in me much aptitude, and I had an insatiable desire to learn. "Our little town, except on market-days, was not one of the most frequented, although it ranked among the most important. It was traversed by a thoroughfare on which a continual procession passed to and fro. Our co-religionists had founded a school here. As the Catholics had an important church, and the principal population was composed of the government employés, it was necessary, in order to remain unmolested, to pay without ceasing. "I soon learned to conduct myself differently toward each person, according to his position on the social ladder. "In general the Jew owes tribute to every one, commencing with the door-keepers of the Lords, and the wives of their door-keepers. "One day returning from my class I found the house in a commotion. I feared at first that there had been an accident. The smiling faces reassured me. They awaited the arrival of an important person. My mother pulled me into the house, and ordered me to array myself in my best. My brother was already dressed. On the table there was brandy, with sweets, honey cake, white bread, spiced bread, and even a bottle of wine. I learned that he whom we were to receive with so much ceremony was my mother's cousin, a rich merchant from Warsaw. He was coming to decide about my future. "I imagined in my childish brain a man of imposing figure with a long beard and a biblical costume recalling patriarchal times. I was still in this dream when a man appeared that I should have taken for a Christian. He was dressed differently from us, wore spectacles and a round hat. He had passed his first youth, had heavy eyebrows, large features, black eyes, and a smooth face. His complexion was rosy, his figure corpulent, and he evidently considered himself a man of importance. "My mother told me to kiss the hand held out to me so majestically. Afterward he examined me attentively, caressed my chin, joked about the cap that I wore, and finished by blowing a cloud of smoke in my face from the cigar he was smoking. After the preliminaries, he said in German, in a patronizing voice, 'I think we can make a man out of this boy.' We all listened to him as to an oracle, because he was enormously rich, and my future depended on him. "'What think you?' added he addressing my mother. 'I will take care of him, but not in your way.' Then turning to my brother he continued: 'There are already enough Jews employed in little ways, keeping taverns in the villages. The cause of it is our ignorance.' "'Nevertheless,' replied Joël, 'this boy is not ignorant; he has been well taught, and he is now learning to read in the Gemara.'--'Ah! What does he want of the Gemara? Do you think of making him a rabbi? It is necessary for us in these days to go everywhere, and not remain in a corner! Why these ear-rings in the ears? Why that iarmulka? These are all remnants of the Middle Ages. The time of our persecution is almost past. The world opens to us. We must be ready to play an important rôle. The Jew has good sense and judgment, which he has preserved through hundreds of years of suffering. Why can he not enjoy the same advantages as Christians? Why is not our education as well developed as theirs? With that we can remain Israelites in the bottom of our hearts.' "In spite of their respect for this wealthy kinsman my mother and my brother could not agree with him, for his remarks shocked their traditional ideas. Without noticing this impression he continued:-- "'I ought not to forget that I am a Jew, and to keep my faith in the citadel of my soul, but outwardly appear in the world on an equal footing with other men, as all sensible Jews do, in strange countries, and even in the kingdom of Poland. I have examined this lad attentively. He is worthy of Israel. I will occupy myself with his education, but we must send him to the Christian schools. He must commence to go to them here. Afterward send him to me, and I will take care of him.' "'You are our benefactor!' cried my mother. 'But you know that many of our people have abandoned their belief, and are equally despised by the Jews and the Christians. How, then, will he preserve his paternal traditions?' "'And why should he not preserve them? You must banish your puerile fears, otherwise he will vegetate like a good-for-nothing in rags and misery, where you are, instead of being like me. I still remain a Jew. I go to the synagogue, and I observe the law, but no doubt less strictly than you.' "All this conversation is engraven in my memory, and it fixed my destiny. "Having learned that our kinsman had arrived from Warsaw, Abraham Machnowiecki, the oracle of the Jews in our town, came to pay us a visit. His was a common type in our community; he was a Polish Jew of the old school, a Polish Israelite, though he could not give so complete an account of his descent as Mickiewicz has so well set forth in his Jankiel. Abraham was an important man in his part of the country. He had continual relations with all the proprietors. He knew their families, their situation, their business, in a word, all that concerned them. He was much interested in electoral meetings. He was consulted on all subjects, and in the most delicate affairs he was often chosen arbiter. He was esteemed because he was worthy of esteem; he was received everywhere with courtesy, and offered a place of honour, while his co-religionists were left standing at the door. Without Abraham nothing of importance was done. His bearing was full of dignity; he was very tall, and wore a white beard, which fell almost to his girdle. His ordinary costume was a black redingote, a czapka of sable, and in summer a wide-brimmed felt hat. A silver-headed cane completed the dress, by which he was recognized from a distance. "In his dwelling, which was one of the best of the neighbourhood, there were always visitors on business. He was the banker of half the proprietors, and he lent or procured money. "The science of Abraham went no further than that of most Jews, but he had a quick intelligence and a great knowledge of men. His predominant quality was an imperturbable calmness. He was never annoyed, never gave any signs of impatience, and showed in all things an undisturbed moderation. He was not communicative, words came slowly from his lips, and he was thoroughly trustworthy. Very much attached to his faith and its customs, he was yet not a fanatic. "This oracle so generally respected was absolutely devoid of pride. He did not demand the consideration which was naturally given him. "The appearance of Abraham at our house was rare, and you may infer that this extraordinary circumstance was owing to an invitation from my mother, who felt the need of his advice. Our elegant kinsman seemed less sympathetic before the grave Abraham. His somewhat frivolous manner became more offensive compared with the conduct of the other Israelite, who was, at the same time, dignified and amiable. The meeting of these men--one of whom, a free thinker, had lost almost all traces of Judaism; the other, a biblical character--was very interesting and aroused my curiosity. "Our relative, in all the pride of a man full of his own importance, was hardly polite to the old man. My mother's cousin did not abandon his cigar, and began to laugh on regarding the Jew's long curly hair, iamulka, the old-fashioned costume, and gigantic cane. "It did not take Abraham long to recognize in our kinsman a type of modern Jew that he had often met before. "'It is very kind of you,' said he, 'to take an interest in this unfortunate family. Would to God every one would do the same! The book Nedarin says: "Honour the sons of the poor who are the brightness of our religion."' "'I wish to do so truly,' replied the Varsovien carelessly. 'I wish to make of this young relative a sound and healthy branch of our community. That is why I have proposed to send him to school with the other children.' "'You will cast him in the fire to see if he is gold? If he be gold, he will remain gold; if he be of base metal, he will melt.' "'They tell me he has good faculties. It is necessary to develop them.' "'Provided that he does not lose his faith. That is why I think that it will not do to remove him from our schools until he is well grounded in his religion. When the potter wishes to make an impression on a vase of clay, he sees that the vase goes to the studio soft and plastic.' "'How old is he?' asked our cousin. "'Thirteen years.' "'You have probably,' continued he, 'a good common school here; he must go to it.' "'Why not?' replied Abraham; 'but the poor child will suffer much.' "'Who, then, has not had trials? You see me. I am worth to-day two millions, perhaps more, and I commenced by selling blacking and matches in the streets.' "The old Abraham murmured in a low voice a text from the Book of Judges which said: 'One must endure the sun's bursting rays because it is indispensable to the world.' "Then he put his hand on my head and blessed me, praying in a low voice, reassured my mother, and the conversation became general. Child as I was, I remember this scene very well. It was shared by many listeners, for the Jews had come from all sides to see this great personage who honoured us with a visit. Our cousin entered into the development of his ideas, which were that the time had come for the Jews to go out and mingle with the world, and to leave the narrow circle where they had remained so long from an exaggerated fear of losing their faith and nationality. "'We have suffered long enough,' said he. 'We ought to enjoy ourselves to-day, and occupy the place which belongs to one of the most ancient peoples of the earth. We possess rapidity of conception, facility to acquire all the sciences and arts; we have money, which levels everything, and at the same time we are united, and this cohesion can accomplish great things. Why then stagnate scattered in these little country towns? Why not strike out? See the Jews of other lands. You find them in the ministry, the parliament, and in high positions. They march to the conquest of civil and political rights, wherever these rights are still refused them.' "Abraham listened without contradiction, and appeared sad and thoughtful; as to our other co-religionists they heartily agreed with our kinsman. He finished by citing as example a celebrated Jew. "This was an epoch which was not soon forgotten in our little town. It provoked a movement which swayed the whole community, with the exception of a few old conservatives. I remained at home the rest of that year, then I entered the common school. It was the first time that a Jew had seated himself on a bench beside Christian children. I knew beforehand what awaited me, but that which I endured surpassed my worst fears. "The larger part of the scholars were the children of petty nobles or of the bureaucracy, students well grown. Their instincts were more than cruel. It was a veritable torment,--torment unceasing. I grew accustomed to continual attacks, and passed in silence the insults which were showered on me. Jokes about pork were met with, even in the mouths of the masters; what could I do but keep silence? My humility and silence were a sort of defence, The first days were intolerable; but, little by little, I became accustomed to my comrades, and they to me. After a while they left me in peace on my solitary bench. The new method of teaching was strange to me, but awakened in my mind a desire to excel. The knowledge that I had accumulated increased. I resolved to continue my studies, and to wait until the strength of science and of the truth enlightened my mind." CHAPTER IV. AQUA SOLA. As he finished his sentence, Jacob perceived that it was growing late. He remembered the rendezvous at Aqua Sola. "I feel," said he, "that you are bored. Excuse me, kind listener. It is the only mode of recital that I understand. I cannot be brief, but must digress. To render my story intelligible, it is necessary to infuse life and colour." "No excuse is necessary," replied Ivas. "I am in no hurry to know the end; let us go slowly." "Yes, we will finish it later on; but now it is time to go to Aqua Sola." The evening had brought with it a little freshness. Many had already left old Genoa for the new part of the city. The streets called Nuova, Nuovissima, Balbi, and Aqua Sola were full of people. The men were dressed more or less in costume, and the women were enveloped in floating white veils which only partly concealed their graceful figures. The companions walked through the dark, narrow streets until they arrived at the hill, which is the only point of verdure in that city of marble. "I am very curious," said Ivas, "to know if we shall find many of our late companions at the rendezvous." "Well, we shall see presently," said Jacob. "A day is long, and human nature changeable." They soon came to the steps which led to the promenade, in whose centre murmured a fountain, near which a fine band sent forth its inspiring strains. The crowd was compact: a Genoese crowd composed of soldiers, workmen, and priests, of sunburnt women, and tourists, among whom were many English. Aqua Sola is not much frequented by the aristocracy, who shut themselves up in their palaces or villas, nor by the bourgeoisie, who have their gardens at Nervi. One, therefore, meets at Aqua Sola two classes only,--the tourists or the regular _habitués_. Jacob and Ivas strolled slowly along the principal walk, talking of the country and of the future of humanity. They had not yet noticed the arrival of the phlegmatic German, who had been distinguished for his silence at the Albergo della Grotto; but he soon approached them, and smilingly said: "I am very happy to meet you again, messieurs, and to be able to inquire for our invalid of yesterday. At the same time, I will excuse myself for not remaining long in your society. I have a chance to hire a veturino at half-price to Pisa. I shall have for a companion the privy councillor, Zuckerbeer. We leave to-day." "What a pity!" cried Jacob in German, not wishing to inflict the French language on his interlocutor, and desiring also to escape torture himself from the execrable pronunciation of the compatriot of Goethe. "What a pity! We should have had such a pleasant time together this evening." On hearing his native language, the German beamed on him and smiled; but, in spite of the temptation to remain, he sacrificed pleasure to duty. Order and economy were his two predominant virtues, and the society of the privy councillor would be a consolation. "The Councillor von Zuckerbeer," said he, "counts on me. I have given him my word; I am, therefore, absolutely obliged to go." Jacob no longer urged him. He saluted, and said farewell, in the valley of Jehoshaphat. The German said adieu to his acquaintance of the day before without much regret. At the bottom of his heart he feared that the Pole was a dangerous revolutionist, a republican conspirator, an admirer of Garibaldi and Mazzini. If so, he was wise to renounce in time such a compromising acquaintance. He had hardly disappeared when the Tsigane presented himself; smiling as ever, he fanned himself with his handkerchief; his waistcoat was unbuttoned, but the heated temperature seemed, nevertheless, very agreeable to him. He was in good spirits, and his expression was as joyful as was possible to one with such features. "Well," cried he, "how do you like Genoa? For my part I find too much noise, too many asses bearing casks, and too few men by comparison, and the air is full of bad smells. It has the colour of the Orient, but the Orient is lacking. I will concede to you that Genoa possesses the perfumes of Constantinople. Oh! my poor olfactory nerves! What torture! Were we presented to each other yesterday? I have a bad memory, but you already know that I am a Tsigane, and, perhaps, my race will inspire you with aversion." "You are wrong there," said Jacob, "for I have no aversion to any race." "My name is Stamlo Gako," said the Tsigane. "My father was at the head of his tribe. But I have abandoned the collective wandering life for solitary vagabondage. I am thus, as you see, alone in the world. I would have been still using the same old pans and kettles had it not been for my beautiful bass voice, which gained me a place at the theatre. I saved some money, and invested it for the first time in the lottery. I won a large sum of money. Some of this I scattered in extravagance, but I kept enough to place me above want for the rest of my life. It is agreeable to me to live in idleness. I go or I stay, as I choose, but my forehead is marked indelibly. No one sympathizes with me, and I am indifferent to the world. A stupid life, if you will; but I would not change it for any other, for I am attached to it. I have no duties; that is to say, I am freed from everything,--from all belief, all hope, and all occupation. I weary myself comfortably, and my idleness is well ordered. In winter I go north; one suffers less there from the colds, on account of the houses being well warmed. I live in hotels, I eat well, I make passing acquaintances, I frequent the theatres, and in summer I go to Italy and sometimes return to my people in Hungary. There are yet there some individuals of my race and of my blood, but fortunately I have not a single near relative to persecute me. Hungary is for me a sort of home. I have learned to read, and a book with well-turned phrases serves me admirably to kill time, but in general I consider literature as useless. The best books contain more folly than reasonable thoughts. All human wisdom can be written on the palm of the hand." "I am without country, like you," said Jacob, who had perceived that the Tsigane had drunk a little too much, "but I look on life differently. I have an aim, for I have brothers among men. You, who are better-informed than other Tsiganes, you can do much for your people if you will. It would be a grand thing for you to become a reformer and benefactor to your people." "What would you do with the Tsiganes?" replied Gako showing his white teeth. "We are only a handful of living beings that God or the devil has thrown on the earth. What would you do with a cursed race without ambition or place? At least, do not ask me to conduct them to the Ganges, whence it is said they originally came. 'You shall perish!' such is the sentence against us. And we are perishing slowly. We shall disappear in time. Look at our women! At Moscow, singers and dancers, fortune-tellers and jades, always among the ragamuffins and beggars. In what language shall I speak to them of the future? Do the brutes understand anything? Like fruit that falls from the tree, we are a decayed people without root." "Then change your nationality." "Petrify myself! never! We will be Tsiganes as long as it pleases God. In the night of the ages," added Gako in a mysterious voice, "there was a terrible crime which we expiate, some fratricide of which we cannot wash our hands. I possess all that can make man happy on this earth, yet I shall never be happy. I have counted the number of days that I have to live. I will submit to my destiny." Just then the two Italians arrived--Alberto Primate and Luca Barbaro. They had a contented and satisfied look. They breathed their native air voluptuously, trod the soil of Italy, and viewed with joy the tri-colored flag floating in the breeze. Luca Barbaro carried a sketch-book in his hand, Primate, a roll of music. "Greeting, brothers," said the first. "How is your health? This delicious temperature ought to completely cure you. What do you think of good old Genoa?" "She reminds us somewhat of the Middle Ages," replied Jacob. "Does she not speak to you of the future?" asked one of the Italians. "Do you not then feel that delicious breath of springtime which promises to all nations a garland of flowers?" "Utopist!" interrupted the Israelite sadly. "The springtime comes not at the same time for all lands. Men are brothers in words, but not in deeds. Each one is ready to become a fratricide in self-defence. Little by little humanity will perhaps come out of the shadows of servitude, of charlatanism and egotism, which stifle all generous tendencies in order to satisfy the thirst for gold and grandeur." "Do not blaspheme!" cried Luca. "I believe in humanity. It is possible that there is a handful of vile reactionists and a band of miserable charlatans, but in general men are the sons of God. By music, painting, literature, and devotion, souls will open, all hearts will be purified, intelligence will develop, virtue will spread abroad, and soon a luminous springtime will brighten the world." "Amen!" cried Primate; "amen! But I have a question to ask you. We have come here to rest, have we not?" "Yes! Yes! Certainly!" "Very well; for once let us leave the subjects of philosophy and politics. Leave all that to the reactionists. Let us amuse ourselves with art and with life." Luca kissed his compatriot's forehead. "_Poverino!_ he is wearied by me, for I have given him no rest. He bears in his heart three things only: woman, love, and music." Just then the group was augmented by the Dane. "Plague take it!" said he; "if I had known that _la belle dame_ would not be here, I would not have tired myself out to join you. I had a great desire to go to the theatre; primitive and barbarous as it is, I might have passed an agreeable evening there. I have been drawn to Aqua Sola by the remembrance of two lovely eyes, a little faded, perhaps, but full of expression. If she had been coming she would be here by this time. I have been deceived." "You have yet time to go to the theatre," said the Tsigane indifferently, as he lit his cigar. "Very true! But if, by chance, she should come. She, the unknown. She? Who is she?" "A retired artiste singing only occasionally, as she has told us herself," replied the Tsigane; "a priestess of Thalia. I doubt if she is a Vestal. Hum!" "Widow," added Luca. "A widow! The title is appropriate. But she is escorted by two admirers," said the Dane: "a Russian and a Pole. Who are they? Are they rich or poor? How long has she known them? _Chi lo sa?_" "_Chi lo sa?_" repeated Primate. And Barbara added: "We know that the Russian is a refugee. If, in leaving his country, he has brought his purse with him he is a dangerous rival, for the Russians are said to be fabulously rich. It is said that each noble receives from the Czar his share of the gold mines of the Ural Mountains. But if in saving his head he has not saved his purse, and if he has no private resources, he becomes much less vulnerable. As for the young Galician, he has his youth, which is a capital. But you, messieurs, as Poles, can better judge of the worth of your compatriot." "The Galician nobles," said Ivas, "ordinarily bear the title, more or less authentic, of Count. Many of them have been rich, but since 1848 they frequently give themselves an appearance of riches. I do not believe that the young man is a dangerous rival." "Behold her! Behold her!" cried the Dane suddenly, perceiving the brunette at the end of the street, looking more attractive to-day than yesterday. "What do I see? She is alone with the Russian! A bad sign! The Galician was evidently in the way. The plot thickens! Yesterday when there were two gallants there was room for a third; but when there is only one it is difficult for another to get a foothold." "He is very wise in the art of loving," remarked the Tsigane. The charming Lucie Coloni approached. She was, in reality, in the full height of her beauty, and she had had time to augment her many attractions by the toilet. Her eyes were humid without having wept, and a sweet smile played on her lips. The Russian accompanied her, appearing melancholy in contrast with her gayety. She went up to Ivas, and held out a little hand, elegantly gloved, asking with much solicitude, "_Va bene?_" "Thanks, madame. No trace of yesterday's illness. The scar which remains on my temple will be for me an indelible souvenir of your goodness." "Flatterer!" replied she, shrugging her shoulders. The Russian affected an exaggerated politeness to show his ease of manner. "We are not complete," said he. "One is lacking," replied Jacob. "We shall see him no more. It is the German. He has found a cheap way of going to Pisa with a privy councillor, and he has profited by it. One does not travel every day with dignitaries, lately granted a _von_ who knows for what secret service? This _von_, fresh and new, comes out of the bandbox with the perfume of a half-blown rose. But you also, madame, you have lost one of your companions." "Yes, the count. He was obliged to leave this afternoon for Spezia." "Yesterday he did not speak of this project," said the Dane. The Russian seemed to be looking at the sea, a little of which was visible from where they stood. The lady bit her lips to avoid laughing, fanned herself negligently, and said:-- "I really do not know what has taken him. He was perhaps frightened by his compatriots. It is for you, messieurs, to clear this mystery." "What country is this Galicia? The youth assured me that he was neither Polish nor Austrian, but a Galician." Ivas and Jacob exchanged a smile, without replying. "We will not wear mourning for him!" cried Ivas. "I regret him, however," replied Lucie. "He would have become a very agreeable man, but as yet he resembles those Italian nuts shut up in a bitter shell." They all laughed. "Aqua Sola! How sweet the words sound!" continued she, walking at the head of the procession. "But how little it is, shabby, and even tiresome. What trees, what drops of water, a disagreeable crowd, plenty of dust, and only in the distance a glimpse of the sea! _Povera Geneva!_" "And yet," observed the Muscovite, "what marvels were promised us." The cosmopolite Dane profited by an opportunity to place himself beside the lady. This was too significant, and she gave him a haughty look which he did not perceive. This look seemed to say: "No use. No hope for you!" Lucie occupied herself more with Ivas than the rest of the company. In a sweet voice she asked: "You go to Poland?" "Yes, madame," replied he smiling. "I am very superstitious," said she; "and as I also go to Poland, I consider it a good omen to have made the acquaintance of a Pole on my way." "Poland, madame, is to-day an abstraction. There is no Poland, and yet there are several: Russian Poland, the Kingdom of Poland raised up by the Congress of Vienna, Prussian Poland, and Austrian Poland." "I really do not know to which Poland I am going. Tell me, where is Warsaw?" "It is, in a way, my native city. One of the ancient capitals of Poland, and the last; to-day the capital of that ideal Poland which is yet to be established." "I lose myself in all this geography! Do you also go to Warsaw?" "Yes, madame. But I do not know whether I shall arrive there, and whether, on arriving, I shall not be sent much farther toward the Asiatic steppes." "You are very unfortunate, you Poles." "Our misfortunes pass all conception. But do not let us speak of it. How is it, madame, that you go to Warsaw?" "From curiosity only," replied she, lowering her eyes. "It is possible also that I may sing in some theatre." "Oh! You are sure to be admirably received. Colonel Nauke is very fond of Italian music, and as soon as he knows"-- "You will introduce me to him?" "I, madame, it is impossible! I shall be obliged to conceal myself. To be seen would be for me death or exile." "If I could at least meet you there!" Ivas sadly shook his head. The Dane, very attentive to the conversation, concluded that she intended to leave the Russian, who, of course, as he was a refugee, could not return to the land of the Czars. This idea did honour to his acquaintance with political geography, of which nearly all European journalists are absolutely ignorant. "And you go alone?" asked he. "No, not alone. But, monsieur, you annoy me with your questions. Really I do not know yet what I shall do, and I do not like to speak of the future. That will be accomplished in one way or another. _Chi lo sa?_" "I am ready to follow you to the end of the world!" cried her cosmopolite adorer enthusiastically. "You are jesting, monsieur, and I do not like jests of this kind. In any case, I do not count on you as a companion." "What a pity that she is so savage!" said her admirer to himself. The Russian listened passively, without mingling in the conversation. "I am very curious to visit Poland and Russia," said Lucie Coloni. "They say that the Poles and Russians understand and love music, that they are enthusiastic dilettanti." "There have been such instances in Poland," said Jacob. "In regard to Russia I know nothing. But monsieur can tell us that in his country they love art less than the artistes. In Poland there is now room only for a single sentiment. The future has but one aim. Do the witches of Shakespeare watch at the dark cross-roads, or will the angels lend their aid? God alone knows. From Warta to the frozen sea the earth is in travail, hearts beat with violence, the battle is preparing, there will be something frightful which will shake the very foundations of the earth. What song, sweet though it be, can be heard by ears which await a signal which will sound like a thunderclap?" "Perhaps," said Lucie, "I shall have the happiness of singing your song of triumph." "Or a death hymn," added Jacob sadly. "Or rather a song intermezzo which makes one forget the tragedy of life," replied la Coloni. "I grant to you that this Europe, cold, dull, dead, worn out, _blasé_, has for me the effect of a withered bouquet picked up out of the dust. It has no longer a spark of vitality." "Behold a sally that astonishes me, coming from you," cried the Dane. "Europe when she was young was frolicsome; maturity has arrived, but has not taken away all her charms. To-day children are born reasonable. The young man of nineteen has a drunkard's pride to drain the enormous cup to the bottom. More barriers on life's grand highway! More toll-money! Go where you will, paths open before you. More proscriptions, more laws, more prejudices, binding us. Fresh surprises! Everything is possible." "And nothing is worth much; nothing is good," added Lucie. "Madame," cried the Italian musician, "before continuing your invective, deign to hear me." "Very willingly, monsieur." "Will you then be seated? My companion and I are children of two parts of Italy which have not yet united with their common mother. We seek a little relaxation after a long servitude. Very well. We cannot take a step without being persecuted by politics, political economy, or philosophy. Have pity on us, and speak of other things." "Spoiled child of Italy," said the Dane, "your prayer cannot be granted. Our age takes her nourishment where it is found. It is useless to try to hinder me." "Cannot we discuss music?" "Music! She has followed the general route, and the music of the future, with her prophet, Wagner, is political music." "Granted. And the other arts?" "They cannot be separated from philosophy and history." "Then let us speak of frivolities, of the times, of the weather, of the city we are visiting; remember I am young, and an artist." "There are no more young hearts," said Jacob. "What remains then for those who thirst for life?" "Nothing," replied the Dane quickly, in a serious tone; "only to drink." "And afterward?" "Afterward? That depends on the temperament; to sleep or"-- During this conversation, the evening breeze brought from a neighbouring house the sound of sweet music, now gay, now sad. They all listened. It was not Italian music. A young and sympathetic voice sang, accompanied by the piano. The song was of profound sadness, rendered with good expression and method. The Italian instantly recognized an inspiration of Mendelssohn. He took off his hat, and listened with an expression of pleasure. He took a few steps, and, with a sign, demanded silence. In contrast to the light songs of Italy, full of harmony, this song was full of grave majesty. For the Italian who had not heard much German music it was a revelation. The mysterious chords, coming from an unknown window, from an invisible mouth, had a fascinating charm and a melodious sadness, which made a lively impression. The woman's voice came from a house near the Academy of Medicine, and was carried to our hearers by the indiscreet breeze. "It is fine," said the Dane, "but it is somewhat like the music of the future." "Be silent, then, monsieur," said Lucie severely. "It is wonderful." At that moment the song gradually grew fainter, and finally died away. The accompaniment ceased also with a few majestic chords. They all drew near the house whence came the melody, and in the general preoccupation no one observed that Jacob grew pale, and seemed to recognize the voice. He pressed his hand against his side as if in pain. His emotion was almost terrifying, and his features had changed so as to be hardly recognizable. Ivas perceived his friend's emotion. "What is the matter?" asked he anxiously. "Has the music impressed you thus?" The Jew, distrait and silent, thanked him for his solicitude, and motioned for him to be silent. "Listen; perhaps she will sing again," said Lucie. They were silent, but in vain. After long waiting the door opened, and there came out of the house a young and elegant woman accompanied by a distinguished-looking man, whose features were of the Oriental type. They attracted at once the attention of the promenaders. The woman was about twenty years old; her features were delicate. She was a pale brunette, with black eyes full of languor, and she bore on her face an expression so noble and so sad that one thought she was an angel of death. Her calmness apparently covered some bitter chagrin and a profound melancholy. Her dress was sombre and bore out the grave character of her features, maintaining without heightening her beauty. Her companion, in spite of his elegant appearance and gentlemanlike bearing, had, on close inspection, something pretentious about him. He played with too much affectation the rôle of fine gentleman to be real. In every line of his face could be seen pride and vanity, without human sentiment. His mobile eyes, his sensual lips, his strong physique, betokened exuberant passions. Everything about him disclosed instincts, but not heart. In spite of his politeness, this man, cold, _distingué_ at first, inspired a certain terror. One easily divined that in his heart there was no pity, and that he had made of his egotism a systematic rule of conduct from which nothing could make him deviate. A beggar meeting him alone would never dare to ask alms. He would hazard it only before witnesses. In spite of his courteous manner toward the lady, who was evidently his wife, there appeared to be a sort of weariness and constraint between them. He seemed to drag her along with him like a victim. Without looking around her, she walked (if I may say so) automatically, while her husband did not even try to conceal his indifference. Our group knew immediately that this was the mysterious singer. Jacob, absorbed in himself, did not perceive that he was in their path; his haggard eyes were fixed on the woman, who had not yet noticed him. The husband did not see Jacob either, until he was near him. Then he frowned and bit his lips; but this expression was followed by a forced smile and a polite bow. The woman mechanically raised her head, recoiled, and gave a cry of surprise. Her voice recalled Jacob to himself. He took off his hat and bowed, standing aside to let them pass. "What an astonishing meeting!" said the stranger, giving his hand without cordiality. The woman had become calm, and added, with a sad smile, in a trembling voice: "It is true; the meeting is unexpected!" "Very unexpected, and very happy for me," replied Jacob with emotion. "After a long absence, I am about to return to Poland. I desired to visit a part of Italy which has been so extolled. Chance has kept me in Genoa with other travellers. Your divine voice fixed us under your windows, for there is not another like it in the world." The husband listened with indifference to this compliment. The wife blushed, and did not reply. "But what are you doing at Genoa?" said Jacob. "We go here and there," replied the husband. "Dr. Lebrun has prescribed a warm climate for Mathilde, for she has an obstinate little cough. That is why we are here in this bracing atmosphere." "And how do you like Italy?" "She impresses me," said the woman, "as a mirage of that Orient which I have never seen, and for which I long and dream as for one's native land. Italy is very beautiful!" During this conversation the Jew noticed that he was the object of his companions' curiosity. He hesitated to make his adieux, and separate himself from them. The husband, always polite, relieved him from this embarrassment. "Will you not come with us?" asked he, politely. "Willingly, but permit me to take leave of my companions." He called Ivas and charged him to make his excuses to the company, at the same time begging him to wait for him; then went away with his acquaintances. "Ah!" cried the Italian on learning from Ivas that he had been requested to wait for his friend, "I also am willing to wait a long time to find out who this lady is. I am anxious to hear this marvellous singer again. Where are you staying?" said she to the Pole. "At the Hotel Féder." "That is fortunate. You are very near me. I am at the Hotel de France. Wait for your companion, and bring him to me, willingly or by force, to drink tea. I will not fix the hour, for so active is my curiosity about this woman that I cannot sleep until I have seen you." She turned to the rest of the company. "Messieurs," said she, "will you also accept my invitation?" They all bowed their acceptance, and Lucie took the Russian's arm, with whom she departed, chatting vivaciously. Ivas remained with the Italians. The Dane and the Tsigane went away together. "I perceive," said Lucie to her cavalier, "that this unexpected meeting betokens a mysterious romance. Did you see how he looked at her? Did you hear the cry she gave? The husband and the lover, that is certain. How I wish I knew their history! Will he consent to tell us? Provided he comes, I know well how to lead him on." "Why should their story interest us?" "Because it will be more curious than the books you read. I love reality better than fiction." CHAPTER V. A SIMPLE HISTORY OF LOVE. Ivas, abandoned, seated himself alone on a bench, his head bowed. The sight of the men and women around him who had leisure to occupy themselves with sentiments of love, and their conversation, made a sad impression. Hunger, misery, political passions, consumed him. He thought of his country and its future. He sought a remedy for his unhappiness and the sorrows of his countrymen. What mattered to him the sweet words of women, their tender glances, their whispered promises; women for him did not exist before the vision of his misery and his despair. An inexpressible sadness tortured him. Was he not going to risk his life in order to breathe his native air? His melancholy thoughts were rocked by the sea breeze when some one clapped him on the shoulder. It was Jacob. "Let us return," said he with vivacity. "I am at your service, but first let me tell you that we are invited to take tea with the Italian lady at her hotel." "No! I will not go! I need solitude. Have you accepted?" "Certainly, for I do not enjoy being alone with my thoughts. And I believe, dear friend of forty-eight hours, that it will do you good to go also. We have not known each other long, but permit me to suggest that there are things that one had better bury in the bottom of the heart. Come, Coloni is very curious. If we do not go she is capable of coming after us. That would be worse still." "It is true that we are recommended to cure old wounds by distraction. Come, then, we will forget ourselves in a foolish and gay society." "You speak of old wounds. Then this lady"-- "Do not speak of her. Are there not other persons, other faces and names, which awaken old memories? You had better speak of man rather than of woman. This one is an unfortunate who slowly works out her destiny." "Let us go, then!" "Let us go! I will be gay in spite of"-- "Of what?" "In spite of mournful remembrances." They turned and walked rapidly along the dark streets which conducted them to the shore. Here were built two hotels. In the morning this part of the city was very busy on account of the bourse, but all was silent and deserted at this hour of the evening. They entered the Hotel de France. On the first floor Lucie reigned in a little _salon_, fresh and elegant. Here they found all the rest of the company. Seated in the balcony, the Russian smoked in silence. It was easy to be seen that this impromptu tea was not pleasing to him, for he shut himself up in complete reserve without joining in the conversation. The Tsigane, installed comfortably on the sofa, looked around him with supreme indifference. The Dane paid special attention to his hostess, and the Italians were in gay spirits. When the door opened and Jacob appeared, Madame Coloni went hastily to meet him. "_Grazie tante! Grazie tante!_" cried she. "You are so kind to have come. It is a sacrifice for which I thank you." "How can it be called a sacrifice to pass the evening in your charming society, and to have the pleasure of looking at you," said Jacob. "Unworthy flatterer!" replied she, striking him softly on his hand. "No more compliments. You mock me! Seat yourself, sir, and tell me quickly who is our singer. Who is this beautiful lady with accents so sad that on hearing her we have tears in our eyes? Why was she so agitated on seeing you? Why did you grow so pale?" Jacob had great control over himself. He laughed so naturally that he deceived his fair questioner, who began to lose the hope of hearing a romantic history. "You have truly a vivid imagination!" said he. "You have already composed a sad song. You have invested me with the sufferings of the hero of your romance; but I am no hero, I assure you. The lady is a countrywoman of mine and a co-religionist. She and her husband are Jews and live in Warsaw. Our acquaintance is then very natural. Behold the truth in simple prose." The Italian tapped her foot impatiently. "This truth seems a little false," said she. "I observed you closely when you first met her." Jacob made an effort to smile. "The real truth is that I might well have been grieved and astonished, for I know the sad history of this woman." "Ah! there is, then, as I thought, a sad story?" "Yes, but I did not figure in it." Lucie looked at him fixedly, but he returned her glance without emotion. "Oh! pray, monsieur," demanded she in a caressing voice, "relate to me this story. I am dying to hear it." "I warn you, madame, that it is not remarkable, and as it is the story of a Jewess it will be less interesting to you than to me. I am afraid I shall weary you. I am a bad story-teller, long and tiresome." "You take a long time to tell a story! So much the better, we have plenty of time to listen. But do not torment me. Begin." "Permit me, madame, to collect my thoughts for a moment." "If," said the Dane, "the story is as long as monsieur promises us, and there is in the story a sentimental woman encumbered with a beast of a husband and a noble lover, I will excuse myself from listening. I can guess it all in advance." "I also," said the Tsigane. "It is always the same thing." "Where can true love be found to-day?" cried the Dane. Lucie protested against this atrocious blasphemy, but the Tsigane replied imperturbably:-- "You will grant that the times of chivalrous love have vanished. Only the turtle-doves are innocent enough to sigh still. Formerly, as we are told, humanity passed through a long epoch of exalted love. Today men have almost abandoned these ways. A hundred years from now they will laugh at such love-stories and wonder how it could have been. I speak of such loves as those of Leander and Hero, not that of Calypso for young and handsome warriors, nor of the love of Nero for Poppea. That kind of love lasts because it is natural. But love which is torture, which suffers for some ideal beauty, it is an old, stereotyped plate, out of fashion. Show me to-day some one who loves in this way or who would be disposed to make serious sacrifices for love. The young girls marry because the husband suits the father and mother. The men marry for settlements, or for charms more or less fascinating. They do not marry at all for love,--that fantasy has gone out of fashion." "Why," said Lucie indignantly, "you cannot maintain such ridiculous assertions." "I can prove them by facts. Look around you. Everywhere caprice, passion, love of excitement, etc., but true love nowhere." Lucie sighed. "Is this progress or decadence?" asked she. "I know not. It is sad for you beautiful women to descend from the pedestal on which you were elevated, but how can you refuse the evidence of things?" "Is it so evident?" "Alas! I do not wish to impose my opinion on you, but reflect seriously. Where can you find as formerly two souls created for each other?" "What you say," interrupted Jacob, "is true up to a certain point. But I hope the world has only temporarily renounced this poetry. If all ideality should disappear it would be a sad thing. I will add a commentary to your remarks, Monsieur Gako. Men do not love themselves as much as they used. That is why existence is in some sort lessened, and the number of suicides from weariness of life is daily augmented." Madame Coloni clapped her hands and reminded Jacob of his promise to relate a history. The Tsigane yawned. The Russian lighted a fresh cigarette, the Dane went out, and when it was silent the Jew commenced in a low voice:-- "In all the legislation of the world the most badly understood and the most badly judged is perhaps that of Moses. It belongs to me to defend it in my character of Jew. Our law is the fundamental base of yours. Do not forget that Jesus said that he came not to destroy the law, but to complete it. "It is generally supposed that the Hebrew women were debased to the level of slaves. Nothing of the kind. Customs were sometimes swerved from the law, influenced as they were by the barbarity of the times, but it is not the law which abases woman. "In the Jewish language she is called _Ischa_, the feminine of _Isch_, which means 'man.' This name alone indicates the perfect equality of the sexes. Deuteronomy xxi. 10-15 commends us to respect even the captives. Polygamy, exceptionally practised by the kings, is forbidden in a formal manner. The Bible reveals to us in more than one page the disastrous effects of this immoral custom. On a level with man, _Isch_, woman, _Ischa_, it is true, was not priest, but she was permitted to bear the offerings to the altar. No legislation of antiquity or even of later epochs can show us woman better treated or more respected than with the Jews. The mothers of the Maccabees and of Judith prove the importance of that rôle. "A young girl of twelve years, _Ketannah_, could be promised in marriage by her father, but, above that age, become _Nairah_, she could marry to please herself. "Pagan and barbarous usages, nevertheless, penetrated even among us at the epoch of the Kings. The sexes were more strictly separated. Sometimes, for example, the Jews cloistered the women in a harem, or, if they were poor, compelled them to do manual labour. There rests this stain against us, contrary to the true spirit of the Mosaic law. "Pardon this digression, too grave, perhaps, for a love idyl between a man and woman. But you will see later on that it was necessary." "I believe that your story will contain at least two men," said Lucie lightly. "It suffices me to put only one in strong relief, although two or three men will find a place in this history, this idyl, or, if you prefer, this drama. Without them there could be no drama." "Or simply a monodrama depending on one man." "You have all seen this woman whose voice has so charmed us. She is the most unfortunate of women, because she is obliged to submit to a situation that is revolting to her. "Her father, a rich Jew, belongs, or rather belonged, to those of his race who, owing to a European education, have sunk into a destructive scepticism, and regard as an imposture all religions, including his own. Entering early into active life, he attributed the success of his career partly to luck, but above all to his own intelligence and energy. Outside of these three forces, there was for him nothing else here below but a poetical Utopia for the amusement of simpletons. "The mother of Mathilde was a devout Israelite, but she died young, and her child was left to the care of so-called Christians, who taught her their own unbelief in the ideal, and left her to form her mind for good or evil by reading without discernment. They taught her that there was neither virtue nor vice, but skill or stupidity, calculation or improvidence, decency or unseemliness. So that when the maiden entered society she looked on men as mere ciphers or figures, as they appear in one of the tables of Pythagoras. Such a society seemed unattractive to a youthful imagination which had an instinctive longing for the perfumes of life, and found only dead and withered flowers. "At an early age she was deprived of these illusions. She was told that men were wicked, heartless, and deceivers. It would not do to believe in their protestations; she must view them with contempt and aversion. It was a good thing to be honest, to spare one's self the trouble of embarrassment, and honesty is often the best policy. On this theory crime was only an awkwardness, and virtue without intrinsic worth unless it brought assured profits. "As Mathilde might marry an Israelite, a Mussulman, or a Christian, she had access to the literature of all religious beliefs. She read the Bible, but her father ridiculed the most sacred passages. This critical raillery and the numerous books perused by her left her mind nothing but unbelief. "Add to this the practical education which endeavoured prematurely to tear from her all heart, as one pulls an aching tooth to prevent further suffering, and you can form some idea of what they had done to this poor child. "Mathilde entered this existence like an insensible statue, without taste for life. She foresaw that she would not be happy, for she well knew that there could be no happiness for noble souls. Her sentiments did not accord with the line of conduct that had been drawn for her. Her aspirations were pure, but she was taught that self-interest should be the only motive of all her aspirations, and that any other course was a morbid weakness, and would lead to ruin. Although she was ignorant of many things that had been concealed from her, she divined them, and each day she rebelled against this desperate reality. Her widowed father lived on, following his own whims without regard to moral law, and without belief in virtue. Coveting all that was accessible to him, he led a selfish life, and, although he was careful to observe the proprieties in his house, his practices were visible to the eyes of his young daughter, who was convinced that true affection had no place in the hearts of men. Her generous nature revolted sadly against this paternal materialism. Any other woman under the influence of such an example, in such an immoral atmosphere, would have been corrupted. Mathilde felt only a profound melancholy. Nature and study became her consolers. Art spoke to her of the great sentiments toward which she had wished to raise herself, but had been prevented. "There is perhaps no torture more intense than a struggle like this between noble instincts and the animalism of the world. Mathilde in her fourteenth year was already as sad, as wearied, as she is to-day of this existence without future and without hope. Before her appeared the certainty of an advantageous marriage which would render her life a success in a worldly sense. Nothing more! Her father, with his wealth, was sure to find a young husband of good position, possessed of riches equal to his own. It was not to be supposed that he would seek for other qualities, and it was certain that he would not suffer from his daughter, whom he loved after his own fashion, the least remonstrance in regard to his choice. "While the girl was growing up in this poisonous moral atmosphere, in the midst of every luxury, a young man came to the house." "I have waited for him a long time with impatience," cried Lucie Coloni. "Behold, at last he is here!" "Do not ask me to describe his character," said Jacob. "The heroes of true romances like this all resemble each other in general. They have external fascinations, all the virtues, all the grand and noble qualities, an affectionate heart and an exalted head, and so forth. But my hero, nevertheless, differs a little from the ordinary. He had some distinctive traits; he had been poor, and was little accustomed to _salons_. He had drawn all the forces of his success and energy from the school of humility; he was modest, peaceable, and little expansive, like all those to whom a premature sadness has proved that to ask sympathy provokes only raillery in this world. The father of Mathilde was a distant relative of this young man, and had taken him to his house to finish his education, having recognized in him a certain capacity. He intended to push his fortunes owing to a noble sentiment of relationship which remained in his heart, and was almost the only trace of old Judaism. He also felt some pride in protecting a young man who promised to do himself honour in the world. This promise was only partly fulfilled, for too precocious talents do not always produce the fruits that are expected of them. "The young man, who had finished his studies and was preparing himself for business, lived in the house of his protector, who intended to send him to foreign parts to oversee his business. You may give to my hero any name you wish." "Call him Jacob," said Ivas. "No, no! let us call him Janus, the Polish equivalent for Jonas. I do not know, madame, if it is hardly worth while to relate the rest to you, for it is easy to divine. Two orphaned souls, aspiring to the poetry of life, could not meet without loving. Mathilde found in him a nobleness which responded to her ideal of a man's character, and he recognized in her his ideal of melancholy beauty. "In his protector's house it was necessary to be on guard, lest he should suspect an inclination which would cause them to be separated, and should chase Janus from his Paradise. The young people well understood that they must feign indifference for fear of such a catastrophe. A few words exchanged in a room full of people, on the street, or near the piano, some furtive glances,--behold the relations of the young man with Mathilde! "The father had not the least idea that this unfortunate youth could dare to throw his eyes on an inheritance worthy of a Rothschild. If such a thought had by chance entered his head, he would have put it away as a thing impossible. "The English governess, mature but romantic still, was very fond of these Platonic friendships, and had herself even such a weakness for the young man that she hoped to fascinate him by the multiplicity of her talents. She put no restraint upon her pupil, and she even took it upon herself to assist them. His host, seeing the man[oe]uvres of Miss Burnet, for he had for these things much perspicuity, laughed in his sleeve, thinking it quite natural for Janus thus to commence his virile career, and never dreaming that it was his daughter to whom the youth aspired." Jacob paused, as if short of breath, and Lucie gave him some sherbet. There was a moment of silence, then he resumed his narrative in a weaker voice:-- "Recall, each one of you, kind listeners, your youth and the earliest flower of the springtime of your first love. Consider that angel of candour, chained unhappily to the earth, this most prosaic earth, while her wings unfold and open to carry her to heaven. The youth adored her as a divinity, and she saw in him a celestial messenger sent to her from the ethereal world. That is the romance which they held in their hearts, and which they would not manifest visibly. Two words sufficed to make them happy for a long time. A look, when they met during the day, gave them new strength to live. "The word 'love' was never mentioned between them. The same chaste sentiment beat in unison in their hearts without inflaming their brains or their senses. For them silence even was a poem of happiness; the smile, a joy divine; and a flower was an avowal. "These felicities, which appeared afterward like child's play, and which reason turned to raillery, passed unperceived. "Neither Mathilde's father nor her governess had the least suspicion of anything serious. The father even thought that, at times, his daughter was too timid and too cold toward Janus, and Miss Burnet reproached her for the same thing. The want of theory or of practice, I know not which, deceived her, and she supposed that it was to herself that Janus aspired. "Alas! this dream of the heart, this love without hope, vanished like a dream at the gate of Paradise. One morning, or rather one afternoon, the father ordered his daughter, with a very indifferent air, to dress herself with much care, as he expected a visitor. A short time before dinner there entered a young man, distinguished, well-bred, a perfect man of the world, and whom the father presented under the name of Henri Segel. "There are presentiments! This black-eyed Antinoüs, with a perpetual smile on his lips, with an amiability so spiritual and so courteous, frightened the girl. She felt for him a violent repulsion, a strange sentiment which is explained by psychology only; she detested him, although she had nothing with which to reproach him. "He loved music, and was himself a good musician, and he was said to be enormously rich. "Three days after, the father said quietly to his daughter, without asking her opinion, that Henri Segel was her betrothed. In announcing this he said that she was to be congratulated on having pleased Monsieur Segel, and that he had fallen desperately in love with her. All this was in a tone which did not permit the slightest contradiction. The thing was settled; she had nothing to say about it. "The marriage seemed to him so suitable that all hesitation or opposition would have appeared an unpardonable childishness. She ought to consider herself a very lucky girl. "Mathilde did not reply, but she grew frightfully pale. She was congratulated on all sides, while she suffered in her heart. Her sad glance seemed to say to Jacob"-- "Pardon me," cried Ivas, "but you called him Janus." Jacob blushed, drank a glass of water, wiped his brow, and seemed unable to continue his story. "You are right," said he at last. "I was mistaken." "Continue, monsieur,--continue, I beg of you," cried Lucie. "It was," said the Jew, "a pleasant evening in springtime. The perfume of flowers was spread abroad, and on the leaves glistened drops of dew. Mathilde and Miss Burnet walked in the garden. Seated on a bench, Janus held a book which he did not read. The Englishwoman saw him and directed their steps toward him. Happily, or perhaps unfortunately, just then there came a friend of Miss Burnet. Chance willed that the lovers were left alone together. They were both glad and frightened at this unexpected circumstance. They walked together for some time in silence, trembling and hardly breathing. The two Englishwomen had a thousand secrets to relate, and left them alone a long time. The governess had even whispered to her pupil on leaving, 'Go as far as you please.' "They strolled along in silence. She gathered flowers, among the leaves of which her tears mingled with the dew-drops. He, pensive, looked at her and man-like held back the tears that rose to his eyes. Suddenly Mathilde stopped. She raised her head proudly, as if she had gained a victory over herself. She put her hand to her side, and threw on her kinsman a strange look in which she gave herself to him for eternity. "'Very soon,' murmured she, 'we must separate. You know what awaits me. It will be sweet for me to recall this evening's walk. And you, will you remember?' "She spoke to him for the first time in a sad and solemn voice. Her expressive words went to Janus' heart, and he thought he should go mad. His heart beat violently, his hands were clenched on his breast. "'Forget you, Mathilde!' cried he. 'Forget the happiness I have tasted with you! Oh, no, never! Never! I swear to you that I will never marry another woman, for I have loved you, and I love you still, as one loves but once in life. Why need I tell you all my love when you know it already!' "'I have believed it, and I still believe it, but life is long and memory unfaithful. For you men, it is said that love is a pastime, for us it is existence. I have loved you, and I will never cease to love you!' "Stifled sobs interrupted her words. "'Love could never be a plaything to me,' said Janus. 'In my eyes it is the most sacred thing in life. It is the marriage of two souls for eternity.' "'I believe it,' cried Mathilde, 'and that is why I love you. I feel that you are honest and sincere; you know what awaits me. They have sold me to a man for whom I have an invincible aversion. But I will not suffer long, for I shall soon die. May your soul be the tomb where my memory will not perish! My father will raise for me a monument, my husband will give me a fine funeral, but my grave before long will be covered with weeds; may a memory of me remain, at least, in your heart!' "The Englishwomen were so absorbed in their conversation that they prolonged their farewells for some time. "'To-day,' continued Mathilde, 'I have seen you so sad that I have wished, under pretence of saying adieu, to give you some words of consolation. Who knows if we shall ever meet alone again; let me then repeat that I love you; that I love and will love you until death.' "'Mathilde,' cried he, rebelling against their destiny, 'if you have confidence in me, leave this house. Behold two arms which can procure you bread. Your father will forgive us, and you will be mine forever.' "'No!' she answered firmly, after an instant of reflection; 'I love you like a child, but I can reason like a mature woman. I do not believe in a future; for me the future is a lure. I should bring you, perhaps, some moments of happiness, but afterward I should be a cause of weariness and remorse. You have no right to show yourself so ungrateful to your protector, who has done much for you. Who knows whether you would not be disappointed in me. I am already fading, having been poisoned from my cradle. My unbelief awakens. I hear a mocking laugh vibrate in my ears, even when tears are in my eyes. No, no! a hundred times no! It will be better for you to love the dead, for who knows if living, you would love me long.' "She dismissed him with a sigh, and withdrew from him as if she feared that she might be persuaded. "After a little, she returned to Janus, who was lost in bitter thoughts. He had remained where she had left him, with bowed head and clasped hands. "'What do you think of my future husband?' asked she. "'I detest him.' "'Is it because he is to be my husband?' "'No. He produced this impression at first sight.' "'And why?' "'I know not. He is odious to me, although I know nothing against him. He is rich, fashionable, very amiable. And with all that I cannot like him.' "'I even fear,' added Mathilde, 'that he has nothing human in him. He is a being which appears to me to be utterly without heart, a sort of automaton fabricated by the nineteenth century. With all his knowledge, I am sure that he does not know how to weep, nor suffer, nor to have pity or compassion on the sorrows of others. If he gives alms, it is for ostentation or calculation; but he will not grieve for an unfortunate; he will never sympathize with him nor mingle his tears with his. Our epoch of iron has fashioned men worthy of herself. She has made them of iron, and the blood that courses in their veins is no longer pure, but has grown rusty.' "'Perhaps you are a little too severe,' said Janus. 'However, it is the same impression that I have formed of him. But love and a wife often transform a man.' "'A man, yes, but not an automaton. His very look freezes me. This sweet smile, this perpetual gayety which cannot be natural, irritates me. He is always the same,--a being of marble. My God! have pity on me!' "In saying these words she drew from her hand a ring and put it on one of his fingers. "'I bought this expressly for you. Preserve it in memory of her whom you have loved. It is black; it is a mourning ring, the only kind appropriate to our unhappy love. After to-day any conversation between us will be impossible, so farewell, and forget me not.' "She left him and joined her governess. "These were the first and last words of love that passed between them. They saw each other every day, but as strangers. They bowed to each other, but neither of them ever sought another interview. Hereafter only shadows and silence would surround their passion. "Mathilde accepted, without a word, the husband that her father had chosen for her. The marriage was celebrated with great ostentation. The victim walked to the altar robed in satin and lace and covered with diamonds. "Her father was radiant with the joy of having so well established his daughter. Every one knew that he had given her a million for a wedding dowry, and that still another was promised, and that the husband possessed several himself, with expectations besides. All the mothers, all the fathers, and all the marriageable young girls envied Mathilde's luck. Behold, in all its simplicity, the end of my story! "Two years have passed, and you have met this husband and wife. He is always calm and happy, she, sad. The only thing that ever troubles him is when he fails to receive in good time the reports of the bourse of Paris or London. To amuse him she sings, as you have heard, the music of Mendelssohn. Truly, it was hardly worth while to listen to my story. It is a romance which happens every day, and which has been related a thousand times before." "And Janus?" asked the lady. "Janus wears always the ring of his only beloved. He bears his sorrow, for in one hour he drained the dregs of despair. To-day he is only a body without soul." "The story is heart-rending above all expression," said Lucie, "and I admit that I expected something more dramatic. The victim has all my sympathy. As for the lover, I am not anxious about him. This 'body without soul' will soon be consoled." "I doubt it," replied Jacob. "Consolation comes only to those who wish to console themselves. Janus is resigned to a perpetual mourning of the heart." "No one would believe," remarked Madame Coloni, "that this story was of our day; its character is so simple and so elegiac." Jacob rose; the hour was late, and all the company prepared to retire. The Russian, who had remained silent all the evening, was the only one who did not hasten to depart. "Then, if not in Genoa, we shall meet again in Warsaw," said Lucie to Ivas and Jacob. "You are surely going there, madame?" "It appears that it is decided," replied she, looking at her companion. "The hour of departure only is not yet fixed. You will, perhaps, be kind enough to come to see me." Ivas and Jacob returned to the Hotel Féder. "I believe," said Ivas, "that I will not hear the rest of your biography this evening. You are already too fatigued with your remembrances. Good-night!" CHAPTER VI. FROM GENOA TO PISA. When Jacob awoke the next morning, he was astonished to find himself alone. He was told that Ivas had gone out before daybreak. He was at first alarmed about this matinal sortie, although he tried to explain it by a desire to bathe in the sea, or curiosity to see the city. The thought came to his mind that the poor boy wished to leave him, through excess of susceptibility, and had departed, counting on his restored strength. However, the sight of his little travelling-bag calmed his fears, and he was waiting calmly for breakfast when Ivas returned. "I went out," said he, shaking Jacob's hand, "to take a little walk. I need air, solitude, and movement. I came on foot from Marseilles, and I am accustomed to walking. I have no right to soften myself with inaction. I must fatigue myself to feel that I live." "You are a child," said Jacob smiling; "you distrust yourself, while so many others have too much confidence in themselves. You possess that which can vanquish all,--will. Strong as you feel in yourself you will overcome all obstacles. I know men remarkable in all respects who have never accomplished anything for lack of will, and I know other men who by their energy have attained, by sheer determination, a position far above that which their talents merited." "You understand me," said Ivas, "and I fear to lose this will. I wished a short battle to convince me that I was not benumbed. I wrestled somewhat as Jacob, your namesake, did during his sleep, and I have conquered." "Where have you been?" "Almost everywhere. In the dusty highway, in the tumult of the port, in the deserted walks of Aqua Sola, and even under the windows of the beautiful Mathilde." "And what took you there?" "I know not. I found myself there by chance. I have seen Madame Coloni, the two Italians, and the Tsigane. We all met there to watch the departure from Genoa of the marvellous singer." "What, the departure! Perhaps they only went out for a walk." "No; if they intended to remain longer in Genoa they have changed their minds. The veturino told me that he was going to Spezia and Pisa. I do not think the husband would go alone, and from the baggage that I have seen I cannot tell how many travellers there are. The servant would not answer one of my questions." "Why did you question him?" "From curiosity." "Then they are gone?" "Probably, but I did not wait to see them go. I did not wish to be seen among the rabble which surrounded the carriage." "Well," said Jacob suddenly, "what shall we do now? What do you desire,--to remain here longer, or to proceed on our journey?" "As you will; but your journey has nothing in common with mine. I must go as soon as I have rested a little. You can do as you wish." "Let me hear no more of this. Away with ceremony! It was agreed that we travel together. Refuse, and you will offend me. Give me your hand. We will go together. You can reserve your strength for something«better." "But"-- "Where do you wish to go?" "I should like to see Spezia and Pisa, if it is agreeable." "Why?" "Frankly, because Jacob wishes to go to Spezia, because Mathilde has gone that way, because Janus and Jacob are one and the same person. On his uncovered breast during his sleep I have seen a mourning ring suspended from a black ribbon." "Even without that it was easy for you to pierce this mystery. Yes, that history is mine. Neither she nor I have any reason to blush. The relative who sent me to school was Mathilde's father." "Then we will go to Pisa?" "Yes, and I think we had better go on foot, if it is agreeable to you. The route is so beautiful that it deserves to be taken in detail. We will consign our baggage to the diligence, and we will take to the road like two wandering artists." "An excellent idea. But let us depart before evening. I am anxious to get to my country. My homesickness becomes each day more violent. I foresee great events; impatience consumes me." "Confess! You are a conspirator?" "How could I be anything else? All Poland has conspired for two hundred years. Oppression drives us to it; generations of martyrs have excited us. Where life cannot expand in liberty, conspiracy is inevitable. It is the natural result of despotism." "I understand you. Unhappily, however, for a country which is in such a situation, its inhabitants have lost confidence in themselves, and recognize their own weakness. I can only comprehend a conspiracy like ours, which has lasted two thousand years and which has led us to a regeneration. It has agglomerated our forces in a solid and vigorous union. Your conspiracies have something feverish about them that can end only in morbid decadence." "Do not say so, I beg of you! You have not the same love for Poland as we, and you have not passed through such martyrdom." "Excuse me for contradicting you. The country that has sheltered us, where in spite of continual persecutions we have increased by labour, has become for us a second country that we have chosen. You will think as I do some day before long. I feel myself at the same time Israelite and Pole." "Men like you are rare," said Ivas. "I say it without flattery. In general, your race is credited with little affection for the country which has been a safeguard against other persecutors, and has recognized you as her children." "Softly! Review history without partiality. Religious fanaticism and the arrogance of the nobility have long been an obstacle to the admission of Jews as citizens. The fault is also with the Jews, who have not tried to adopt the language and the customs of the country. They have isolated themselves, made a state within a state, a nation within a nation, and have not laboured sincerely to obtain that naturalization which is obtained only by common bloodshed and devotion. The fault is on both sides; both sides also ought to ask pardon and forget the past. Our age is different from others. Civilization spreads everywhere. Humane ideas are general; everything to-day tends to bring us together and unite us. We tender you the hand, do not repulse us!" "What! can our younger generation be capable of repulsing you? There will be for a long while yet prejudices and repugnances, and evil predictions, but the majority of the people accept frankly your hand. Be then our brothers, but he is in spirit as well as in words, in action as in appearance. Be our brothers, not in the time of prosperity only, but in times of trouble and conflict." Jacob pressed his companion's hand. "Enough for to-day," said he. "We shall agree very well together, we young men. The youth of Israel think as I do. However, with us, as with you, there will be prejudices, old hatreds, secular distinctions; we must not let ourselves be influenced by these remembrances of the past. Love only can appease and unite us as one. Let us endeavour to love each other. We shall have occasion to resume this subject; let us now prepare to go. Shall it be on foot or in a carriage?" "On foot, by all means." That afternoon, dressed as pedestrians, they went to say farewell to Lucie Coloni. They found her in the midst of preparations for departure, in the midst of bags and trunks. The Russian was arranging the books and papers. The lady was finishing paying bills. Jacob and Ivas were going to leave, fearing to incommode them, when Lucie looked up and saw Ivas. "Ah, you are there! We are just going. Be sure to come to Warsaw, and do not forget what I asked you. Let me hear from you; I shall be anxious to see you. To-day I cannot talk longer. Do not forget Lucie Coloni. At the theatre you will find my address." The young Pole looked at her with astonishment. "You go with Gromof?" asked he. "Yes. He is an old friend. I do not know that he will accompany me all the way. That depends. There is nothing certain. I will remind you that you can be very useful to me. May that be a reason for our meeting again." "But how can I be useful to you?" "Do not ask me now, I pray you. That is my business. _Au revoir! Addio! Addio!_" When they came down the steps which led to the narrow place that separated the two hotels, they almost ran against the Tsigane who stood gaping in the air, smoking his cigar, and gravely watching the asses transporting their enormous loads to the wharf. "Where are you two bound?" asked he. "We leave to-day, on foot." "On foot?" "Yes." "How ridiculous, when you can travel so much more comfortably! It is good, however, to have whims. As for me I am no longer capable of them. Still, if I could have for a companion the charming Italian I might decide to go on foot with her. The Russian monopolizes her." "I fear so!" cried the Dane, suddenly appearing. "She has made an execrable choice. They have gone together; I have seen them off. Where are they going?" "We know not. Perhaps toward the south." "It is the cheapest way," replied the Dane, "and perhaps that is why the Russian will take it. One hardly needs food when they have swallowed the dust on the way. That is why I have decided to go by water. I love to travel that way much better than by land. I came to say good-by to _la belle_ Coloni. I hoped to cut out the Russian, and I still have hopes that when I meet her again she may be tired of him. In order to gain a victory one must try." "He calls that a victory; droll idea!" said the Tsigane. "He ignores the fact that in Italy one can obtain as many Lucie Colonis as he wishes for travelling companions." "I do not believe," said Ivas, "that there are many persons as good and as _spirituelle_ as this Lucie." "I forgot that she came to your assistance at the Grotto. That is nothing. It only proves that she has a good heart. Any other woman would have screamed, and profited by the occasion to swoon gracefully. But I do not see the necessity of spirit in women. What use is it to them? To bite? They have their teeth for that." Then addressing Jacob, the Tsigane continued: "Will you accept me as a companion? I ask it as a favour." The two men questioned each other with their eyes. Gako perceived it, and said haughtily: "I withdraw my request. Stamlo is too old and too tiresome. Then the heat, the dust, render the diligence preferable. Adieu!" He took leave of them and quickly disappeared. "That is much better," said the Jew. "We should have had a tiresome companion." The sun was sinking into the sea when the two comrades left their hotel and set out for Spezia. The suburbs of Genoa were marvellously beautiful. There were cypress and orange groves, and vineyards; flowers bloomed on every side, and birds sang in the branches overhead. Soon their pathway led along the border of the sea; at each moment the scene changed like a panorama. In springtime or in autumn this route is overrun by swarms of tourists who pass by with such rapidity that they retain only a vague impression of its beauty. Less numerous are the travellers who know how to travel slowly, and make frequent halts to drink in the beauty of the country. Our friends were of the number who hasten slowly. They were in no way troubled about their arrival at Spezia; they were sure to find a lodging somewhere, for it was not difficult. A rustic chamber, some fish salad and cheese, some wine of the district, more or less palatable, that was to be found everywhere; and for lights they could have primitive little lamps, the rays from which are agreeable enough, but too feeble to permit one to read and write easily. Civilization in Italy has introduced wax candles only in the large cities. Before they were fatigued, Jacob and Ivas procured asses, whose easy gait permits one to sleep if one wishes. These useful animals are accustomed to carry men as well as the most fragile objects. The day had given place to twilight when they came to the orange groves of Nervi, with the flowers of which is made a water for spasms, celebrated the world over. Until then the friends had spoken on many subjects. "You promised me to finish your biography," at last said Ivas. "You have disarranged a little the chronological order by your love episode, but it will not be difficult to reëstablish and complete your recital." "With pleasure. I have concealed nothing, and yesterday I was obliged to reveal the most secret part of my life. I believe we left off where I entered school. Persecuted by my comrades, I learned there to know life as well as grammar. There were no notable events during that period. It opened to me, however, the doors of science, which I embraced to a surprising extent. Until then I had read only the Bible, which comprised for me the entire world. Since then I have been interested not only in the development of a single people, but of humanity. My exclusive faith in the chosen people was shaken by these studies. They appeared to me under a different light. My faith was troubled and my mind made more independent. Finally, I returned to the Bible more a Jew than ever, but of a different kind. Perhaps it is difficult for you to comprehend my Judaism. I will try, then, to explain to you how our society, strongly united by the remembrance of former persecutions, is to-day divided into several divergent factions. "The Jew is no longer what he was when his absolute separation forced him to be himself,--to live, to reflect, and to instruct, within the narrow circle which hostile Christianity had traced for him. From time to time this circle sent out a Maimonides or a Spinosa, but it was largely composed of a compact body of strict and faithful believers. We grouped ourselves around the Ark of the Covenant. To-day the Jews are more liberal, less restrained, and walk in different paths. Many reject the ancient law, and accept in appearance another religion, while, in reality, they have none. My protector, the father of Mathilde, was one of this type. Educated by strangers, in the midst of indifferent men, he lost, at an early age, all respect for our traditions. Liberated from all ceremonious restraint, he was not a Christian, but had arrived at a stand-point, as you already know, where he reduced morality to calculation, and had taken reason for his guide. "Man is only the most perfect animal. Above him exist other worlds, other beings, other conceptions; besides the body, there is a soul, which unites itself to the divinity, and can soar higher than the earth or stars. Materialism and atheism satisfy neither society nor individual. Their adepts are like flowers torn from their stalks: they wither rapidly. Take away God and the soul, and what would be the result with our refined civilization? An age such as ours, which subjugates the elements, pierces the mysteries of nature, but knows not how to distinguish good from evil. It is an age which worships only force, and where are heard in prolonged echoes the _væ victis_. There is nothing more sad than to see men who have overthrown tradition, and who have no other hope or aim but material prosperity. "They are only too numerous in your communion as well as ours. The Christian who has ceased to be a Christian, the Jew who rejects Moses, have for a horizon only an earthly life consecrated to the satisfaction of their passions. Even when they appear to be happy, they are at heart miserable. They end in apathy or insanity. Man finds in Mosaism an intellectual nourishment sufficient for his reason. "In order to decry the faith of Moses, which is the basis of Christianity, it is unjust to take advantage of certain singularities in the Talmud which are almost always falsely ridiculed. Even in the Talmud one finds a poetry of which any literature might be proud." "I know nothing of this poetry," said Ivas. "You have, however, read quotations from the Talmud chosen in such a way as to cast ridicule upon it." "No; I know almost nothing of it." "Are you curious to have some idea of it? Would you like to know the Paradise or the Hell after the rabbinical conceptions?" "From preference the Hell, for human imagination is more apt to represent the tortures of the damned than the delights of the elect. Dante's Heaven is very inferior to his Hell. Probably it is the same thing with the Talmud." "I do not know. The description of the abode of the blessed in the Book Jalkut (7. A.) is full of splendour." "As for Hell in the book, Nischmas Khaïm, it is separated from Paradise by a very thin wall, symbol of the narrow bounds which often separate vice and virtue. The river which rushes through the Hell is boiling, whilst that which flows through Paradise is of an agreeable freshness. Three routes lead to it: by the sea, by the desert, and by a city of the world. Five kinds of fire burn continually in Hell, of which the extent is sixty times greater than that of the earth. It is governed by three chiefs. The most important of this triumvirate is called Dumah. This Dumah has three prime ministers,--Ghinghums, Taschurinia, and Sazsaris. The palace of this demon is situated in that part of Hell called Bor. "Hell is full of scorpions and serpents, and is divided into several departments. The deepest and the most frightful serves as a sewer for the filth of the other hells, and for the poison of the old serpent that seduced Eve. "The Talmud is varied. It contains dialogues, controversies, dissertations, allegories, and moral tales. It is a collection of the writings of several ages, through which one can follow the variations in the Hebrew language. They have tried to establish in this confusion a certain order. Maimonides, among others, has tried it; but his book on this subject, although very much esteemed, has not been accepted by all. "In opposition to the unbelieving Jews like Mathilde's father, there are Jews who adhere blindly to the Talmud, and put several rabbis on a level with Moses. Others, like myself, put their faith in the Old Testament, and are content to respect the traditions related in the Talmud. At first by early Jewish education, afterward by my European education, I became an Israelite of a special kind. The Talmud, from which I sought to draw lessons of wisdom, had not made me superstitious. At the bottom of my heart I guard as a most precious treasure my religious belief. I do not repel the light of reason nor the law of progress, a negation which would, in a way, separate me from actual humanity. My faith and my reason agree perfectly. "When I was called to Warsaw by my kinsman, I had not the least idea of the true situation of my co-religionists. In the provinces I had met many kinds of Jews. Some were so faithful to their belief that they dared not depart from the most useless and inexplicable rules. Others, our brothers by blood, were no more ours in customs and spirit. "I approached the capital of the kingdom with lively emotions, anxious for the future, and ignorant of the world I was about to enter. "The provincial Jews live and have lived entirely separated from the Christians. Here I met them for the first time mixed and confounded, if not by law, at least by habit, with the population. At first I could hardly comprehend the thing. I met Jews who sought to conceal their origin, visible as it was on their Semitic brows, among whom some were believers, others complete sceptics. Our race, by wealth, education, and acquired importance, were in position to court and obtain political and civil equality. The old Polish nobles, imbued with bygone prejudices, saw with alarm this imminent fusion, and endeavoured to prevent or to retard it, considering always the children of Israel as strangers and intruders. On both sides hatred has been kindled, and the position is false in both camps. Those whom daily business brought together, whom necessity united, who had mutual interests, remained like armed foes divided by remembrances, prejudices, and fanaticism. "However, victory for us is certain. Justice and the spirit of the times render it inevitable; but I digress, as usual. "Mathilde's father, feeling sure of his pupil, introduced me into society. I had other kindred in the capital, and before long I had made many acquaintances. "I was much chagrined by the sentiment of the greater part of my compatriots, a sentiment incomprehensible to me,--of shame at being Jews. In the houses of the wealthy there was not the slightest vestige of the faith and traditions of our fathers. The ancient customs had disappeared, the religious ceremonies were not observed. They concealed themselves to celebrate the Sabbath. "I would like to describe some types of the community difficult to characterize in general, but it would take too long. "We made evident progress; still we were in some sort dispersed and enfeebled, and what is worse, the country was indifferent to us. If we displayed any patriotic sentiments, they were rather affected than sincere. It was rather from pride than from duty. We had almost ceased to be Jews, and we knew not how to become Poles. We started, as it were, on a voyage without compass. Unhappy situation!" Jacob sighed and ceased speaking. The darkness obliged them to halt at an inn near by. It was a small brick house built on a hill near the sea-shore. The sign bore the name, _Albergo di Tre Corone_. Near the door, whence streamed the cheerful light from a crackling wood-fire, they saw a cart with two horses surrounded by men clad like sailors with their jackets thrown over their shoulders. A woman holding an infant to her breast was seated against the wall. Around the house were vineyards, aloe and fig trees, the whole scene being thrown out in strong relief by the glimmering firelight. Our travellers relieved themselves of their bags, ordered supper, and in the interval of waiting went down near the sea, and, seating themselves on a rock, listened to the ebb and flow of its murmuring waters. Near them under the stunted bushes flew innumerable fireflies, seeming in the obscurity to be little sparkling stars. They rested mute, in the silence of the evening, the prayer of the tired earth. CHAPTER VII. VOYAGE ON FOOT. Our companions were awakened early next morning by the coming and going of travellers at the inn, a noise which was only dominated by the braying of asses. Jacob and Ivas resolved to depart immediately, and, profiting by the freshness of the morning, to make up the time they had lost the previous evening. Short stages, such as that of the day before, threatened if continued to render their journey interminable; but their excuse was that their route lay through an enchanting country where the beauties of the landscape made them forget the flight of the days. They walked for some time without exchanging a single word. Both were absorbed in thought. Finally Ivas broke a silence which weighed equally on his companion. "Well," said he, "have you finished your history? I have your life in general, but it lacks many details. You ought to have something more to tell me." "It would be as easy," replied Jacob, "to finish my recital in two words, as to continue it for two years, without even then exhausting the subject. However, if you desire it, we will take it up where we left off. "My kinsman observed me attentively. My reflections often astonished and displeased him. He found me too much of a Jew, and when on Saturday I announced to him that I wished to go to the synagogue, it was with surprise that he replied:-- "'Why? Do you wish to remain faithful to obsolete prejudices?' "'Yes. I wish to remain a Jew.' "'Do as you will,' said he, 'but know beforehand that the point in question is to be a man. After that, complete liberty in religious matters.' "After this interview he looked on me as an individual on whom he could count only up to a certain point. "One day he spoke to me of a person who, as he said, shared my convictions. He was an old man named Louis Mann, whom I knew by sight, and who passed for one of the deep thinkers of the city. "The next day I went to pay my respects to him at an hour when I was almost certain to find him at home. He lived with his wife and three daughters in the first floor of a fine mansion. His apartments were richly furnished, and his son lived in a separate house near by. "When I rang the bell a servant showed me into a little reception-room. A half-open door permitted me to look into the _salon_, and see a brilliant company of ladies and elegant cavaliers. I waited a long quarter of an hour. Mann then came in to see me; he did not deign to introduce me to his family or guests. I was received politely, but not as an equal. He made me understand that he did me an honour by receiving a homage which was due to him as a co-religionist, but that he had no desire to have any social relations with me. "My position was embarrassing enough. On one side ladies dressed in the latest fashion surrounded the mistress of the house, who was clad in a magnificent robe of embroidered satin. I had not even been asked to sit down, as Monsieur Mann evidently disdained my unfashionable clothes. His pride did not hurt me; in spite of my poverty I had a most profound sentiment of self-respect, and it made me feel for this person puffed up with his own importance more pity than resentment. "He began to give me advice, mentioning the names of many rich Israelites and dignitaries of the highest places, happy to let me see that he had intimate relations with these distinguished men. What did it matter? Wishing to dazzle me, he laid bare his littleness, and I remember perfectly the glitter of three decorations that ornamented his morning coat. "'Young man,' said he in a solemn voice, 'I am rejoiced that your most worthy kinsman has tendered you a helping hand. By your assiduity and labour try to recompense him and render yourself useful to our race. We are all disposed to assist you, but you must make yourself worthy of us.' "Still speaking, he looked at the door without even condescending to turn his head toward me. As he finished speaking there entered a lovely young girl who scanned me with half-closed eyes, then approached her father, put her arm around his neck and whispered something in his ear without granting me the least recognition. "That was enough. There was nothing for me to do but retire as soon as possible. Mann, not thinking of detaining me, dismissed me coldly and entered the _salon_. "I learned later on that he had done many benevolent actions, but, right or wrong, I have always attributed them to his extreme vanity. I ought to be grateful that in difficulties he has always put himself forward as the protector of the Jews. Far from being ashamed of his origin, he proclaimed it aloud and gloried in it. It was, perhaps, because he wished to pass as the representative of his people and be celebrated. Many times even he has agitated the subject in a perfectly useless and stupid manner. "Mann was apparently a chief, but his followers were composed of a phalanx of adroit advisers who knew well how to accustom him to adopt their ideas as his own. "His house was always open to visitors who considered him, or pretended to consider him, as the influential leader of the Jewish population of the city. Never did an exterior so well correspond to the character of a man. Short and corpulent, with broad shoulders, he had the air of carrying the world on his back, a crushing weight for others, but insignificant for a person of his calibre. In private life he played willingly enough the rôle of querulous benefactor. "In other respects an honest man, his Jewish orthodoxy, although lacking sincerity, was, at least, a satisfaction to his pompous vanity. Under a mask of religion he equalled my kinsman in scepticism. They both had one real sentiment,--hatred for the nobility; and as I did not look on things as they did, they seemed to me extremely unjust. They concealed this enmity as much as possible; they lived on good terms with many of the nobles, and even made them great demonstrations of friendship. It was a comedy on both sides. "Would you know the Jews in their worst light, then ask a Polish noble. Would you learn the vices and follies of the nobility, question a Jew. "The populous city was a large field of study for a curious observer like myself. I sought to learn the inmost character of the people of Israel. My attachment to them dated from infancy, and for a long while I hoped to consecrate my life to the amelioration of my race. Still weak, unknown, without influence and without knowledge, I could hardly believe myself equal to the rôle to which I aspired; but an interior voice encouraged me. I dreamed of regenerating the Polish Israelites. But in this dream I did not believe that the reform would commence in the higher classes. These were they who above all were an obstacle to my mission, through systematic indifference, always a thing more difficult to overcome than the most inveterate prejudice. "The question being more complex than I had at first supposed, I found it necessary to acquire a more solid instruction in order to combat it. I consecrated anew all my leisure to reading the Bible and its commentaries. At the outset my sojourn at Warsaw was sustained by sweet illusions, and my daily meetings in the city were very profitable to my intelligence. Conversations with this one and that one showed me the urgency of a reform to purify the Talmud and affirm the Bible and its teachings. The enterprise promised to be no less successful with mocking sceptics like my cousin, than with sincere fanatics whose sins were only excess of credulity. "I really do not know how the idea of such a gigantic project originated in my mind. Humblest of men, I only know that I had a confidence in myself which increased with difficulties. In place of discouraging me, obstacles only enlarged the circle of my activity. I was in no haste to set to work. I wished above all to discover the ground and the weak point of my adversaries. That which frightened me, without making me renounce my project, was the great number of atheists among the Israelites. "Mann and my cousin were not the only leaders of unbelief. Always and everywhere in the ruling class I met counterparts of these two men. The lower class offered me some consolation. Among them, though belief might be extinguished, religious customs still existed. There was often an abyss between true religion and its practice whose corruption was great, but at times there appeared an instance of virtue, radiant and pure. "Everything assured me that my idea of reform was a just one, and that the propitious hour was not far off when I should become the instrument of God for the advancement of the people of Israel." Jacob arose from his seat on the rock as he spoke, and his face shone with a superb and devout inspiration. "And the streets of Warsaw did not make you lose your illusions?" asked Ivas smiling. "Not at all. The thought that I carried from my distant province I preserved in the Polish capital. I have published it in my journeys, and I will take it back to Poland. The thought is my life!" "Alas!" cried Ivas, "you come too late. The days of the prophets and the lawgivers are past. Proselytism is not possible in an epoch where each individual feels himself as capable as his neighbour of reasoning, of reforming, and of advancing by following his own impulses. No one will permit himself in these days to be led by the hand like a child." "You are mistaken. Prophets are of all times, and, as general education is perfected, a guide is necessary to indicate the end to be obtained, and to conduct the masses by the power of superior virtue." "Have you, then, the hope of raising yourself to that position?" "I know not. But the sentiment of this mission would not have taken such root in my soul if it came not from God. If I think to shrink from the task, a superior power orders me to advance." "Poor dreamer!" thought Ivas. "The burden is heavy," Jacob continued; "I do not ignore that. My personal worth has nothing to do with the thing. My object is so sublime that it awes me. But," said he suddenly, "you do not appear to comprehend me." "No matter, I admire you!" replied the young Pole, shaking his companion's hand warmly. "I know very little of the Israelites, but I sympathize with them. Your race resembles ours. An ingenious Muscovite teacher, in one of his manuals for the schools where history is learned by questions and answers, has put the following question: 'Which are the nations without a country?' The official reply is: 'The Jews, the Gypsies, and the Poles.' I have never forgotten that wicked irony of a Russian teacher. Between you and me there is a likeness, and at the same time an unlikeness. Your oppression dates back to ages whose very antiquity is in one way an excuse for barbarism, while ours dates from an age that has taken for its device 'Fraternity, equality, and liberty!' Compared with other people in this nineteenth century, except, perhaps, the Irish, our destiny is a frightful anachronism. But to return to the Jews." "You know me much better now," continued Jacob slowly. "You see before you a fanatic, an original, an eccentric, a man who believes, who hopes, who has a determined aim in life. I have undertaken my journey only to prepare myself better for the execution of my project. I am more convinced than ever of the necessity of the task which I have assumed. I have seen the Jews in almost every land. Everywhere I have found in them the two maladies which poison my co-religionists in Poland,--indifference or unbelief, which renders us cosmopolites; fanaticism, or ignorance, which puts on us the ban of humanity. These two dangerous elements threaten to extend. Israel will disappear from the surface of the earth, like all nations who repudiate their glorious past, like nations detached from the maternal breast of humanity, which live an exclusive life exhausting and extinguishing themselves. Israel has great need of regeneration." "And you expect to be the regenerator?" "I count only on indicating the work. What reason should hinder me from putting my hand to the task for which I have prepared myself with assiduity and perseverance. The will is an immense force. "After my visit to Mann, my cousin asked me what impression I had formed of this man whom he knew better than I. He sought, no doubt, by this question to better understand my humble self. "'I found him,' replied I, 'so occupied that it was a trouble to receive me.' "'Did he not receive you well?' "'Yes. But'-- "'Bah! You must not attach importance to his reception. He is a boor whose grossness is only partly concealed. At heart he is an honest and excellent man.' "We arose from the table, the ladies passed into the _salon_, and my cousin led me to his study, where he drew from me a detailed report of my visit. "'I am young,' added I in finishing, 'and I have therefore nothing to seek. At all events, I have no desire to see him again.' "'On the contrary! On the contrary! You must go to see him often. Shake off your timidity. With men in general be bold without impertinence. The less you treat them with respect, the more consideration they will have for you. Abase yourself, and they will put you under their feet.' "'You are right,' replied I; 'nevertheless I cannot change myself; I cannot be bold by reflection nor calculation, nor humble by interest. It is unfortunate to have so little control over one's self, but it would be in vain for me to attempt to change my nature.' "'Then you will never amount to anything. In the world, in order to succeed, one must play a continual part; one must know how to be humble when one is really proud, and to show one's self valiant when paralyzed by fear. Otherwise one is exposed to impositions, dominated over and crushed. You must crush or be crushed; which would you rather do?' "'So wretched a rule of conduct,' said I, 'will never be mine. My principles are absolutely different. I look on life as a grave and serious mission; as for yourself, excuse my frankness, it is not a rôle learned in advance for the theatre.' "'Oh, I do not mind,' said he; 'but our two systems differ because you have too good an opinion of men. Yours is fine in appearance, detestable in results. Open your heart, unveil your inmost thoughts, it is to deliver them voluntarily as food for men whom reason commands us to despise as our natural enemies.' "'I would rather,' cried I, 'regard them as brothers!' My cousin laughed ironically and stroked his beard. "'My dear,' added he, 'it matters not what you prefer, but what really exists. I have never supposed that you were so innocent. All the bucolic pictures of mankind are very well in paintings, tapestries, or screens, but in practical life to believe in Utopia is always to remain a dupe. At times man is good and honest, but he inclines more frequently to evil. Is it not worth while to lean on a normal state rather than on exceptions of short duration?' "'But humanity will perfect itself.' "'When? How? All nonsense! Industry will advance, implements will be perfected so that we may be nourished and clad, commerce will develop, but not man. That which makes life easy for the masses is a benefit, and yet the question is not determined whether all this progress corrupts or elevates mankind. The question is not settled. We must use men like tools to elevate ourselves, and not lose time by loving them as a whole. The useless ought to be put out of the way without pity. The capable we must learn to make use of. Behold my theory! Your's leads to nothing. Sensibility is a disease, a malady of the worst kind.' "This terrible theory did not frighten me; I was prepared to hear it. This was for me a decisive and memorable day. It brought together, and at the same time drew apart, my mentor and myself. He continued, looking me in the face:-- "'As I wish you well, not from a morbid sensibility, but to make of you a man who may be useful to me, I will give you one more word of advice. You have a habit, as if to distinguish yourself, of boasting continually of being a Jew. It is ridiculous, and will injure you seriously.' "'It would, I think, be still more ridiculous to wish to conceal it, and that I will never do,' replied I, 'for I am strongly attached to my race and to my belief. By simple calculation, even, would it not be a hundred times better to declare my origin than to conceal it, that it may afterward be thrown in my face as an insult?' "'But why recall your origin everywhere you go?' "'Because I am proud of it.' "'Proud, and why? That is inconceivable. Judaism was, perhaps, in former times our shield and buckler, but it is no longer so.' "'But our religion,' commenced I. "'Our religion! What is it more than other religions? They are all alike. So much milk for babes. You believe, then, that it is wicked to yoke together an ox and an ass for labour, or to mix blood with milk, or silk with wool, and that whoever does not keep these old rules and reply Amen to them will go to hell?' "'I respect even these old ordinances of my faith, difficult as they are to explain. I see the reason in the law of Moses of the order not to mix grains in the fields: it is a wise agricultural measure. To forbid two animals working together, one of whom is much weaker than the other, is a protection for the beasts. Not to mix blood and milk is probably a good hygienic law. Not to wear silk and wool at the same time can pass for a sumptuary law, designed as a lesson against superfluous luxury. In general, all these prohibitions against mixing species are symbols of the necessity that there is for Israelites not to mix with other nations. I respect these rules even when I cannot explain them. The 'Amen' in the schools is a duty, for not to assent to the rabbins is to show unbelief.' "My cousin listened, astonished at the enthusiasm of my answer, then he shrugged his shoulders. "'You had better get rid of these prejudices,' said he. "'If they were prejudices, you would be right, but you cannot call respected traditions prejudices. It is to put our faith in danger." "'What is faith?' "'The definition is unintelligible to those who do not feel the need of it.' "'It is easy to recognize, in listening to you, the teachings of your first fanatical masters.' "'I do not dream of shaking off the teachings of childhood. They have made me a member of God's chosen people. Leave me my convictions.' "'Keep them, if you will. Your whims will depart of themselves. All I ask is that you keep them to yourself. Actual society is tolerant, but it does not like fanaticism, for that always denotes a narrow mind or an unhealthy state. Truly none of us forgets that he is a Jew, but it is unnecessary and injurious for one to be perpetually clothed in his Judaism.' "The life of my guardian conformed in all things to his principles. He was guided by cold reason, sometimes also by passion, which he knew well how to bridle, but never by sentiment, of which he was either destitute, or from which he strove to deliver himself. I know not if he was fashioned thus by nature or by education, but each one of his steps was regulated by self-interest. He put calculation above all things. He loved his daughter, but in his own way; he had disposed of her, as he thought, excellently, and had brought her up to conform to his ideas. "A terrible despot under a benign form, he had a conservative instinct to undertake nothing that was not certain to succeed. Fighting against obstacles, where to draw back would have been an avowal of his weakness, he almost always succeeded where other men failed. "He now endeavoured to widen the circle of my acquaintances. In spite of my distaste to pushing myself on in this way, he did not cease to preach to me that I must take men by storm. He often took me to visit people who were odious to him; for these he reserved his most gracious smiles, his most cordial protestations. He turned a deaf ear to all offensive allusions, and did not appear to notice the indifference of this one nor the ostensible malevolence of another. He had such control over himself that things which completely upset me did not seem to make the least impression on him. He contented himself with biting his lips and smiling. But afterward the reaction was violent, and the more his irritation had been restrained the more violent was his hatred when he had taken off the mask. Reason, which always predominated with him, was the only thing which kept him from passing the bounds prescribed by prudence. "From the first year of my sojourn in Warsaw he initiated me into the world of speculators, where one must know how to defend one's self in order not to be crushed. Every day I felt myself less adapted to such a life. What shocked me most was the continual lying; hardly any one thought of speaking the truth. I adopted a different line of conduct,--an audacious frankness. "Men, who always judge others by themselves, imagined that I played an easy part, and that I acted thus by calculation. I succeeded well enough in business, but in the midst of rogues of all kinds I passed equally for a rogue, an impostor of a new school who played with truth. I acquired the reputation of being a good actor. This troubled me a little, but it gave me the measure of men of our epoch who have for their motto: '_Mundus vult decipi ergo decipiatur_.' "Mathilde, in these early days, was my only consolation. You already know that I loved her; you know that our love resembled a flower concealed in the grass. For her, at least, I was neither a knave nor a comedian. A sentiment clearer than reason gave her confidence in my words. Our conversations were not like those of lovers. By an inexplicable mystery Mathilde's heart had not been chilled by her education. Many things were not alluded to in our discussions, which almost always took place in the presence of her governess. I did not like to let her know my opinion of her father, for whom she bore a lively affection, which it was not my wish to disturb. I also loved him in spite of his perversity. Some allusions from Mathilde made me understand that he also had suffered in his youth. "My guardian knew how to gratify his desires without infringing the strictest propriety or the most severe decorum. It was known, perhaps, but no one ever saw the least impropriety in his conduct. "For a year he spoke to me no more of religion. At the end of that period, accidentally, perhaps, rather than by deliberation, he renewed the conversation. No doubt he wished to know if my prolonged sojourn in Warsaw had modified my ideas and calmed my enthusiasm. Finding me absolutely unchanged, he abruptly changed the subject. "Some days after, he mentioned to me houses where I ought to pay frequent visits, hoping that the influence of those I met at them would act on my sentiments and ideas. He recommended to me a family very important among the Israelites. This family was descended from the tribe of Levi, and numbered several members living together in perfect harmony, although one remained a Jew, another had embraced Protestantism, and a third had become a Catholic. My cousin approved this family as a model of indifference in religious matters. Pleasing to him, the spectacle scandalized me. "The melancholy which reigned in Mathilde's soul I discovered also more or less developed in most of the women of her race, who can be divided into two categories: frivolous women without principle, and women obliged to conceal their noble instincts, knowing them forbidden." The entire day was passed in conversation which gave Ivas much to think of, and although the friends rode on their donkeys, and two days had passed since their departure, they were yet not far from Genoa. Night found them in a little village on the sea-shore, near hills crowned with cypress, palms, and orange trees; the huts were covered with ivy and surrounded by myrtle and laurels. They sought a lodging, and engaged one in a narrow street whose houses were built over ancient arches sunk in the middle of a hillock. In the distance a travelling-carriage without horses announced a hotel. "What a meeting!" cried Ivas. "Unless the Italian carriages resemble each other like drops of water, I swear that is the one which carried Monsieur and Madame Segel from Genoa." Jacob stopped short at the same moment. He recognized Mathilde's husband standing at the door of the inn near a woman who, from her height and figure, bore no resemblance to his wife. "It is a hallucination! It is not possible!" exclaimed the Jew. "There is no doubt. It is Segel; it is he!" said Ivas. Jacob's heart beat violently. "Yet," added he, as if to explain the reality, "they should be far from here, even supposing some accident had happened to their carriage. It is singular.--Yes, it is Henri--perhaps she is ill, she--Let us seek another inn. It will be awkward for all. Ivas, go and assure yourself of this thing." The Jew seated himself near a café bearing the motto, _Del Gran Colombo_. A quarter of an hour later the messenger returned. He seemed surprised. "Well, how is it?" asked Jacob. "Very strange. It is he, but--it is not she." "You dream! Your eyes deceived you, without doubt." "No, I never forget a face. This one is a young Italian, fresh and gay. Impossible to compare her with Madame Mathilde: she is heaven, this one the earth." "Then the man cannot be Henri!" "Certainly it is he." "Are they alone together?" "All alone, like turtle-doves. Madame or mademoiselle eats peaches, throws side glances at Segel, laughs and sings." "I must see it with my own eyes," said Jacob. The friends approached the inn, and Jacob soon assured himself that it was Henri, accompanied by an unknown woman with all the fascinations of an opera-dancer. He was about leaving when Henri Segel saw him, saluted him gayly, and drew near. "Is that you?" cried he. "You have caught me in _flagrante delicti_. Poor Mathilde is sick. She returned to Genoa after having accompanied me as far as Nervi. She will remain there quietly for a fortnight. As for myself, I needed distraction, and, by chance, I met an old acquaintance, la Signora Gigante, a French opera-dancer, who is the best of company. Bored and wearied as I am by the monotony of life, I seized this occasion to enjoy myself. One must laugh sometimes. Gigante is as simple-hearted and gay as a child. You have no idea how amusing she is. She has drawn me from the monotony of my existence." He confessed all this naturally and without embarrassment. Jacob, stupefied, could hardly believe his ears, and knew not what to reply. "Mathilde," added the husband, "as you know, is the most beautiful and accomplished of women; but such ideal creatures are fatiguing. It is not always agreeable to talk of serious things in a solemn tone. A man occupied as I am needs sometimes to breathe easily. Gigante is an admirable clown in petticoats. Come, come, you will sup with us. You will laugh! You will be amused, I assure you." Jacob felt a great wrath grow in him. He laughed savagely. "I accept willingly," said he ironically; "life is made only for amusement." Gigante, no longer able to repress her curiosity, drew near in order to ascertain who the two strangers were that examined her with so much curiosity. Her attention was bestowed principally on Jacob, as Ivas, poorly clad, promised little. She tripped toward them singing, and the refrain echoed in the street in bursts of gayety. "Je suis seule depuis longtemps, Seule, seulette. Eh, je suis veuve en mon printemps, Veuve et fillette; Pas d'espoir d'horizon vermeil Pour moi seulette, Il manque à mon ciel ton soleil, Veuve et fillette." Segel began to laugh on hearing this couplet, which she accompanied with very expressive gestures. Without finishing the song she began to sing another, the melancholy words of which clashed with the joyous air. "Elle a perdu son tourtereau, Pauvre tourterelle! Elle erre seule au bord de l'eau En trainant son aile; Elle fuit les nids aux chansons Que l'amour épèle; Elle fuit les fleurs des buissons Sans attrait pour elle; Et se baigné dans le ruisseau Seule mais fidèle. Quel tourment! plus de tourtereau! Pauvre tourterelle!" By a lively pantomime she acted the poor turtledove. The lost turtle-dove was, without doubt, Henri Segel, who almost burst his sides laughing. The signora after this exhibition drew near her cavalier, who presented the two gentlemen. "Ah! Signori Polachi! I like the Poles exceedingly," cried she, turning toward Jacob. "_E Viva la povera Pologna!_ Ah, ah, ah! Is it true that in your country it is so cold that sometimes the fowls freeze in winter, and do not thaw out until spring? Bologne--Pologne; same thing, isn't it? Have you been at Genoa? Did you go to the theatre? I dance and I sing at Carlo Felici. I am at the head of the chorus. I am promised before long the rôle of mezzo-soprano. Have you seen me play the sorceress? No? That's too bad." "Dear Gigante," interrupted Henri, "if you tell everything at once there will be no more to say." "I know more songs than any one else," replied she gayly. "I have a throat full. And if I can find no more to say, I can look at these gentlemen. That will drive you wild with jealousy." "But I am not jealous." "How! Not jealous? You ought to be if you love me. That is a part of the rôle." "We will love each other--until Lucca." "What matters it? Before we arrive at Lucca you will be dead in love. And you, messieurs, artists who go on foot, where are you going will you permit me to ask?" "We go to Pisa." "To Pisa? A dead city, a great cemetery. The Arno is like a dirty old ditch. You had better come with us to Lucca. There I will give you all three a fig and adieu." Then she commenced to sing again a merry song. Jacob listened, and a feeling of weakness came over him; his brow was clouded, and, without replying, he left this joyous company, giving a headache as an excuse, and leaving Ivas to listen to Gigante. He was overcome with rage and emotion. The husband of the poor forsaken Mathilde giving himself up to such distractions! It was easy to guess from this scene what her life was. Jacob suffered for her, and experienced a sensation of chagrin that he had not remained in Genoa where he could have been alone with her. But soon he blushed at the thought that he would have dared to profit by the absence of Henri. "All is for the best," thought he. "I ought not to trouble her repose by my presence, for that would open old wounds in her heart, as in mine. Destiny has separated us. Great duties are before me. Her sadness increases. We have no right to glide into a paradise the entrance to which is forbidden. Fate urges me with an implacable lash. Let us go!" Ivas returned to his lodgings late that night, after copious libations and a thousand jokes with the coquette, Gigante, who could not conceive any one indifferent to her, and had tried to interest them both at the same time. Signer Enrico, during his little affair, had given himself the name of Don Fernando, so as to pass for a Spaniard. He was very proud of the conquest, and acted as foolishly as his companion. Ivas carolled, as he entered, a verse of a song he had learned from Gigante. He was troubled and ashamed when he saw Jacob reading the Bible. It was his custom when he was sad to read the Prophets, the Psalms, and the Book of Job. Ivas went to bed, but Jacob continued reading until at last the feeble light of the lamp forced him to cease. He arose and walked up and down the room, lost in deep and painful thoughts. Ivas could not sleep. Sympathy with his sorrowing friend and a little shame on his own part kept him awake. "Have you been in Dresden?" asked Jacob. "Yes," replied he, without understanding the reason of this question. "You have then seen a poem of Israel's past, a sorrowful poem of which the foolish debauchery of to-day awakened in me a remembrance. I speak of the 'Jewish Cemetery,' by Ruysdaël." "I have seen that picture," replied Ivas. "It terrified me, but I could not comprehend it. It is an enigma that fills one with sadness." "One can remain hours before the canvas," said the Jew, "contemplating it with an impression of wonder. It is so sad, and, like the story of Atrides, stamped with the seal of an inexorable fate. But I love better the tears that one sheds at the sight of this work of a great artist, than the laughter which came out of the mouth of the debauched Henri, representative, as he is, of a generation stupefied by riches, petrified by gold. Marvellous creation, this piece of canvas where nothing appears at first but sombre clouds and black trees torn by the tempest! Examine it more closely: a lowering sky, some rocks, a group of mysterious trees, a brook which forces its way over the uneven ground. The picture reproduces only common things, but with an inconceivable force of expression. This wonderful artist, Ruysdaël, this painter of rocks, ruins of convents and chateaux, of forests and lakes, has never better proved his genius than in his 'Cemetery,' where he rises to the height of an epic poem. No other painter has such eloquence, such beauty, such majesty; not even the brilliant Claude Lorraine, who plays so skilfully with light and shade; nor Salvator Rosa, with his striking caverns and brigands. The 'Jewish Cemetery' is like a page out of the history of a people who do not find repose even in the tomb. Two figures only are faintly delineated; nothing else but the oaks, and the torrent which carries away on its bosom the bones torn from the earth. "Fate pursues the Jew even in his last repose. Wishing to give an idea of the misfortunes of these people, the artist could not have done better than by showing us this graveyard, where, praying in a dark corner, two men wait until the fury of the tempest shall cease and the sun reappear. A single white flower springing from the soil gives hope of the return of springtime. "At the end of the seventeenth century, when this masterpiece was produced, the sun for us had long rested behind the clouds, and the poor flower, emblem of brighter days, had scarcely budded. "The picture is a history of the Israelites in Europe in the past. To-day our history is the bourse, and it were better to weep over the tombs than over our waning dignity." The next day Ivas awoke early in order to prepare for their journey, but did not find his friend. The woman of the house told him that he had gone toward the sea at daybreak with a book in his hand. The morning was superb. Over the tranquil sea glided the fishing-boats with drooping sails. The sun gilded the waves, whose brilliant azure transported the imagination to the land of fairies. Seated on a rock not far from the inn, Jacob, forgetting his book, pensively contemplated the beautiful scene. Ivas felt some hesitation about interrupting a revery which drew him from the world, but the heat was already increasing, and it was necessary to set out before the morning was further advanced. After an instant of thought he wished his friend "Good-morning!" Jacob raised his head. "What need is there," said he, "of such haste? Why not remain, at least, a day on this beautiful shore? We can rest here, and go on with fresh energy." "As you will. Our journey will be only one day longer. You ought, like Antæus, to draw new strength from our common mother, Earth and Nature. I will not conceal from you, however, the impatience that grows upon me to return to that land whose sorrows I prefer to the delights of any other. There no one awaits me; there is nothing for me but shadow. Nevertheless, my soul is on fire when I think of my native land." "The sentiment is not strange to me. I, also, love your fatherland." "Why, then, do not your brothers think as you?" "A difficult question. Think how sad was the situation of the Jews there in the last century, and even recently. Like lepers, we were distinguished by our costume, we were banished to the interior of the country, and all the rights of man were denied us. All Christians were at liberty to molest us without punishment; injuries and outrages were showered on us. Such conditions could not develop in the Jews, love of a country or its institutions. It even restrained in our hearts love of humanity in general,--that humanity which would not receive us, but set us aside as if under a ban." "I am no admirer of the Middle Ages," said Ivas. "But tell me, where have the Jews had an easier existence relatively than in Poland? Nowhere; and the proof of it is that they are more numerous there than elsewhere. They come from distant lands to settle among us. Persecution has sometimes attacked them, but, in general, the law has protected them. Polish fanaticism has been intermittent, and not continual as in other parts of Christendom." "I admit all that. But whence comes the abatement of persecution? It is because we are to-day much less Jews, and you less Christians. Extreme religious ardour produced horrible results; who knows if the complete absence of belief will not be more pernicious still for humanity. My desire is to preserve the people of Israel from the malady of the age. Yesterday Henri showed us where freedom from all duty leads. This man deserts his sick wife, and runs over the country with a silly woman. A weakness, you will say, perhaps. No; for in that case he would have been ashamed of his conduct, and he did not even blush when, by chance, we met him with his Gigante. As he sees things, it is all simple and perfectly natural. A being capable of acting thus and affecting such cynicism is deprived of all moral sense." After a moment he continued:-- "I have travelled over the Old World. I have visited Palestine and the Orient; I have slept in the tents of the Bedouins. I have visited the Musselmans in the cities. Irreligion is creeping in even among the pilgrims to Mecca. Many make the pilgrimage more from ostentation than from piety. Among Christians there are fewer believers than traders in beliefs. In France, Catholicism is the tenet of a lame political party, but is not carried out in their actions. Its defenders are the _condottieri_; they combat for a faith which they do not carry in the depths of the heart. They confess, perhaps, for the sake of example, but surely they do not pray. In revenge, they fling the worst insults at their adversaries, the advocates of free thought, all in the name of religion. Social order is in ruins. It will be replaced by something better, I hope; but while waiting, the old structures will waver, the columns will be overthrown, the altars will fall. Once the past is destroyed, we will need a Messiah, a Saviour!" "You are pitiless," cried Ivas. "Ruins everywhere, it is true; I, also, believe there will be a new order of things. But it will come by progress and not after a cataclysm by a Saviour that you already see, and that you announce." "Let us change the subject," said Jacob. "The future is God's secret. Our destiny, unfortunate mortals, is to live in an era of transition." "To return to our journey. Shall we rest here or push on farther?" "Remain here. I am fatigued to-day. I need to draw new strength from reading, talking, and thinking. I will listen to the dashing of the surf upon these rocks; the ocean, perhaps, will tell me something." "You are ill. I am sorry; far from gaining, your malady increases; it is easy to guess the cause. You regret not having remained in Genoa, where languishes your beloved." "That is to judge me very base. I could not have offered her my society. My sadness comes from the conviction that her husband is unworthy of her. I know how she must suffer, and what her existence is, chained to such an animal." "Alas, there is no remedy!" "Then it is better not to speak of it." Jacob closed his book, and returned to the inn with his companion. The day was passed in various discussions. They saw no more of Henri and his danseuse. The couple had left for Spezia, a new reason for Jacob to rest on his route so as not to encounter them. In the evening they went again to sit by the sea. "I am not yet," said Ivas, "completely satisfied with your history; have you no more to tell me? You have given me only the detached leaflets." "Why? Because the book is not worth the trouble of being read entire. That would take too much time. There are many details that would fatigue you. Be content, then, with the principal facts and the reflections which they suggest; but I will go on, as you desire it. "I worked in the counting-house during the greater part of the day. I found it necessary afterward to cultivate my relations with society, to extend my study of the world and of character. I went out almost every evening, and often Mathilde and her father accompanied me. A part of every night was consecrated to the study of the Bible and the Talmud. From the first days of my existence in Warsaw, one man attracted my regard and inspired my sympathy. This was my guardian's brother, Simon Borah. "The brothers had no love for each other. Simon was not a practical man; he had lost a part of his fortune, and his business did not prosper. For the reason that he was obliged to aid his brother occasionally, my guardian disliked him still more. In a word, these two men had not one single point of resemblance. "Simon, though incredulous like his brother, was sentimental, whimsical, full of heart. He formed attachments easily. Frivolous, and even at times childish, he redeemed himself in the eyes of the world by a sarcastic wit and caustic argument; his satire attacked every one, even his brother. "Simon had been married twice. Both of his wives were dead. He was still gallant toward the fair sex, and he was in great demand in the _salons_, for it was difficult to find a more charming man. He was feared a little also on account of his caustic tongue. Without religion himself, he sought those who were believers. He spared no one, but at heart acquitted all men, a tear in his eye and a smile on his lips. He let himself be ridiculed by men who were far from being his equals, and thereby carried his point; he resembled in these moments some monstrous animal which could not contain itself. Full of contradictions, he was logical with himself. Christian with the Jews, and Jew with the Christians, it pleased him to appear paradoxical. Impressionable in a high degree, he interested himself deeply to-day in things to which he was completely indifferent to-morrow. He had one great quality, that of never lying. When he could not answer frankly he covered his words with adroit sarcasm, or often was silent. "My guardian, who observed all the proprieties minutely, wrangled continually with this original who revolted against all restraint. "Small of stature, with mean features and yellow skin, with a quick step, he was very ugly, but of an expressive and intelligent ugliness; such is the physical portrait of Simon Borah. "He took a great fancy to me in spite of my religious sentiments, which I did not try to conceal. I knew he watched me closely, and I wished to deserve his good opinion. Each day his friendship increased. His penetrating glances soon divined my love for Mathilde without my ever having spoken. "One day when we were alone he suddenly turned to me and said he wished to ask me a question. "'What is it, Father Simon?' said I. "'You are sorrowful?' asked he. "'No, I assure you.' "'I can read love in your eyes. Who is the object? Is it the English governess, Miss Burnet? The thing is not improbable; they say that withered flowers exhale the sweetest perfumes. Still there is another charming person in the house.' "He saw that the blood rushed to my face, and continued:-- "'Between ourselves, I know your secret. Let me recall to you an official phrase of our very august sovereign, Alexander II., in his interview with the Poles: "No brooding over the past!" Your guardian is a practical man and has high aims.' "'It is you who dream, Father Simon.' "'Don't try to deceive me! You are in love, my boy.' "'Well, if I am, that will be--but that is not so'-- "'Very fine. I know what you wish to say. Believe me, the best thing for you is to get over it as soon as possible. Do not play with fire, for "This fruit so sweet Is not for you."' "'Never has such an idea come into my head.' "'I should say the same if I were you. You will be wise to renounce all hopes.' "Our conversation ceased there. He left some days after for the baths, and when he returned he found Mathilde betrothed. When he saw me he looked at me out of the corners of his eyes, and read probably on my face the resignation and the suffering so well concealed, for he shook my hand without saying a word. "Two days after he met me on the street, and whispered in my ear: 'The law of nature is that the most beautiful fruits shall be eaten by the worms.' Then he went away before I could reply. He loved Mathilde very much, and foresaw her fate, but he well knew that it was useless to speak to a brother who did not allow sentiment to interfere with calculation. "I devoted myself to business assiduously, hoping to forget my sorrow thereby. In the mean while, an unexpected change came to me. I could at last obtain the independence so long desired. "As I owed all to my guardian's bounty, I had been obliged to conform my life to his ideas, and to obey his orders. Study was full of attraction to me, but I had no time to devote to it except in the evenings. My cousin intended to send me soon to some foreign post, where I would be employed as a correspondent in the office for one of his partners. To travel, to observe, would instruct me, and I was not averse to going; but I would have preferred to travel at liberty. Therefore you can well imagine that it seemed like a special grace from heaven to be delivered like a miracle from my chains, and to become master of myself and of my actions. It was near the time of Mathilde's marriage, when word came from my guardian to come immediately to his office. "I feared some misfortune, when I saw him walking up and down the room with a cloudy face. "'Do you know what has happened?' said he. "'I have heard nothing new.' "'Then I will be the first one to congratulate you. Your distant relation, Moses Hermann, of Berlin, who has no children, as you know, has died and left you all his fortune. Ought I to rejoice? No, I regret it, for I lose in you a man that I wished to form on my own ideas.' "I remained stupefied. "'What do you think of it?' asked he. "'I can hardly reply. For a long time I have desired to travel, and I hope to set out soon.' "'You are at liberty to do so. I am happy to have given you an education which renders you worthy of this unexpected fortune. It is wonderful! Moses saw you only once or twice.' "He shrugged his shoulders, and I hastened to my room to think over my good fortune and to collect my thoughts. The news had already travelled abroad, and persons in the city who had never noticed me before received me now with cordiality, and proffered me the warmest friendship. "Mann kissed me publicly on both cheeks and predicted a splendid future for me. He even invited me to breakfast, a thing he had never done before. Others tried to persuade me that they had loved me from the depths of their hearts from time immemorial. From a nobody I became a marked man and a welcome guest. "The will of Moses had made a great change in my life. This Moses Hermann had been in Warsaw some months before. A near relative of my mother's, he was unknown to me, and I then saw him for the first time. My guardian, knowing that he was a widower and without direct heirs, had some thoughts of a marriage between him and Mathilde, but this union was distasteful to an old man of seventy years. During his stay in Warsaw I saw him every day. Under his reserve, I thought I had discovered in him an Israelite of the old school. Born and brought up in Germany, he was a type almost unknown among us, of an educated and polished man who was not at all ashamed of his Hebrew origin. In many respects he was a German. It is well known what an important rôle the Jews play in Germany, in literature, music, the sciences, and politics. He belonged to this group, grave, serious, a thinker, where thought is not stifled by practical life. He loved poetry; he even devoted some leisure moments to the muse himself, but did not write in the style of Henri Heine, whose genius he nevertheless admired. He informed me of the actual situation of our co-religionists, and of their waning faith. My guardian had recommended me to him ironically as an ardent Talmudist, which was an exaggeration. The visitor was curious to examine me on this subject. I answered him with entire frankness, and unfolded to him my convictions and my programme for the future. Irritated by the sneers of my guardian, I explained to him all my thoughts on Judaism, perhaps with some exaltation. Moses listened to me attentively, though he said nothing, and we did not resume the subject, for he left suddenly the next day. "Great was my astonishment at this bequest. In the will there was not a single obligatory clause. The wording was short and concise. The motive which was inexplicable to others was clear to me. It was a sacrifice made to the ideas which he approved and shared. "My guardian, who had expected this fortune himself, spoke of the deceased with bitterness and accused him of ingratitude. "On this memorable day I met Father Simon. "'It is too bad,' cried he, 'that the honest Moses did not die some months sooner. To-day it is the mustard after dinner, is it not? Nothing comes in time. However, perhaps it is for the best. I congratulate you, and I hope you will not be intoxicated by your sudden fortune.' "Really the surprise did intoxicate me somewhat, in spite of myself. Men appeared to me from a new point of view; their baseness disgusted me, since now that I was rich they treated me so differently from when in poverty. It was impossible for me to accept all their invitations or to escape their attentions; I repelled them, however, with great interior contempt. "As my guardian had told me that I was free to dispose of myself, I resolved to go abroad. Since then I have travelled, and I return home with the firm determination of serving my brothers and my countrymen." Ivas sighed. "You are happy," said he; "free, rich, and at liberty to do as you please. Your education, your character, your force of mind, will enable you to accomplish great things." "Listen," cried Jacob, taking his arm, "we will labor together to serve our countrymen. I am prepared for it." A light shone in Ivas' eyes, but he repressed the transports of his soul. "I thank you," replied he at last, with a sad smile on his lips, "but it will first be necessary to return to Poland. Our country is on the eve of important events. Impatience devours me." "Me, also," said Jacob. "Yet I do not share your presentiments. There are some events that I would rather avoid than hasten. We will speak of this later." The next day they continued their journey. Restlessness incited them. At Spezia they took the diligence and gained a railway station. They travelled quickly through Italy and Austria, and soon arrived at the frontier of what is called the Russian Empire. It is to-day the only European State, if one can call it thus, where there exists no security for any one. If one goes on foot, one is exposed at the caprice of an administration, on the least suspicion, or from a false accusation, if not to death, to imprisonment of long duration, spoliation, or torture. It is better to fall into the hands of Calabria than into those of the functionaries of the Russian government. A country where, with the exception of the rights of the strongest, there are no rights; where reigns a band of beings, a little polished but not civilized; where the insatiable tools of brute force do not make any account of man, of his dignity, of his age, of his merits, of his sufferings; is it not rather an immense and frightful dungeon? The unfortunates who have escaped from its prison doors become the sport of the towns and villages. Before entering, a man was a man. He is now no more than the subject, the slave, not of a single autocrat, but of some hundreds of ferocious despots, each individual a greedy representation of the unlimited power of the Czar. On its Russian barriers one can read the inscription of Dante: "_Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate_." "Who enters here leaves hope behind." CHAPTER VIII. THE SABBATH. A small hamlet near Warsaw. A spacious, empty market-place, on one side of which is a modest church and long cemetery wall; on the other a row of old and new houses of wood and brick, inhabited chiefly by Israelites. One of these, more conspicuous, rises above the others with a certain arrogance. On the ground floor, a grocery. On the front two lions, recalling by their sculpture Assyrian art. In their paws a vase of flowers and the figures 1860, no doubt the date of the restoration of the house. An eating-house with an open door is at the side. Almost all the business of the village centred about this dwelling, a sufficient proof that the proprietor was an important person. It was a Friday evening; on the upper floors preparations were being made to celebrate the day consecrated to God in the Old Testament. Provisions of all kinds covered the kitchen table. Women kept watch over a roast goose, a baked fish, while pastry and other dishes were cooking in the blazing oven. The chambers were being set in order, brooms flourished everywhere, and the candlesticks were filled with candles. Already the venerable Jankiel Meves had returned from the bath. He hastened to put on his best garments, although the sun was far from setting; he had eaten little during the day, so as to do more honour to the blessed supper. While waiting, he reviewed in his memory all the events of the past week, seeking any violation of the sacred laws so as to efface them by sincere repentance. Jankiel was an Israelite of the old school. It would have been very easy for him to have gained a more elevated position, owing to his wealth, his intelligence, and his connections; but he refused to put off his costume and to abandon his religious observances. The noise of women's jests came to his ears from the kitchen below. His wife, Rachel, fat, mature, and rosy, kneaded three little white loaves, some of which she was careful to reserve apart for the Khallah. The good woman, after having washed her hands, had carefully taken a portion of the dough, whispering the prayer used on such occasions: "Praised be Jehovah our God, King of the world! It is from thee that we have received our sacred laws, and it is thou who hast ordered us to keep the Khallah!" As there was only one family and one baking, Rachel threw only one Khallah into the fire. In another part of the kitchen was in preparation a stuffed pike, a favourite dish of the Israelites, recommended by tradition for the Sabbath day. At the same time roasts and other dishes were cooking. On this day of rejoicing economy is not thought of. The master of the house inspected himself the freshly washed dishes, the shining knife, and the clean stewpans. The hour arrived for the preparatory prayers of the celebration, with the Ten Commandments in Hebrew and in Chaldaic, a chapter of the Prophets applicable to the day of the year, and the 93d Psalm. What a profound impression can be produced on an oppressed people by this last song of the Psalmist, which commands patience, and promises God's vengeance against oppressors. Jankiel recited the prescribed prayers, and, as he had yet time, he opened the Talmud and fell on a passage of the Book Berakhat. The reading plunged him in meditation. His thoughts went back to the days of intense persecution; he wept, and thanked God that, in spite of captivity, dispersions, tortures, and oppression, He had miraculously preserved His people until the present day. Whence came this miracle, from the observance of the law. The time of prayers over, custom wills that the master of the house shall throw a last glance on the festive preparations; and, although he had entire confidence in Rachel, the Jew visited the kitchen, touched the dishes, and blessed in thought the nourishment about to be served. Then he returned to his chamber and read the Song of Solomon. The sun disappeared, and the candles were lighted. The solemn hour of the coming of the Sabbath approached. The table was carefully set, and Rachel appeared in a toilette of velvet ornamented with pearls. Her daughters were dressed less elegantly, but with much taste, and the servants even were in their best. The time came to go to the synagogue, and Jankiel descended the stairs, Rachel following him with an enormous volume under her arm. Her daughters accompanied her, and behind came the servants. That no one from this house must miss service was the rule of this Israelite. The crowd filled the court in front of the temple; rich and poor, devout followers of Mosaism, were mixed together, and the chorister intoned the prayer Achre. The service was long. Jankiel's face wore an expression of sad preoccupation, and when he returned home he had, in spite of this day of rejoicing, a clouded brow and a discontented air. At times he looked at Lia, his younger daughter, who awaited with fear and trembling her mother's commands. She was a charming girl, whose features expressed innocence and sensibility of heart. Her eyes sparkled with the fires of youth, though they were now clouded by recent tears, and she looked at her father as if frightened. Rachel recited with her elder daughter the prescribed prayers while lighting the candles. Other prayers followed, some whispered, some uttered in a loud voice. The sacred songs echoed through the brilliantly lighted house, and the women read Hebrew books. Jankiel absented himself to return to the synagogue, and Rachel assisted her daughters to finish the preparations for the feast. She placed on the table, covered with a white cloth, two white loaves made by herself wrapped in a snowy napkin, in remembrance of the manna of the desert, the napkin representing the dew. Returned home, Jankiel pronounced several invocations, and his two daughters besought his blessing. He extended his hands to the elder, but when the time came for Lia he hesitated a moment, and his voice trembled faintly in pronouncing the benediction for the second time. "May God make Rachel and Lia like Sara and like Rebecca!" The mother in her turn blessed her children, embraced them, and shed some tears, which she tried to wipe off, unobserved, on a corner of her embroidered apron. Before going to table a new prayer was addressed to the angels by Jankiel, then a second repetition of the Song of Solomon, and reading from the Talmud a verse chosen at random. Then followed the consecration of the wine and the blessing of broken bread, the pieces of which were distributed to the guests. It was thus they commenced the repast; but, in spite of the command of Moses to be merry during the Sabbath, the father seemed to be deeply afflicted. His glance sought Lia, and the young girl was so confused that she would have liked to conceal herself under the table. Carried out according to tradition, the feast had a solemn character. The supper was half prayer, half offering, and bore no resemblance to the fashionable feasts from which God is banished and to which one does not dream of inviting the angels. Jankiel, a scrupulous observer of the law, pronounced a last prayer at the end of the repast. After that they separated. Rachel went to her bedroom, where Jankiel soon joined her. "I am alarmed," said she to her husband; "you appear ill. You are not in your usual spirits. You have not the tranquillity of the Sabbath. What is the matter with you?" "Oh, it will pass away! Do not speak of it now. It would sadden this blessed and holy day." His wife said no more. It is thus that the Sabbath is kept in houses where the old customs are strictly observed. In most Jewish families the ritual is abridged, and this tends to destroy the ancient and patriarchal character of this consecrated day. Opposite Jankiel's dwelling was a wooden house; it was comfortable and convenient, and belonged to David Seeback. It was toward the windows of this house that Lia, alone in her chamber, turned her beautiful eyes. She sighed deeply, and seemed lost in thought. David Seeback, father and son, had for many years followed the profession of money-lenders, a business which was called usury until the moment when political economy decided that to profit by the need of another is legitimate; and that interest, mutually agreed, no matter how high, is a permissible thing. These financiers were neither Jews nor Christians. They kept in appearance the Jewish laws and customs, but they attached to them no real importance. David, the father, gave himself out as a believing Jew to his co-religionists, but ridiculed all their observances when he found himself with the _Khutars_ and the _Goïmes_. He ate anywhere that he happened to be, and travelled on the days set aside for prayer and repose. In a word, he had shaken off tradition and found nothing to take its place. David the younger had received his education in Warsaw and abroad; he bore no trace whatever of his origin. Well educated, but very corrupt at heart, he found in his insatiable cupidity many ways of gaining money. The father was proud of his only scion, and predicted for him a high destiny; and this time the proverb "like father like son" was right. While the solemn ceremony of the Sabbath was being kept in the house of Jankiel, the two Davids lighted their candles and ate their supper, but forgot the prayers and the offerings of bread and wine. They were alone. Long time a widower, Seeback had no other child but David. A weak character, he jested under all circumstances, and loved to make a trial of wit with his son. David the younger sometimes lent himself to this paternal whim, but, in general, he assumed a certain gravity, so as to impose upon people by an affected wisdom. Hypocrisy was developed in the family from one generation to another. With all his indifference to religion, David the elder felt, on the days consecrated by custom, a certain remorse for having abandoned the pious customs; he was uneasy and unhappy. Sometimes he glided into an obscure corner, and murmured a portion of a prayer that he considered ridiculous to repeat aloud. He believed that by these clandestine practices he might repel some imminent danger. He had lost all respect for Jehovah, but he feared him still. Several times on this evening he arose from the table, and, at the risk of incurring his son's sneers, muttered in his sleeve some prayer. He had even simulated the blessing of the wine when he presented it to his heir, who, with a certain tact, feigned not to notice all his grimaces. The younger David had a distinguished manner, but his features expressed pride and foppery. The father increased these faults by praises, and his admiration almost reached idolatry. He asked nothing in return but filial gratitude. The young man made very little account of his father, and reproached him continually for infractions of the laws of good society and for his ignorance. The old man at first essayed to justify himself, but always finished by bowing to the superior wisdom of David, junior. This insolent coxcomb was seated at table in a dressing-gown, with a cigar in his mouth. He wore gold spectacles, though they really hindered him from seeing. Fish was served, the only vestige of traditional customs, then a roast and tea. The old man cut the bread, muttering some unintelligible words; but he perceived a look of disdain from his son, and did not finish the prayer. There was a long silence, which the father broke by asking the young man, who had stretched himself out in a chair: "What do you dream of? Of the Sabbath?" "All that I know of the Sabbath is," replied David the younger, "that formerly they celebrated it. Today it is foolish, a foolish custom, and it is old Jankiel alone who observes the ridiculous ceremonies. Unfortunately, ridicule makes no impression on him." "Would you, then, mock him?" "Why not? This wretched, vulgar Jew feels for us only malevolence and repulsion." "What matters it? He cannot injure us. His ill-will cannot make us lose one thing or another." "That is true. And I would not have even noticed his aversion had he not such a pretty daughter." "How now! What are you thinking of? Do not forget that you are already married, although you do not live with your wife. Do not plunge yourself in a love affair. There are plenty of girls who will suit you better than that lass. Even if you wish to be divorced, you must not dream of her. We can easily find for you the daughter of some Polish proprietor. If you take a second wife, you must look as high as possible, and for one not a Jewess. Am I not sufficiently rich to buy a property grand enough to make all the neighbouring aristocracy jealous?" "I do not want land. Why invest in property that does not return four per cent., when we can now get twenty or thirty?" "You are right, and you are wrong. Our capital brings in, it is true, the interest you name, but at the same time we run the risk of losing it. When one has acquired so immense a fortune as ours, it does not do to expose all of it in the same speculations. Land cannot run away. The banks give four and a half per cent.; but even the banks can fail. One cannot sleep easy with much money in the banks. The public funds? They are depressed. I continually fear a declaration of war. Land is really the safest investment." "Not as safe as you think. The land can be taken from us." "By whom?" "We are not in France, or England, where property is sacred. Our government offers no security. No one is secure here." "A very profound political thought, and one worthy of being remembered. I render homage to your perspicacity; but suppose even that half of the land was confiscated, the other half would increase in value. That is indisputable, while paper may be worth nothing to-morrow. Let us return to your future marriage. The first was unworthy of you; it must be dissolved. But why the devil do you dream of Lia? She did well for herself to fall in your way. She is a Jewess, and, though she is not bad looking, beauty is not everything. What a figure she would make in your _salon_, this country maiden who knows not how either to stand or to sit. Your second wife must be a woman who has received a refined education. She must be of noble birth, that she may shine at court. And could Lia do that? A simple country girl!" "Nevertheless," objected David, "it is not for my _salon_ that I wish to marry. I myself prefer a simple and innocent girl to all the fashionable ladies of Warsaw, who, having had eleven adorers, marry the twelfth." "You talk foolishly. To think thus is the part of a common Jew, who only dreams of multiplying and filling the earth according to the command of the Bible. Your wife ought to push your fortunes. Through your education and your fortune you cannot fail to become a celebrated man. And what would you do then with Lia? Take her to a ball, or to the theatre? Truly, she would do you honour! If some great person noticed her, she would be confused and embarrassed, sucking her apron to hide her face. There are hundreds of Jewesses like that. You must take an educated wife, German or French. With your brains, and my money, you can aspire to anything. It would not be astounding for you to become minister, and then"-- He threw out his arm, and extinguished a candle. He arose to light it, but, suddenly remembering that this was the Sabbath day, a superstitious fear came over his spirit. He remained standing, not knowing what to do. Seeing his father's hesitation, his son left his chair, and was bold enough to relight the candle. After this act of courage he reseated himself, and puffed his cigar with a malicious air. His father loved to smoke, but, as he dared not infringe the law, he always deprived himself of that pleasure on the Sabbath, under pretext of some trifling indisposition. When the candle was relighted, an infraction of the Jewish law, he at first regarded it with fear, but soon regained his normal state, and continued to explain his theories on marriage. "Lia cannot hope for a great fortune," said he. "Estimating Jankiel's wealth at its highest,--house, manufactory, and shop,--he scarcely possesses a hundred, or a hundred and twenty thousand roubles. What is that? A mere trifle to us!" "And we," asked the young man, to tease his father, "have we not enough money?" "How can such a word come out of your mouth? Has one ever enough? With money one does as he wills; without it, with all the intelligence in the world, one is only a fool. I will try to find you a rich wife. Think no more of Lia." "What if I love her?" "Love her? Your love will only be like a fire of straw; the faster it burns, the sooner it will die out. A sensible man does not marry for love and for the bright eyes of a young girl." David, junior, burst out laughing, and his father was exceedingly proud of this mark of approbation from one who was usually so disdainful. Satisfied with themselves, they were about to retire to their rooms, when they heard loud knocks on the outer door. The thing was so extraordinary at this hour of the night, that the old man experienced a sensation of anxiety and foreboding, which changed to one of surprise when he saw at the door a man of fine appearance and of commanding stature, whom he did not recognize at first sight. "Messieurs," said the stranger, "I hope you will pardon this intrusion on a holy day, and at so late an hour." "Why, this is Monsieur Jacob!" cried the old man. "Our holy law," replied the new-comer, "forbids all business transactions on the day consecrated to God, but the law permits us, on such occasions, to succour even a beast in danger of death; how much more, then, a man." "Dear Monsieur Jacob, we do not belong to that superstitious class who dare not touch the fire or sew on a button during the Sabbath. Be seated. What can we do for you? But pardon me; my son David, Monsieur Jacob, who is a distant relation, and of whom you have often heard me speak," added he, presenting his son to the visitor. David, junior, only knew that Jacob had been the sole legatee of a rich banker of Berlin, but that was sufficient to cause him to receive him with distinction. They invited him a second time to be seated. Jacob excused himself with a certain impatience. "Perhaps you have not yet supped?" asked the master of the house. "I reached your town somewhat late, and hastened to fulfil my religious duties. I have been to the synagogue, then I ate a little at the inn." "Ah, you go to the temple!" and turning toward his son, the old man said:-- "What a good example! Monsieur Jacob, well brought up and intelligent, observes the law!" "Yes," said Jacob, "a Jew I shall always remain. No doubt in captivity and exile we have added many ceremonies to the Mosaic law. These are both sweet and bitter souvenirs. It is good not to let them be extinguished." The elder David visibly rejoiced at these words; his son smiled and bit his lips. "Every one ought to follow the dictates of his own conscience," said he. "But tell us to what good fortune do we owe your visit?" asked the father. "I come to you on account of our relationship, to demand a service. I met in Italy a young Polish exile who suffers so much with homesickness that I brought him here with me. He was poor and ill. My conscience urged me to aid him. He fled from Poland several years ago, fearing to be implicated in a political plot." "Political affairs; bad business," grumbled the old man shaking his head, while his son said nothing. "He has succeeded in obtaining a passport under an assumed name," continued Jacob, "and he was determined to brave the danger, and accompanied me to Poland. At the frontier he would not accept my offer to go on with him. For fear of compromising me if he was arrested, he preceded me so as to enter his native land alone. Honest youth! Happily he passed the frontier, as I learned on arriving two days later. Scarcely had I passed the custom-house when I heard that the police had discovered that he was travelling under an assumed name. I hastened to rejoin him at the station where he was detained, and secured his release. I come to ask you to shelter him in your house, which is not suspected by the police, until I can obtain amnesty for him or find some other means to rid him of his pursuers. Otherwise the unfortunate boy will be sent to Siberia, and perish like many others of his oppressed countrymen." The silence with which the two Davids answered his request showed that they were not inclined to harbour the young Pole. The appeal to their sentiment of humanity fell on deaf ears. It was the elder who, with a frown, finally spoke. "This is a most delicate business," said he, "and very dangerous. Why not be frank with a kinsman? This is not a Jewish affair. What have we to do with the Poles, or Polish complications? They have nothing in common with us. The government does not persecute us, or, at least, it could persecute us much more. We are believed to be loyal and devoted. Why, then, should we expose ourselves and alienate this favourable disposition, by aiding, our former oppressors, the Poles? Why should the Jews meddle with politics? It is not our business." "You and I differ in regard to that," replied Jacob. "If we wish to enjoy the same rights as other inhabitants of this country, we ought to commence to take an interest in politics and in the welfare of the land. It is only thus that we can expect to live on a footing of perfect equality. The government has decided to crush out the intelligent and educated Poles. It certainly belongs to us who eat their bread to make common cause with them against their oppressors, who are only conquering intruders. Let us remember our own captivity." "Did you not say that the Jews ought to observe the law above all things? You contradict yourself, for the law commands us to protect ourselves, and it is contrary to our interests to take part with the Poles." "How do you know that? Can you read the future? The iniquities committed against this nation cannot always remain without vengeance. God has permitted the chastisement, but the measure is full. The sins are washed away by tears and by blood! The day of justice draws near! In the day of terrible retribution it will be better to be with those who have been purified by divine punishment, and not with those who have incurred the wrath of God." "In my turn let me ask, how do you know all this?" said the elder David. "Is it your prophetic spirit that tells you? Have you remembered the sins of these Philistines, the extortions and the miseries with which they afflicted us? Do you know that there still remains much to expiate?" "It is not just to make a single nation responsible for the crimes of all Christians. The Jews have been persecuted everywhere, and in many lands much worse than here." "What good is all this discussion?" cried the younger David, rising from his chair. "It is nothing to us who obtains the upper hand. I do not care to decide who are the better, the Russians or the Poles. At least I know how to take a Russian. He is always easily bought; at first he is brutal and insulting, then he holds out his hand, and you have only to oil it with a few pieces of silver, and he becomes sweet and obliging; but your Poles do not inspire me with so much confidence." Jacob would listen no longer; he arose, and cried indignantly:-- "Then, as such are your convictions I will not insist. I see, with sorrow, that you, as well as others, choose a selfish policy, and always take sides with the strong and not with the right." "The right? The ancient rulers of the country have not respected us, have they?" "If I admit that, is it any reason why we should imitate them to-day? The elect people ought to be more virtuous than the people they live with, and set them an example." The younger David began to whistle, and then said:-- "Who speaks now of virtue and right? In the world of to-day self-interest is the sole right. Virtue! Right! Grand words, in which one no longer believes."-- The old man bowed before his son's superior wisdom, and threw a glance full of pride at Jacob, which seemed to say:-- "How can you reply to that, eh?" The friend of Ivas calmly surveyed the young man, and replied in a grave voice, dwelling on each word:-- "Unfortunately, you appreciate our epoch at its true value. However, that which now is cannot always be. Truth still exists. Our law, thousands of years old though it may be, is not worn out. Open our holy books, and you will read therein truths which have never ceased to be truths, and which will never cease until the end of the world. Men are corrupt; faith has diminished. God will rectify this state of things. Let us be followers of the ancient law, and not of present errors. If you have gained by your education nothing more than the reasoning that you affect, I sincerely pity you." On this Jacob ceased, and the old man, before so calm, became agitated, and looked at his son for a reply. The serenity of spirit of this man, so firm in his belief, awoke in him a fear similar to that which had kept him from relighting the candle on the Sabbath. David, junior, replied coolly:-- "Do not trouble yourself about me, I beg of you, Monsieur Jacob. Every one to his own opinion. Do not go yet. Perhaps I can find a way to satisfy your demand without incurring any risk." "Thanks. It is weak of me to implore you again to help an unfortunate whom you so little wish to succour. Still a few more words. The country is on the eve of a revolution. The result is doubtful, but it is an opportunity for us to gain equal rights by the sacrifice of our blood. Let us profit by it. Many of my race think as I do." "Many? How many? Who are they? Do you know the intentions of the Emperor Napoleon? Are you in the secrets of Lord Palmerston? Have you received the confidences of the Rothschilds?" "I can only tell you one thing; it is, that here the most sensible men are of my opinion." "And the richest?" "Yes, the richest also," replied Jacob, with an involuntary smile. "In that case," said the old man, "we must take the affair into consideration." "As for the object of my visit, I regard it a failure. I can only excuse myself for disturbing you at such an hour." Then he turned to go, when the old man called him back. "Wait!" cried he. "A glass of wine. David, bring the three rouble Bordeaux. Deign to taste it, Monsieur Jacob. Isolated, as we are, in this little village, we know not how the wind blows. Tell us, is there anything in contemplation?" "You had better find out for yourselves, and then you can decide which party you will aid." "Those incorrigible Poles! I fear they are engaging in some new pranks." "I know nothing," said Jacob. "I can only surmise. The Muscovites themselves have the air of hastening the explosion of this foolishness to divert that which threatens their own country, 'holy Russia.' Since the emancipation of the serfs, the situation has been critical. By kindling a fire in Poland, they relight the national hatred, and turn away the public thoughts from Petersburg and Moscow towards the provinces. It is the only way, now that the peasants give proofs of discontent and the revolutionary idea is propagated, the sole method of reaffirming the authority of the Czar." "What admirable teachers!" cried the old man. "Profound wisdom like that is the gage of certain success. Certainly, that is the side we had better take." "As a nation," said Jacob, "we have been conquered more than once. Always in place of attaching ourselves to the triumphal chariot, we have remained faithful to the cause of God." He then rose to leave for the second time, but the elder David was ashamed to let his visitor depart thus. "What, then, is your proposition?" asked he. "To shelter under your roof an outlaw. This village being isolated, the risk is not great." "Very true," said the younger man; "but in a small place like this, where every one is acquainted, the arrival of a stranger would be remarked." "Then say no more about it," said Jacob, turning to go. "A thousand excuses for disturbing you." This time he really took his departure. "I am sorry," said the father to the son when they were alone, "that we did not find some way to arrange this affair. Jacob has excellent connections. What will he tell them of us? Truly, he cannot have a very good opinion." "Bah! I am, perhaps, of your opinion, but we could not do otherwise. Let us to bed." The protector of Ivas returned to the inn, and did not awaken his companion, who was wrapped in a deep slumber. He threw himself on the bed, and his thoughts kept him awake the greater part of the night. He arose early to seek an interview with Jankiel, whom he did not know personally. Having introduced himself to the old man, he took part in the morning prayers, and then told him frankly that he had long desired his acquaintance, and that he addressed him full of confidence in his well-known sentiments. This frankness pleased Jankiel, who placed his hand on his visitor's shoulder, and replied kindly:-- "I have heard of you as a man on whom the people of Israel can lean with confidence, for, in spite of your known learning, you guard the ancient faith, customs, and practices, and honour old age. In all this you differ from many of our young men. May the God of Isaac and Jacob bless you! Learned men abound, but pious ones are rare. Our customs are neglected; they spit on the tombs of our ancestors, and on all that past ages have taught us to respect." "I fear I am not possessed of all with which you credit me, but I try not to disgrace my ancient faith and lineage." "And where do you come from now?" "From foreign parts. I have visited almost all countries inhabited by the Jews, and everywhere I have verified their deplorable misery." "Have you visited the land of our fathers?" "Yes, but even there the Jews are not at home. They are strangers even in their own country." At this moment Jankiel remembered a citation from the Prophet Jeremiah, to which Jacob replied by the following passage from the Talmud:-- "'The hands of the divine mercy are always outstretched under the wings of the Seraphim to receive the repentant sinner.'" (Pesakhim 119. a.) Jankiel was enchanted to hear the young man quote the Talmud, so neglected by the present generation. He blessed him, with emotion, and said:-- "My heart goes out to you, and I would be glad to give you a proof of my sympathy. Speak, and tell me what service you require of me." "I come to you with a petition that I have already, but in vain, addressed to David, your neighbour." At the name of David the old man frowned, but quickly replied:-- "That need not deter you. I am listening." Jacob related the history of Ivas, and asked Jankiel's advice. "The circumstances," replied the old man, after a moment of thought, "are difficult. We ought, however, to side with the persecuted and not with the oppressor. 'Among birds the strongest always attack the pigeon and the dove, which are the most acceptable offerings to the Lord.' (Baba Kama, 93. a.) Unhappy Poland! We have lived with her people on the same soil for five hundred years. We ought not to forget that. It is true she is not of our faith, but God does not command to kill even infidels. 'Be at peace with all thy brothers, with thy neighbours, with all men, even the Pagan.' (Barakhot, 17. a.)" "Beautiful words! If all observed them the world would be better." "Unhappy nation! She has passed through the most frightful calamities, and greater horrors still threaten her. She wishes to break her chains, and at each attempt these chains are more tightly welded. God has humiliated her because she has counted more on human strength than on divine clemency. Her pride is not yet broken. Poor country! If we are unable to help her, at least we can pray God to protect her. Where is the young man? What do you intend to do with him?" "Ivas is with me, but I can keep him only with great trouble. In his ardour he would throw himself into the hands of those who seek him. I desire to procure him shelter for awhile. But where? Will he be prudent and obedient? I hope I can persuade him of the necessity." "If you had not first appealed to David, I would have received him into my house. Now I dare not. I have a room in the attic where he would have been in safety, but it is too late. An accusation is to be feared. I could buy myself off, but he would be lost." "Do you not know of some house, some friend, in the country?" "Ah! yes; I see my way out of this embarrassment. I know some honest men who live in the depths of a forest. Early to-morrow I will take him to them in my wagon. But he must be on his guard." Jacob embraced Jankiel with effusion. "Never mind thanking me so warmly," said the latter with emotion. "I am happy to oblige you, and also your friend, who loves his country and liberty as we formerly loved Judea. However, in the name of Heaven, if you have any influence with the Poles, try to restrain them. The enemy lies in wait for them, and already rejoices in anticipation of the spoils and the cruelties he will accomplish when the anticipated insurrection has been crushed. There is nothing gained by setting fire to one's own house in order to drive out invaders. They must be wary and use strategy." "Your words are full of wisdom, but men are rarely guided by reason. Suffering and misfortune are bad counsellors." Jacob informed Ivas of the result of his visit, and added:-- "I have done all that I could. Now it is for you to be careful not to fall again into the claws of the Muscovite. You will be informed if you are in danger, so that you can leave your hiding-place." CHAPTER IX. THE EVE OF AN INSURRECTION. After his absence of several years, Jacob was surprised at the aspect which Poland presented. An extravagant and foolish hope and excitement prevailed everywhere. The most improbable rumours were accepted without question. All hearts rejoiced, and for the second time all hands were outstretched toward that France, which was, however, transformed into a sort of machine, obeying the capricious will of one man. Wonders were announced from Russia. The Muscovites were preparing an outbreak, and from this terrible uprising would come a reconciliation with Poland. The tolerance of the government, a feigned and calculated tolerance, passed for weakness and impotence. Russia, it was said, had changed; she had weakened, and was no longer capable of repressing a patriotic rebellion. She was afraid, and the fear was believed on account of easy concessions, which were really made in order to precipitate the revolutionary movement. All this was to the secret satisfaction of the Czar and his ministers, who directed a course of action full of ambuscades and of deceit. The propaganda of Hertzen, Bakounine, Ogaref, Golovine, Dolgorouky,--legatees of the ideas of the Decabristes,--had not been entirely unsuccessful in the cause of true Russia, the ancient Moscovie. They had worked on the youth of the universities, they had penetrated the army and the navy, they had sprung up even in the garrets and in the country. The government had been obliged to capitulate before them. They were so strong at present, that it was hoped by the precipitation of the Polish insurrection to divert the public attention from the greater danger which threatened St. Petersburg and Moscow. Thus the poor Poles were unconsciously led on to their own destruction. It was permitted to the Katkof and to the Aksakof to turn insidiously the aspirations for liberty into a current of national hatred. In the last repression of Poland, the Russia of Alexander II. was more barbarous, more pitiless, than the Russia of Catharine and of Nicholas. As for Europe, which was formerly agitated at the sight of these crushed people, she regarded with cold indifference the hanging of Mouravief, and the wholesale exile of the people who strewed the route from the Vistula to the Lena with corpses. Such is the sympathy of Europe in this mercenary age, when self-interest is too highly esteemed to be endangered by taking the side of the oppressed. At times Jacob refused to believe his eyes and ears, men seemed so different from what he had imagined them. Their language and their deportment were no longer the same. His first visit in Warsaw was paid to his former guardian. He found him absent, and it was rumoured, engaged in important enterprises. On returning from his house he met Henri Segel, for whom his aversion had augmented since, on the route from Genoa to Spezzia, he had encountered him in company with the danseuse Gigante. He recoiled and blushed on hearing the joyous voice of Mathilde's husband. "Really, this is a surprise," said Henri. "You are more astonished to see me here than in Italy? Well, we live in changeable times. Mathilde did not like Italy, and was determined to return to _la cara patria_. I consented to come, for urgent business made it necessary for me to do so. How delighted I am to see you again, Monsieur Jacob! I am on my way home, and willingly or by force you must come with me. I am anxious to show you my new residence. It is a lovely house; a jewel, comfortable, elegant, and in good taste. Come and help me amuse Mathilde. Always sad and weary, she communicates to me her sadness. She is an incomprehensible woman; in fact, all women are incomprehensible. My wife wants for nothing. She has only to ask in order to obtain silks, jewels,--everything that would make most women happy. But she is always discontented; an unhappy disposition! Come, let us go!" "Truly I have not much time. I have only just arrived, and I have business to attend to." "Your business will keep. Mathilde will be delighted to see you. You will be doing her a special favour. Come, then, I pray you!" Jacob felt that he ought to refuse, but the temptation was too great. To see her again! Duty forbade it, his heart demanded it, and his heart led him. Henri took his arm as if to prevent his escape, and conducted him to his home. "Look well at Warsaw," said he gayly. "What changes everywhere!" "It is true," said Jacob. "These transformations I feel, but I cannot explain them." "Enormous changes! The general exaltation is complete! The hand is on the trigger. A revolution is imminent." "May God preserve us from it!" said Jacob. "It is inevitable, or else I am a fool. I can smell powder; but, in any case, it cannot hurt us. Naturally, there will be many victims, and it behooves us to man[oe]uvre not to be caught in the wheels of this machine, which rolls and crushes. We have everything to gain, whatever be the result, whichever be the conqueror." "I avow that I do not comprehend you." "From either side we shall obtain civil equality. That is certain. Afterward we shall not be ruined, even if we throw millions into the abyss. Our capital is not seizable like that of the landed nobles, whose estates can be so easily confiscated, but our wealth is portable; gold and jewels chiefly comprise it. We shall save our fortunes, and there lies our strength. The Muscovites will prevail in the end; the odious class of proud Polish nobles will disappear, and we shall be the aristocrats to whom the country will belong." "The truth of your calculation may be proved, perhaps; its cruelty is unsurpassed. With what indifference you discount the misfortunes of those who form the basis of your argument!" said Jacob. "What else can I do? Can I prevent this uprising? Ought we not to profit by circumstances? Believe me, the Jews hold to-day in their hand the future of Poland. Yesterday despised, soon we shall be the masters! Look at the nobility! What is it? A band without strength, who guard their pride of birth, their arrogance, their corruptions, their eccentricities, and foolish indifference; they have all the faults of their ancestors, and none of their virtues. It is a caste surely fated to die. Such a caste cannot exist now-a-days. And if society still demands a sort of modified aristocracy, who will replace the nobles? Who but we?" "You know that I am a Jew, heart and soul," said Jacob; "but I pity Poland if your prophecy is accomplished." "And why?" "Because we are not ready for the rôle you lay out for us. We have not deserved, by our conduct, to be the arbiters of this country. And to tell the whole truth, our community is more corrupt than the nobles; it is already worm-eaten." "Not so bad as they, though." "Our malady is different from theirs, but it is as dangerous." "Oh, no! Because we know how to acquire and preserve this wealth, while the nobles do not know anything of business, nor how to manage their vast estates economically. The strength of money, the strength of capital, is the only real power in this century." "An opportunity, as you have remarked," said Jacob, "is presented to the Jews of Poland to play an important rôle; as important as the one they already hold in Germany. Will they understand their advantageous position? Will they be worthy of it? Two questions to which God alone can reply." Segel burst out laughing. "You are a pious Jew," cried he. "In everything you mix the idea of God. These old superstitions are completely worn out." "And that is precisely what afflicts me. We have torn our belief to tatters, but under them is gold." "What use of speaking of the _débris_ of a past which will never return? There is my house; it cost more than a half million. I will do the honours, and we will go afterward to find Mathilde." He looked at his watch. "_Saperlotte!_ I am expected at the Bourse in half an hour; but I have still time to stay a few moments with you; then you can await me with Mathilde. I will despatch my business at a gallop." The mansion was spacious and elegant, but with a vulgar display of wealth. No taste, refinement, or sentiment for art. It was built on one of those plans which serve at the same time for private houses or hotels. Superb mirrors with gilded frames, furniture covered with velvet hangings of great price, wonderful inlaid floors, rare bronzes, crystal chandeliers, porcelain from China and Japan, costly bric-à-brac, and a general tone of vulgar display; such was the dwelling, where, in the least details, one could see that the proprietor had everywhere sought to dazzle his guests, and confound taste with costliness. During the inspection he several times spoke thus:-- "This _bibelot_ cost me a hundred ducats; this vase is worth a thousand roubles." The ostentatious mansion was worthy of a dethroned king or of a prince _in partibus_. The general air of the house, nevertheless, was that of solitude and _ennui_. The rooms seemed uninhabited. In spite of their proportions, there was something wanting. Nothing seemed homelike or cheerful. Segel even conducted Jacob to the pretentious kitchen, provided with a constant flow of running water. There was a tank filled with fish, and many other inventions more or less ingenious. As soon as his host had left him to go and inform his wife, Jacob threw himself on a couch; he was overpowered with fatigue and disgusted with all this show, and pitied Mathilde more than ever. Madame Segel soon entered slowly; she was very pale, and was almost unable to walk alone. She saluted her friend with a sweet smile tinged with melancholy. In her sunken eyes burned a strange fire. "Welcome home from Italy, monsieur," said she, holding out her hand. "I longed to return home; but what matters it, here or there, it is all the same." "No doubt life, regarded in all its gravity, is full of sadness everywhere," said Jacob. "Why the devil do you regard it thus?" cried Henri, offering Jacob a little glass of brandy. "I almost forgot the Bourse. I have hardly time to swallow anything. Dear Mathilde, be good enough to keep our guest until my return. I confide him to you; do not let him escape. I will be absent only a quarter of an hour." He rang. "Are the horses ready?" asked he of the servant. "Yes, monsieur." "That is good. _Au revoir_. Without further excuse I leave you with my wife," said he, kissing his wife's hand. "If you are at loss for conversation, she can play the piano or sing something. You will find the daily papers on the table. Very poor reading, I assure you, but, for want of something better"-- When he had gone they remained silent for some time, not daring to look at each other. At last Mathilde sighed, and held out her hand to him, murmuring:-- "Jacob, we are old and good friends, and nothing more, are we not?" "Madame," replied he respectfully, "time has not changed me, and the confidence you have in me will not be betrayed." "When we seek to keep apart," said Mathilde, "fate reunites us. It is a temptation. Let us remain worthy of ourselves and worthy of our past, so pure. I cannot understand Henri. Ordinarily he is so jealous. He does not like to leave me alone with men. And to-day he has acted so differently. Is it confidence or indifference? I will ask him." "What matters it? Tell me how you are, and why you left Italy so soon?" "Because there is suffering everywhere, death everywhere. Since my marriage I am stricken at the heart. I must suffer, here or there. I am always suffering." "And your health?" "The soul alone is ill. But speak of yourself." "I--I have neither the time nor the right to suffer. Man lives not by sentiment, but by action. It is this which renders us at the same time more miserable and more happy. In the struggle for existence, when we receive a wound, we have no right to think of it, and we must continue the combat. Even you, madame, why not seek a remedy for your sorrow?--an occupation, some aim in life." "Occupations, my dear Jacob, are very limited for a woman without children. Without them, what object in life has a woman? Do you think that to sew and embroider can tranquillize a soul?" "Reading, music, and poetry are inexhaustible sources of enjoyment. Believe me, madame, days well employed are not followed by satiety, regret, nor remorse. Those who have not the creative genius can assimilate immortal creations. It is a voluptuous life that draws away from the cares of existence." "Alas! to follow your advice it had been necessary to be initiated to this manner of living, and to be accustomed to it." "You can form the habit." "I have already, thank Heaven, an occupation in music. It soothes me, absorbs me, and passes the time. But music occupies only a little corner in my heart, and cannot fill it entirely." "Reading, then." "Reading unveils to us too much the secrets of life. I speak of romances, the drama, and poetry." "In that case seek, and you will find, some more serious occupation." "I will try. But enough of this. Speak to me, Jacob, of yourself. For what have you returned? What are you going to do?" "I return, heart and soul full of ideas, and more an Israelite than ever. I bring back projects of reform, of labour, and of sacrifice for my people. My views are almost presumptuous. I dream of being a Bar Maïmonides. There is so much to do for our poor race." "Do you believe it? Do you think that you can unite these scattered people?" "Yes; provided that my strength holds out. The task will be difficult, arduous, and redoubtable." "Who will be your disciples? The believers remain attached to their foolish superstitions. They will repulse you as a new kind of heretic. The unbelievers and the indifferent will listen to you as to a mad poet, and will ridicule you." "The prophets have often been repulsed by the crowd, who have even at times stoned them to death. But each one of them has left in history traces of his passage, and the grain that they have sown has germinated." "Then you will have the courage of a martyr? You deceive yourself, however, if you think that you will be riddled with stones in public places where you preach. You will, instead, have jokes thrown at you; you will be called a fool, and covered with ridicule. That will be a shabby martyrdom, absurd and insulting. The stoning would be preferable. Sarcasm is a mighty weapon." "When a man is absorbed, inspired, and exalted, full of the truth that is within him, he does not see the pygmies in the crowd. It is the crowd, the mass only, that he sees. When so many of our people dream of nothing but money getting, no matter how, it is absolutely necessary that some one should take an interest in the moral elevation of souls, and devote himself entirely to this holy mission." "How happy should I be to be your pupil! but I fear I am not capable of understanding such science, such wisdom. At times it seems as if I can foresee the future, but, really, I am very ignorant. Write out your thoughts and I will read them. I will learn them by heart, and I will spread them among those of my own sex who are deprived of the consolation of faith in God. Unfortunately, if you are a Barak, I am not a Deborah." Jacob was about to reply when the door opened, giving entrance to Mathilde's father and husband, accompanied by Mann and Simon. Henri had informed them of Jacob's arrival, and they were all invited to dinner. The acceptance on the part of an important person, like Mann, was extraordinary, for he usually made some excuse, and declined all ordinary invitations. Jacob's former guardian ran to him with open arms, and cried:-- "Welcome! I embrace you, and wish you much happiness, Rabbi Jacob." Mann cried at the same time:-- "I am rejoiced to hold your hand after so long an absence." "How do you return to us, Akiba or atheist?" asked the jovial Simon. "Neither one nor the other. I am the same as ever, only a little more alarmed as to the future." "Then it was not worth while to leave Poland," replied Simon, "and you arrived just in time to assist in a revolution." "It is no laughing matter," said Henri. "I am not joking," said Simon. "I am organizing, myself, a regiment of Jewish gamins, that I shall lead to combat seated in a sedan chair. In place of a gun I will have my umbrella." "Such pleasantry is ill-timed," replied Mathilde's father. "We are on the eve of grave events." "It is every day more apparent. Alas!" "Your 'alas,' Father Simon, shows that you condemn these revolutionary tendencies." "How can I approve them?" "It is useless to oppose public opinion," remarked Mann; "these fools will not listen to reason. When reason speaks they are deaf as a post. The best thing we can do is to look out for ourselves." "The safest thing," added Simon, "is to conceal ourselves during the combat." "Certainly. Why should we mix in it?" said Mann approvingly. "To speak seriously," said Jacob, "there is, perhaps, another line of conduct to follow." "The catastrophe is not yet certain," observed Henri, "for there are among them many reasonable men." Mann rose from his seat and cried:-- "The catastrophe is certain. It cannot be otherwise with a clique of proud and degenerated men guided by their passions and not by reason." "Dear Monsieur Mann, and what of us?" asked Simon. "Are we neither degenerate nor proud? Speak!" "We are not to be compared with those men. We are worth much more." "That is true. They are blind, we are only lame. The Jews are peaceable men, suited only for business. When there is disorder in the streets they close their shops." "My faith! they are sensible to do so." "Thus said my late papa," murmured Simon. "It is a sacred duty to follow his advice." "You are always joking." "And you, the day when you joke I will abstain from it. If no one throws a note of gayety into the conversation, they would say that Heine carried all the Jewish spirit into his tomb. It is a service I render you all. Mann, you do not know the efforts that you cost me." The grave Israelite, wounded in his self-love, walked up and down the room, puffing and grumbling. "And how does the country seem to you, dear Jacob?" asked Mathilde's father. "Very much changed. How things have changed for us!" "Why do you say _us?_" asked Simon. "The half, at least, of our people do not take part in this with us." "The question is much discussed by the press." "But, in general, public opinion favours us." "Yes, in appearance," replied Mann. "The Poles affect to be liberal, but, at heart, they remain feudal aristocrats, incorrigible, and puffed up with pride." "Listen," interrupted Simon, "to a word of advice. Do not speak of men 'puffed up with pride.' It is inconsistent on your part." The great man looked at Simon, and said scornfully:-- "You are only an old fault-finder." "Fault-finder, if you will, but look at yourself in the glass before you reproach others with being proud. Are you more approachable, more cordial, more charitable, than L. P. K., or many other nobles? They have their heraldry, you your millions. Two different causes, but both alike result in pride." "Hold your peace, you are insufferable," cried the rich man. Then he murmured between his teeth, "What an impudent fellow!" Henri and his father-in-law laughed heartily at his wrath. "Dear brother in Israel," continued Simon calmly, "each time that the nobles have a bad odour smell yourself. You will discover the same odour. You are at heart an aristocrat, but you lack the title." "Enough! Enough!" cried Mann. "No! It is not enough. I must get rid of my bile. If I do not I shall stifle, and that would be sad for me at first, for you afterward, if you wish to pay my debts. We were speaking of pride. Very well. If we have not crests surmounted with coronets, nor three hundred years of nobility"-- "Enough, I say! Enough!" "Certainly, if you insist." And at last Simon consented to be silent. Mann sulked awhile, then said to Jacob:-- "What news do you bring from Jerusalem? What is the condition of the Jews there? How do they live?" "In misery. They ask our aid to help them emigrate to foreign lands. They await the signal of regeneration from us. We ought to listen to their appeal." "You wish, then, to direct the world?" "I have not that pretension. Akiba, however, was only a shepherd before he became a sage. I might, perhaps, follow his example." "It is the contrary with which you are threatened, if you do not change your conduct," cried Simon. "From a sage you will become a shepherd." His guardian laughed good-naturedly, and said:-- "Simon predicts the future well. Instead of reforming humanity, apply yourself to business, and leave God, in his wisdom, to direct the world according to his own plans." "Can we not become the instruments of God? Ought we not to try and accomplish his designs? I have no wish to amass wealth. I am sufficiently rich." "If your whim is to be a second Akiba," replied Simon, "I doubt if you will succeed. From the ashes of Akiba have sprung up Börne and Heine. The precepts of Heine in a book are fine; in flesh and blood, inconvenient." "I do not like Heine," said Jacob. They all exclaimed against this sacrilegious prejudice. "Why do you dislike him? He represented in his day the true contemporaneous spirit of the Jews with the Kladderadatch." "I do not like him, because his spirit is a spirit of destruction, debauchery of thought, debauchery of language, irony, scepticism, and abasement of human nature. All these are scattered among the pearls and diamonds. It is no less corruption though the author be remarkable for talent and genius. It is from this very corruption that we should free ourselves, for it is a presage of death; it is the death-rattle." "Then," finished Simon, "_Judæorum finis_." "Yes. _Finis Judæorum et Judaïsmi finis_. The people of Israel resemble a man who, having preserved intact a treasure during a journey of a thousand leagues through forests full of brigands, lost it in a puddle at the door of his house. This treasure is our faith, and it is in danger." "Dear Jacob, why do we always speak of religion and morality? You really believe, then, that they exist somewhere?" "If they are dead, we should employ means to resuscitate them." "Decidedly he is mad," muttered Mann to himself. Then he added in a loud voice:-- "I should be proud of such an honour, but I am unworthy." "'And I," said Simon, "I advise you to devote your energies to a task less likely to prove disappointing. For example, seek in the Talmud the things forbidden to a Jewish stomach. Maïmonides has counted twenty-four. With a little perseverance you can get it up to thirty. What a glorious discovery that would be!" "What matters the number of dishes," said Jacob. "Yet the prohibition has produced good results, because it has set a limit to gormandizing." "If you only knew, dear friend," said Simon, "what a savour there is in a sausage! A wealthy proprietor of Volhynie, although originally an Israelite, ate them to satiety, and afterward said: 'I stuff myself with sausages, for I eat them for myself and for my ancestors, who never tasted them during many generations.'" "Truly," cried Henri, "the conversation takes an agreeable turn, thanks to sausages." Mann, wearied with the lamentations of Jacob and the jests of Simon, started a new subject. "Has any one here," asked he, "been at the house of Count A. Z. lately?" The count was a person whose popularity increased daily, though it might be fleeting. "I," responded the indefatigable Simon. "And you were received?" "Why not?" "Very well. What did he say?" "Always the same sobriety of words. His theory, like that of all the nobles, is that the Jews ought to work to obtain their rights,--like apprentices, in order to pass their companions and masters." "He is right, up to a certain point," said Jacob. "How is that?" asked Mann angrily. "Have we not, we who were born on the same soil, received from nature the same rights as these men? In what are nobles our superiors? Have we not gained our rights of equality by humiliations endured during ages?" "Nature," replied Jacob, "has created us all equal. I do not deny that; but on the side of rights there are duties. If we do not share all the burden we shall not merit all the rights." "But we could not escape the expense, that I know; and, with their usual haughtiness, the nobles do not welcome us to the Agricultural Society." "Until the present day," said Jacob, "we have not had a single title to aspire to it. Yet I admit that the nobles are wrong to be so exclusive." "Certainly. It is wrong for them to act thus; and, tell me, what is the object of the societies the nobles are organizing? It is to deprive us of our commerce." "Perhaps that would be rendering us a great service, for with this single occupation we are losing prestige. It would, perhaps, be for the best if we were obliged to seek our means of existence elsewhere. Why should we always remain traders? Besides, thanks to our experience and ability, we have not much to fear from their competition, for they know nothing about business." "But they will monopolize commerce. Their societies are directed against us. Their Agricultural Society is a conspiracy, a plot against the Jews. Everywhere we meet evidences of their hatred." "And I do not think that on our side there is very much good-will either." "And why should we like them?" interrupted Henri. "Though they are very polite, and sometimes even familiar, they exclude us from their intimacy and never accord us their friendship." "We do the same." "But with us it is different," replied Mann. "We have an excuse, for they have never ceased to render themselves odious." "Then," concluded Simon, "we have a right to detest them, and their duty is to return love for hatred. Eh! If we slap them on one cheek, they must offer us the other! Besides, the Christian religion teaches that, does it not?" Simon looked as serious as an owl as he spoke thus, but Mann continued, without smiling:-- "These nobles are fools! Their confidence is extravagant. They believe in the promises of Napoleon III.; they count on England, on Italy, on Hungary and Sweden, and even on Turkey. They await a revolution in Germany,--a revolution of potatoes, no doubt! They also hope much from troubles that are to arise in the interior of Russia. And from all this will infallibly come out the resurrection of Poland! What blindness!" "In the meanwhile," observed Mathilde's father, "we are in a very disagreeable position. It is equally foolish for us to be on either side. Russia will prevail, that is certain; but during the combat the Poles can crush us and do us much evil, perhaps send us out of the country. "You are mistaken," cried Henri. "Yes," agreed Simon. "One has only to sit on two chairs to be sure that if one fails he can sit on the other." "Naturally." "One thing is clear to me," said Jacob. "It is, that we ought to side with Poland and share her fate, however disastrous the consequences may be. Self-sacrifice should be our watchword, and no matter what happens, our efforts will not have been in vain." "In this," said Mann, "Jacob is not altogether wrong. In the proud days of the Polish republic many noble families were so divided that part of their members were for the king, and others against him. These took part in the insurrection; those sustained the government. They had a foot in each camp, and, whatever the result, the one saved the other. It is a good example to follow. It is necessary to keep the middle path: these are the ideas that should be scattered among our people." "No, no!" cried Jacob. "Not the middle path! We must share the fate of Poland, without reservation." Mann struck him on the shoulder and said:-- "You are very young." "Yes, yes, he is young," repeated Simon, "and he ought to listen to the advice of those who have had some experience. It is for old fellows to tell young ones what to do." Just then a lackey in livery and white gloves announced at the door that dinner was served. Mathilde, who had absented herself, appeared and took her father's arm, and Mann eagerly rose and hastened toward them. It would be useless to dwell on the elegance of the table and the gastronomic perfection of the repast. Henri ordinarily contented himself, in spite of his wealth, with a bit of bread and a glass of brandy. But when his vanity was affected nothing was too costly. He was full of apologies, pretending that this was an impromptu repast, and that he was afraid they would not find enough to eat. It was really a dinner for diplomats, and the _menu_ was on rose-colored paper bordered with silver. Mann affected a nonchalant air, so that his lack of education might not be noticed. He tied a napkin around his neck and ate in silence. The conversation turned on the gossip of the day. Suddenly Mann addressed himself to Jacob in Polish, and said:-- "Although you are an orthodox Jew, you have infringed one of the most important laws of your religion." "Oh, let us drop Judaism," said the master of the house, in French. "Avoid this subject before the servants." "But what sin have I committed?" asked Jacob. "A sin so great that you do not deserve to be called a man in the sight of the Lord." "What is it, then?" "How old are you?" said Mann. "Twenty and over." "Very well. Since the age of eighteen years you have been in sin, for you have not married, and that is the first duty of every Israelite. If you do not hasten to do so, Dumah will catch you one of these days, and throw you into the depths of hell!" "I do not deny that youthful marriage is a duty," replied Jacob, "but I believe that our law tolerates some exceptions. As for myself, I have not the least wish to marry." "How thoughtful Mann is!" cried Simon; "he wishes to put a halter around your neck, because misery loves company." Jacob replied simply:-- "I cannot marry without love." As he said these words he threw an involuntary glance toward Mathilde, who grew pale and looked down. "What a rogue!" continued Simon, with a forced gravity. "To wish to put the sugar of love on the bitter dish of marriage, is to seek hypocrisy where one ought to expect duty and care only." "Father Simon, we are so accustomed to your jests that your last remark can pass for one. It contains, however, many truths. Yet I venture to ask you if it is not permitted to aspire here below to a little joy and happiness? And true love can procure that." "No; not in practical life. Romance has perverted your imagination." "It is, then, forbidden to hope for a little poetry in this prosaic life?" "Poetry! The Jew ought not to speak of it. Calculation should be our business. Two and two make five, because to admit that two and two make four implies a loss of interest. But to return to your marriage." "Rather let us drop the subject." "Very well," said Mann. "I assure you I will bore you about it until you decide. Unfortunately I have no more unmarried daughters. But I can recommend to you a charming young woman with a portion of a hundred thousand roubles." "A hundred thousand roubles!" cried Simon. "You had better take her, Jacob." "Thanks for your interest in me," said Jacob coldly, when Mathilde spoke in her turn. "My uncle and cousin are right," said she, fixing her large, black eyes on him. "You ought to marry." "What!" cried he sadly. "You also? You are in the plot?" "Yes; because I desire to see you tranquil and happy." "Singular receipt," murmured Simon. "We had better leave the subject of marriage to the managing mammas. After all, we are meddling with something that does not concern us, and some day Jacob will be claiming damages and interest for having marriage put into his head," laughed Henri. They arose from the table, and all the men save Jacob grouped themselves together. "What do you think of him?" asked his former guardian of Mann. "He is a remarkable man. He could be very useful to us if it were not for his religious whims. They are very well for the ignorant, but useless for enlightened men." "Yes," replied Simon; "religion for you is cabbage soup for the poor. You prefer turtle soup." "This mania will pass," added Segel; "the principal causes are his youthful enthusiasm, his poetic and devout spirit. Let us persuade him to engage in some useful and lucrative business; it is the best way to keep him from proclaiming himself Jew so often." New visitors arrived; Mathilde was at the piano, and Jacob listened, all absorbed. CHAPTER X. THE PURSUIT OF A HUSBAND. A short distance from the mansion of Segel, separated only by their gardens, was a pretty little stone villa covered with ivy and other climbing vines. The low windows opened on a veranda, and sculptured ornaments of wood and stone gave it an attractive appearance, although it was a little deteriorated by the dampness, and there was about it a general air of neglect. The proprietor of this villa was a man who could not live in it on account of the expense he had incurred in building it. His puerile fancy had ruined him, and he was reduced to living in a garret. The plaything was let during the summer, and during the rest of the year it remained empty. This dwelling lacked a master who would love it and care for it; such was the air of neglect it had taken on. For several months it had been occupied by Madame Wtorkowska and her daughter. This lady was the widow of a speculator who had been unfortunate in business, and had died in debt. His wife had succeeded in concealing from the creditors some portions of the estate. She lived on this with a certain elegance, and aspired to move in the best society. She went sometimes to Ems, to Spa, or to Paris, and hoped everything from her only daughter, whom she considered a marvel. Mademoiselle Emma was really charming. She was twenty-two years old and owned to twenty, but no one had yet offered her his name and fortune. Although the mother was persuaded that a king or a prince of the blood would have been fortunate to possess such a treasure, the simple gentlemen found that this pearl was exacting, and had luxurious tastes a little too costly for men of moderate fortunes. That was why, in her despair, Madame Wtorkowska, _née_ Weinberg, went back to her Israelite friends, among whom she hoped to find a rich merchant who would marry her daughter. Emma was very beautiful, of that ideal type taken by the painters for Rachel or Rebecca. She was a dark-eyed blonde, with a snowy complexion, features which were like sculptured marble, large, black eyes full of a mysterious fascination, and rosy lips whose charming smiles displayed teeth of pearl. Nature had made her an actress, and her mother had developed in her the art of simulating all emotions and playing all rôles. This mother knew excellently how to appear a literary woman, without having read much. She gave herself out as an accomplished musician, though she hardly knew the notes. She posed as a lady of high degree, although she had seen the best society only _en négligé_ at the baths and in some salons of doubtful distinction, and she masked her poverty under a deceitful elegance and an appearance of wealth. Emma, of which the Polish is Emusia, called herself, for short, Musia, which she further transformed into the French, Muse, which gave her a stamp of originality, and expressed by a name her diverse talents and her dazzling accomplishments. At an early age she learned to play the piano, and initiated herself in light and easy literature. Provided that the book was written in French, in an elegant style, her mother asked no more; as for the morals they inculcated she was utterly indifferent. "This is not suitable. That can harm you. You must guard yourself well from this or from that." These were the rules of conduct that Madame Wtorkowska gave to her daughter, who soon became accomplished in all her refinements: the art of dissimulation, habitual and unblushing falsehood, elegant and perfumed deceit. She had a great natural talent for music. At six years she passed for a little prodigy, at twelve she played in public, and at eighteen she was proclaimed Chopin's most clever interpreter. She had so enchanted Liszt at Ems, to believe her mother, that he would have married her then and there had it not been for the double obstacles of the princess ... and his priesthood. Muse, the better to attract attention, had adopted a very beautiful, although somewhat eccentric, toilet. Her mother lost no occasion to show her beautiful daughter at the theatre, at charity concerts, at the industrial exhibitions, and at the art galleries. She also added the publicity of the press, by procuring, from time to time, a flattering mention of the beauty and talents of Muse in the _Courrier de Varsovie_. In spite of all, she had no luck so far; all the artifices of coquetry had not obtained a proposal of marriage worthy of being taken into consideration. Two aspirants only had presented themselves in a legitimate and honourable manner: a youth of eighteen years all fire and flame, and an old man foolishly in love. As neither of them had any money they were quickly refused. At the baths of Spa or Ems a count also had offered himself, but this noble had ruined himself by a dissipated life, and, as he could not return to Warsaw on account of his debts, lived "by his wits." In a moment of discouragement Muse thought of becoming an actress. "With my beautiful voice and charms of person," said she, "success is certain, and I shall soon be rolling in gold." But this idea was extremely distasteful to her mother, whose ambition was for a solid establishment, and not for the precarious life of the theatre. She wept, and implored her daughter not to think of it, and assured her that their pecuniary resources were sufficient to keep them in luxury for another year. Much might be accomplished during a twelvemonth. They were sure to secure a rich husband by that time. Why not wait before leaving the social sphere to which they were accustomed? The scenic career would always remain open. The same day that Jacob dined at the Segels Madame Wtorkowska returned from the city to her villa in radiant humour, and found her daughter at the window reading one of Féval's novels. She contemplated her a moment with admiration. "How lovely you are to-day," said she; "more beautiful than ever! That is right; your beauty is your capital. I have a magnificent project. We must succeed. Conquer or die is our motto!" "What has happened now?" asked Muse, throwing down her book and giving a side glance in the mirror. "I have just learned that Jacob, your old acquaintance, has returned to Warsaw. He will be your husband. I have a presentiment of it. A natural presentiment never deceives. You know the proverb: 'That which a woman wishes'"-- "'The devil wishes,'" replied the girl laughing. "You are in great spirits, but you need not waste your wit on me." "I have already said that twice in public with great success." The mother kissed her forehead, and said in French:-- "You are sublime! But listen to me: you must proceed cautiously with this Jacob; you must be prudent, calculating, dignified, and full of tact." "Never fear," replied the daughter, "I remember him perfectly. I know his peculiarities, and shall not make a false move." "Be careful when you are near him not to be too gay, too witty, too brilliant. Be grave, modest, and poetical; quote much ideal poetry to him; such are the strategetic man[oe]uvres which will serve you." "Do you know, mamma, I have been told that he has been already in love?" "And with whom?" "With Mathilde, or she with him; it is the same thing. I do not know whether this love still exists or has vanished." "Several years have passed since then. She has had time to fade, to grow ugly; and, furthermore, she is married, so that she is no obstacle for us. His love for her proves that he is capable of passion. So much the better. Now-a-days, men have become veritable icebergs. They resist an enchantress like you, and let themselves be devoured by the demimonde"-- "Yes, they do not think of marriage. It is the spirit of the age." "Jacob, of whom I have heard much from people who know him well, is a serious young man, sentimental, pious, and even fanatic. When you are with him, you must seem to bear the burden of the sufferings of two thousand years; you must sigh, and pretend to be full of tender and elegiac poetry." "Dear mamma, do I need these lessons?" said Muse, a little piqued. "No, my child; but a mother's heart is always full of fears. A better match would be difficult to find. Use every means to captivate him; meet him as if by chance, and invite him here. He loves music. We will give two or three entertainments where we will have Kontski and Doprzynski, and you and those two singers will make an adorable trio. Then will come the supper, when you will be irresistible from the charms of your toilet." Muse shrugged her shoulders. "O mamma," said she, "leave it all to me! I know well how to play my cards." "Listen once more," said Madame Wtorkowska, drawing near her daughter, blushing and a little embarrassed. "We will play our part well. Jacob is a man of honour, sensitive and conscientious. With him, but with him alone, dear Emusia, one can resort to extreme measures to force him into the last intrenchments and bind him to us. He is young, passionate. It would be very easy to awaken in him--you understand me? I would not advise you to go so far with another, but with him it is different." "Of course I understand you; why not? I am no longer a child," replied Muse, with an offended air. "The means are heroic, but might succeed with a perfectly honest man like Jacob. There was real genius in that idea, mamma." The mother blushed at this praise, for the idea appeared brazen even to herself, coming from a mother who should have instructed and guided her daughter. "Our desperate situation only has made me suggest such a thing." "Why speak of despair? Have we not the theatre as a last resort?" "To see you an actress; that would be a great sorrow for me." "And Malibran, and Pasta, and Schroeder, and Grisi, and Sontag, and many others. La Sontag, did she not become a countess and ambassadress?" "I don't care for that. I do not wish to see you on the stage. I would prefer"-- "Do not fear, mamma." "I have already apian," replied Madame Wtorkowska calmly. "Jacob dines at the Segels to-day. You are a friend of Mathilde's. She lives near here; dress yourself quickly and go to see her. You can feign ignorance of the circumstances. I will not accompany you, a servant alone will follow. We must take advantage of each favourable moment. To arrive at dessert or at coffee will be best. After a repast men are in good humour; you will produce a lively impression on Jacob. Modestly dressed and not expecting to see company, you must blush, draw back, and wish to retire. They will beg you to remain. You will remain. What follows I leave to you." Muse rose quickly, like a soldier whom the clarion calls to battle, and embraced her mother, who kissed her and said:-- "One more word of advice. Do not put on any powder, your complexion does not need it, and he might think you had lost your freshness; and how will you dress?" "In black lace, modestly, poetically. You can depend on me." A half-hour after, while Muse was at her toilet, Madame Wtorkowska's eagle eyes at the window saw carried from Segel's kitchen into the dining-room a sumptuous roast, then ices; she ran to her daughter and cried:-- "Now is the time. Hasten, I beseech you!" Muse was all ready. She might have served for a painter's model to represent a contemporaneous elegy; her usually mobile features were changed completely. By a profound study before the mirror she had given them an expression of sweet melancholy. She was enchanting; with an infinite art she concealed art, and seemed natural, and no one would have imagined she was playing a false rôle. Women attract and conquer men sometimes by gayety of spirit, and sometimes by a mystical reserve; nothing awakens ardour in a man more than an enigma to solve. When he has arrived at the last page of that book called woman, it is necessary that she be a marvellous masterpiece for him to commence the reading with the same interest as before. Muse was a living sphinx with such an attractive and finished beauty that it would have been difficult for the most clever observer to discover the least defect in her person, either physically or morally. She wore a black lace dress, light and _négligée_; for ornaments, a coral bracelet and brooch; nothing more save a white handkerchief and a flower in her hand. To her mother, even, she appeared in a light so new as to draw from her enthusiastic exclamations:-- "Oh, my Ophelia! You are charming!" Muse smiled proudly, kissed her mother, and with a calm and composed mien left the house as if to keep an engagement, and not to engage in a struggle where her object was to capture a man's heart. Her heart had never yet spoken; it surprised her that men in general were so little susceptible to passionate love, and that she herself had never felt this emotion. Her feelings were in her head, and if at times her brain had been inflamed, this flame had never descended to the heart. Love, as she dreamed of it, presented itself to her imagination covered with silk and diamonds in a superb _salon_, amid a royal court. Did her heart beat on the way? Her black dress could alone tell us, but her face did not reveal a single sign of inquietude. The chronological reckoning of Madame Wtorkowska had been so exact, that Muse arrived just at the moment when they were taking coffee, and, as the piano was opposite the door, Mathilde saw her enter and then draw back as if to go. She arose at once and ran to her, and drew her into the room. Jacob was near her, but she passed him without recognition. "But this is Monsieur Jacob, an old acquaintance of yours," said Mathilde. "Ah, really! He has returned from his travels, then. How he has changed! I should never have recognized him. I am charmed to see him again." The first step was of great importance. She appeared at first to be altogether indifferent; she played her first lines admirably. As for Jacob, he felt no emotion whatever. There exist in some men certain instincts which warn them, if they are not under the empire of a brutal passion, to avoid danger. Beautiful as she was, Muse did not attract him. Her beauty was for him like that of a statue or a lovely picture, no more. She had more success with the group of men who were drinking coffee. They all praised her beauty. Henri alone dared not openly express his admiration, for fear of being heard by his wife. "Delicious girl!" said Mann. "A dainty enough morsel for a king!" "A morsel for a king!" added Simon; "but one must have golden teeth to chew it." Mathilde's father, a great admirer of women, remarked in a low voice:-- "My word for it, she is well worth a thousand ducats!" "Oh, much more!" cried Mann. "Wait, gentlemen," added Simon; "put off the sale until after the marriage." "How clever those women are," said Mann. "Madame Wtorkowska is not worth a sou, and look how they dress, how they live." "I suspect the object of this visit," whispered Simon. "It is a chase organized against Jacob. I pity him if he falls into their hands." While they were talking, Muse drew near the piano and looked at the music before Mathilde. It was a composition of Schumann's, and as Jacob was near her she asked him:-- "Do you remember our promenades with Mathilde? Are you as serious as ever?" "Always the same, mademoiselle, with the difference, perhaps, that age has augmented my failing." During this conversation Mathilde felt her heart beat violently. Father Simon made from afar some warning gestures, and finished by approaching the piano. Muse greeted him coldly as an enemy, but just then some one asked her to play something. "With pleasure," said she; "I love music, and I never refuse to play. Above all, I love Schumann the best." She executed one of those fantastic reveries where grief gushes out in poignant notes like drops of blood. She played admirably and with much expression. An actress even in music, she expressed ravishingly the sentiments which she could not feel. She was warmly applauded. Mathilde, who was herself an excellent musician, found new food for thought in this manner of interpreting a composition that she loved. Jacob praised, but coldly. Father Simon took him by the arm and drew him aside. "Do you know Muse?" asked he. "Yes, I used to see her often." "Do you know the mother?" "Very little." "Then learn that they are two very dangerous women. The daughter, reared in luxury, without being worth a sou, seeks a rich husband. Take care of yourself. They will catch you, if possible. They are setting their cap for you already." "Why, I have only just arrived!" "The mothers of these days have, such a scent that they smell from afar the marriageable young men. Take care of yourself. This Muse is enchantingly beautiful and versed in all deceit." "Very beautiful women do not please me." "She can make herself anything you wish, for she can divine your thoughts." Seated by the mistress of the house, Muse turned her head. She immediately understood that Simon was acting the part of Mentor to the young Telemachus, and called to him familiarly:-- "I have a favour to ask of you, Monsieur Simon, and I feel that I am very fortunate to meet you here." "A favour! Of me?" "Yes, monsieur, on the part of my mother. She dotes on your witty repartees and wishes to see you sometimes in her _salon_, if you will so honour us." She had counted on gaining Father Simon over by her seductive flattery, but the old rogue only bowed courteously, smiled maliciously, and withdrew hastily to the other side of the room. He went up to Jacob and whispered:-- "She has been trying to burn me with incense right under my very nose. What a siren! To avoid her snares, stuff your ears with cotton, shut your eyes, and save yourself." "For me," said Jacob, "there are neither sirens nor witches." "There have been, however, many more than those in the Odyssey." Muse knew better than to show too much interest in the man she was seeking to ensnare. She had Mathilde ask him to tell them something of his travels. Thanks to this diplomatic stratagem, Jacob joined them, and engaged in a lively conversation. She saw that he was absorbed in Mathilde, and felt that he did not listen to her. Finding further efforts useless she arose to take leave. With a cold and polite tone she said to the young man only, that she would be happy to see him at her home, as if it was out of compliment to her friend. "Man of ice," thought she, "in vain you seek to escape me. I shall subdue you. You will belong to me. Then we will square our account." She left the room modestly, almost timidly, Madame Segel conducting her to the door. When she returned she said to Jacob:-- "Well, how did you like her?" "She is wonderfully beautiful, but there is also something disagreeable about her." Some of them protested. "She is the least natural woman I have ever met," said Jacob. "My ideal is a true and sincere woman." Mathilde fell into a revery. During this time Henri had escorted Muse to the street. It was easily seen by his sparkling eyes that this pearl pleased him. On her part Mademoiselle Muse found Segel to her taste also, but she could not compromise herself with a married man while she sought a husband. Otherwise these two souls were sympathetic, and seemed created for each other. Henri's last glance was so ardent, that it almost compensated Muse for Jacob's coldness. Her mother impatiently awaited the result of this first attack. "You have seen him?" asked she. "Yes." "Well?" "Preludes, as you have often said yourself, dear mamma, are always tiresome. I played for him one of Schumann's fantasies as I never played it before; I felt inspired; I showed myself at the same time bewitching and indifferent. I threw him furtive glances, neither too ardent nor too cold. By slow and insidious steps, by proceeding with much caution I can put him off his guard and take him captive. I am sure of him, I think." "Then you do not think it will be an easy matter?" "No, probably not. He has something else on his mind." "And can you not by your magic art draw from him that which is rooted in his heart?" "I will try, but it is a difficult part to play." "I am chagrined to see you doubtful of success so soon." "Oh, if I absolutely will it, I can succeed! But I shall be obliged to compromise myself. Not in the way you suggested this morning, however. It will suffice to expose myself in the eyes of the world. For the rest, that which Count Alfred said of the chase applies perfectly to my situation. It is not necessary to make any plans in advance to draw on the game. The plan will develop when the time comes. But I have some news for you. Henri is desperately in love with me." "What Henri?" "Our neighbour, Segel." "What, has he dared?" "If you could have seen him squeeze my hand; if you could have heard him sigh when he escorted me to the street! Oh, it was droll!" "Unfortunately, he is married." "Yes, but Mathilde has a bad cough. They say that her lungs are affected. She is not yet twenty-five years old; at that age phthisis is fatal. But may God preserve her!" "You are truly a genius! Your foresight is admirable. If we could keep him in reserve it would not be bad; however, I prefer Jacob. Men of Henri's calibre never become seriously in love. Their sentiment is not love, it is passion. Every year they change their mistress. It is the theatre that furnishes them." "Bah! That is the custom now-a-days!" "Believe me, you had better hold Jacob. There is something horrible about counting on a death." "I will do all I can to satisfy you. I am very sorry for poor Mathilde, yet one can see death in her eyes." "Do not think of her, then; think rather of Jacob." "We will see. As for me, I like Henri better." The mother frowned and said no more. CHAPTER XI. A POLITICAL MEETING. The same evening Jacob set out to seek a friend of Ivas, who had been his comrade at the university, and had become a very important person in the present agitation. This man, a modest employé of the government, exercised a powerful influence on the young men and in circles where politics were the order of the day. He possessed superior intelligence, rare executive ability, great energy and activity, and his character was at the same time pliant and firm. Without being leader of any party, he went from one to another, and the timid as well as the bold bowed everywhere to his incontestable authority. Yet no one could have said that Kruder--that was his name--belonged to the fire-eaters, to the liberals, or to the conservatives, nor if he was red, blue, or white. With the excited he was all fire and flame; with the cool reasoners he was calm and logical; with the prudent and timorous he was full of discretion and consideration. All listened to his objections; all followed his counsels. He knew how to smooth all difficulties, conceal divergences, and to lead to the same end contradictory views. Amid such diversity of opinions he alone could maintain order, and command sufficient confidence to subject all differences of opinion to discipline, in advance of the coming revolution; for to do this was his ambition, his only ambition. He had friends in both camps; these precipitated the movement, those retarded it. His intimate relations with both parties put him in the way of hearing the opinions and knowing the situation thoroughly. Nothing could happen without his cognizance. In his work of centralization it was important to be well informed, so as to prevent errors, or to correct them as well as he could. To attract less notice and to more easily escape suspicion, Kruder inhabited an unfrequented neighbourhood. He usually remained at home until ten in the morning, the hour at which he went to his office. When he had finished his government work, he commenced his active and errant life, and this was prolonged late into the night. If he had to meet any one, he made an appointment, sometimes at a _café_, sometimes in a friend's house. To meet him, Jacob went to the dwelling of a young Jew, Bartold by name, the proprietor of a manufactory and a hardware merchant. His place was full of visitors every day, a fact which could be easily explained by the importance of his business. Well brought up and honest, he was not, however, a believer like Jacob. In religious matters he was satisfied to select the morals and repudiate the dogmas, but yet he proclaimed himself a Jew with a certain boastfulness. It pleased him to say: "If the European aristocracy are proud of tracing their origin back to the Crusades, I ought to be very proud of mine, which goes back much farther. I am a descendant of the tribe of Levi. That takes the place of arms or crests. My ancestors guarded the Ark of the Covenant in Solomon's temple; it is, at least, as great an honour as to have fought with the Saracens." Public agitation naturally increased the number of visitors at Bartold's, and he had put at their disposal two large rooms of his house. It was a neutral ground for political discussions. It was a place of reunion sheltered from the police. Bartold took a great interest in these meetings, for, in spite of his Israelitish genealogy, he was a Pole at heart. He was thirty years old, tall, muscular, and well formed. His eyes shone with more than ordinary intelligence. His manner disclosed the serenity of an honest man who followed the right path, and whose conscience was clear. He loved to laugh and to joke, but under all this he concealed a warm, humane, and charitable heart. He received Jacob with cries of joy and open arms. "You could not have come to us," cried he, "in a more opportune moment. You come to advise with us, do you not?" With Bartold and Kruder there was a young Pole belonging to the most advanced party of patriotic enthusiasm. Kruder took his hat to go, but Jacob detained him. "Pardon, monsieur," said he; "will you wait a moment? I have come to seek you here, I have something to tell you." "If it is not a personal affair you can speak freely before these gentlemen. We are all friends here." "Do you know Ivas?" asked the Jew abruptly. "I know him well. He was with me at the university at Kief. What has become of him? Have you met him anywhere?" "Yes, in Italy. I brought him with me to the Polish frontier." "And where is he at present?" "In a hiding-place that I found for him, but he insists on coming to Warsaw. I fear that would be dangerous for him. They are seeking him, and his description is known." "I do not agree with you. He had few acquaintances, and after some years of absence he must have changed enough not to be recognized. We could easily find an asylum for him here where he could escape the police. It would be prudent, however, for him to secure a communal passport." "May he soon join us," said the young man of the extreme party. "He will be very useful to our cause. We will undertake to conceal him. I have often heard of him; he belongs to the Lithuanian provinces. Nothing could be better. We will send him there to make converts to our cause. What can we do to bring him here?" "And," asked Kruder, looking at Jacob, "what are Ivas' feelings? You see that here we are all fire, all flame." "I fear he has too much fire," said Jacob. "Deleterious fire, alas! This flame is, to my mind, the flame of despair. It will drive men to unreasonable acts." "Behold a cautious man!" cried the young Pole, paling with wrath; "the sentiments of your race can be expressed in two words,--self-interest and logic. We Poles, on the contrary, are led by what you call folly. Is heroism folly? Then it will be by folly that we shall triumph." "I am not," replied Jacob, "an exclusive partisan of cold reason. Logic leads one astray at times. In a question of life or death for the country's salvation we should not depend entirely on cold reasoning, nor wholly on enthusiasm. Reasoners and enthusiasts are equally at fault, are both on the wrong path." "Would you, then, have a mixture of folly and reason?" "Precisely. And I wish it for the common good. In it you will find the veritable national instinct." "No, no! Popular opinion aspires to a revolution which will accomplish our deliverance." "The revolutionary agitation is only at the surface," said Jacob. "In the bottom of all hearts there are forebodings of the evils which may arise from a premature explosion." "If such are your opinions, I present you my compliments, and I salute you." "Wilk," interrupted Kruder, "do not allow yourself to become so angry." "Why does he irritate me, then?" replied the young enthusiast, a little appeased. "However, I withdraw my brusque adieu and will remain." "Be seated, gentlemen," said Bartold. "We are going to serve tea, and you, Kruder, you must not go yet." "I am expected at ten meetings." "You can shirk five of them." "I cannot, however, miss my interview with Count A. Z., nor the meeting of the Agricultural Society, nor the University debate, nor the Association for Popular Publications, nor"-- "You are verily a much-sought-for man, but, if I were you, I would throw from my shoulders a good half of these burdens; childish bluster, rhetorical competitions, a war of words of patriotic agitation, behold to what you are invited! You wish to direct everything and everybody; take care that you do not become a blunted tool in the end." Kruder shook his head as if to say, "It will never be." But at heart he felt that in his friend's warning he had something to fear. After a general conversation he left the room with Wilk, and they talked over the measures necessary to secure Ivas' safety. Alone, Jacob and Bartold embraced warmly, for they loved each other like brothers, despite the rationalism of the one and the piety of the other. They had an animated discussion on the situation of the Jews in Poland and throughout the world. Jacob, as was his custom, spoke at length on the apostleship he intended undertaking. "You will lose your time and your efforts," said Bartold; "the era of religious convictions is passed. We live in an age of reason, where it is useless to wish to resuscitate the beliefs of antiquity and of the Middle Ages. The structures which sheltered the wings of the cherubim have crumbled away and can never be raised." Jacob listened attentively, but his convictions were not shaken. He was persuaded of the necessity of a reform in Judaism that should reestablish the authority of the Mosaic law. CHAPTER XII. A SIREN. After some weeks of sojourn at Warsaw Jacob met in the street Luci Coloni, accompanied by Gromof, her Russian cavalier of the grotto at Sestri. He was hastening to salute them, when he perceived that the lady and her companion turned as if to avoid him. Why this mystery? Jacob was puzzled, and paused on his way. Ivas' affairs were soon arranged; it was no longer necessary to watch over him, and, freed from that anxiety, he dreamed of commencing his Judaic reform. He realized that he had two formidable obstacles to encounter,--on one side indifference, on the other, superstition. The superstitious would regard him as an atheist, the indifferent, as a bigoted fanatic. Discouraged for the moment, as almost all reformers have been, he sought to regain his former enthusiasm by reading the Bible and the Talmud. To this end he shut himself up for several days, and came out determined to make converts, not among the old, whose convictions were settled, but among the youth, who were still animated with noble instincts. These it was whose opinion he would strive to form. Weary with his long meditations he was going out to walk in the fresh air, when he was handed a note from Madame Wtorkowska, written on satin paper, the contents of which were as follows:-- We shall be very happy to see M. Jacob at our house this evening. There will be a few friends and a little music. Benigna Wtorkowska. Jacob was not in the humour to accept, but he reflected that it would be impolite to refuse, and that perhaps he might meet Mathilde there, so he accepted the invitation. The little villa occupied by the Wtorkowskas was a masterpiece of that modern art which transforms real misery into lying luxury. Nothing had been paid for, from the servants' livery to the satin robe worn by the hostess, and the lace-covered velvet dress of the charming daughter. The refreshments, the bonbons, the flowers, were all obtained on credit. Twice a week Hermann and Grossmann demanded the money for the Pleyel grand piano, but in vain. The shabbiness of the furniture was concealed by new covers, the broken places in the frames of the pictures and mirrors were twined with ivy. With all these frauds and ruses the little house, seen by the light of innumerable wax candles, took on an air of freshness and elegance. The studied disorder of objects thrown carelessly on the table was the result of long thought. Here, a French romance was displayed, to show acquaintance with current literature; there, pieces of classical music, to show the degree of perfection arrived at by the fair performer. On one side lay a photograph album containing portraits of celebrated men, implying a personal acquaintance with them. Jacob arrived a little late. The company was too numerous for the _salon_, and the room was crowded. The guests occupied the couches and chairs, and some remained standing against the wall. There was heat and noise, and to move about demanded much skill. Madame Wtorkowska received Jacob with studied politeness. Muse advanced toward him with a smile which she had practised before the glass. She led him to a little group where Mathilde was seated. Madame Segel wore a white robe, and on her breast was a large bunch of camellias of the same colour. She was pale; on the approach of Jacob she lifted her head, and greeted him with a slight blush and a melancholy smile. After that the poor woman relapsed into a glacial torpor. Henri stood behind the chair of Mademoiselle Muse, whose toilet was so _décolleté_ that all admirers of certain feminine charms could feast their eyes to their hearts' content. Her thick and glossy braids were twined around her head in classic style, and served admirably to bring out the splendour of her eyes and complexion. She had the lively and brilliant expression of a lioness seeking whom she might devour. Her crimson velvet dress, covered with costly lace, bought on credit, became her admirably, and gave her a queenly air. On her lovely arm sparkled a large bracelet set with rubies. Mathilde resembled an aerial spirit descended in a cloud of moonlit rays; Muse, a _bacchante_, full of sensuous vitality. Henri whispered in Jacob's ear:-- "If I were free like you, I would not hesitate an instant; I would propose to this siren." "And if I were in your place, and had such a wife as you have, I would not even look at her," said Jacob coldly. Segel smiled ironically, pushed back his black hair from his forehead, and drew near Muse. "Can you guess, mademoiselle," asked he in a low voice, "what advice I have just been giving Jacob?" The charmer replied sweetly in an indifferent tone, although she perfectly understood what had passed between the two men. "How can I guess, monsieur?" "I advised him to fall in love with you." "What bad advice!" "Why?" "Because I can never love any one." "No one?" asked Henri tenderly. "You have said it. I consider love as a dangerous malady, against which one should be on guard." "A malady rarely fatal," said Henri smiling. "No matter; I am afraid of it." "A bad sign. It is said that there is much more danger of taking typhus or cholera when one fears it. It is a bad omen! Jacob"-- "Why, monsieur, why do you speak to me of this philosopher, this savant?" "Hardly a philosopher: a mystic, a fanatic." "Who flies from me," said Muse. "Help me, then, to tame him a little. I would like to talk with this savage." "What would I not do for you, mademoiselle? I will bring him to your feet, be sure of that." "You wish to marry him," thought Henri. "I will assist you, but I will claim my reward." The treaty was concluded without further discussion, without protocol, between these two congenial spirits. Segel, wishing to hasten the execution, went to Jacob. He took his arm and said:-- "Come, then, to the divine Muse, who wishes to talk with you about Italy, with which her imagination is full." "I fear I am not capable of doing justice to the subject," said Jacob. "No matter. Come and try." So saying, he led him towards her, almost by force. "This Jacob," said he to Muse, "is the most conscientious of tourists; he has travelled over Italy on foot while I went by the railway. He can tell you about it a hundred times better than I. He can speak to you of that land of art of which you have dreamed." Muse, all smiles, turned to Jacob and said:-- "At last, monsieur, I have caught you, whether you will or not; you must tell me of that Italy where I am always begging mamma to take me." "I regret very much not to be enough master of my subject to give you a just idea of that beautiful land. It is not sufficient merely to have visited it, one must have lived there to fully appreciate its beauties." "Pardon me, but I do not agree with you. Travellers often know more of a country than its inhabitants." "Superficially, yes; but the spirit, the soul of a country, only reveals itself after long study." "Italy is delightful, is it not?" This question was not a skilful one. But it was necessary to get Jacob started on some subject, so that she could exercise all the feminine seductions of a determined woman, resolved to succeed, and employ all the resources of her consummate art, aided by her natural charms. What an actress she was! An actress in every glance, every movement, even in the inflexions of her voice! She spoke feelingly without the least inner emotion; she spoke of feelings of which she only knew from hearsay. Judging all men more or less vain, she sought by delicate flattery to fascinate and subjugate them. By turns lively or melancholy, sensible or careless, she was charming under all circumstances. However, she made no impression on Jacob, who remained cold and impassible. As if to alleviate his enforced captivity, he at times glanced at the chaste and pure woman who was seated not far from him absorbed in melancholy, and who seemed to him like an ideal queen covered with a saintly aureola. Muse was exasperated by Jacob's invulnerable indifference, but desired more than ever to bring him to her feet. She let her evident efforts to enslave him be seen. Her mother surveyed the man[oe]uvres of her daughter, which she found too bold, although she could not help admiring the audacity with which the attack was made. Jacob was obliged, at the request of Muse, to conduct her to the piano. She took off her gloves slowly, and, coquettishly, radiant, continued her conversation in a low voice, so as to give the idea that a sort of intimacy was established between them. "My dear," remarked Madame N. to Madame X., "Emusia is conducting herself in a scandalous manner." "Bah! Young ladies of her stamp always succeed in their matrimonial pursuits." Just then the mistress of the house came to them, and Madame X. said:-- "We have just been speaking of your charming daughter. She is really enchanting this evening. Madame N. and I cannot take our eyes off her. She turns the head of every one,--even the old." "My Emusia," replied Madame Wtorkowska, "is all simplicity, all candour, although sometimes her very simplicity and frankness look like coquetry." At this reply from the mother, her two guests exchanged glances behind her back. "Why, she has taken Jacob by storm," cried his former guardian to Mann. "This Muse outdoes herself on his account. She did not trouble herself to amuse him before he got his fortune. It was not worth while to notice the poor beggar for whose education I paid." "The Berlin banker's legacy has made him a desirable match. She will finish by capturing him," said Mann. "I don't believe it, for I know my Jacob. He is not at ease in her society. You cannot catch all fish with the same hook. My son-in-law, Henri, would have taken the bait immediately. Jacob is afraid of her. He likes quiet women who are modest and timid. He is a poet." "Certainly the creature is far from that, and I congratulate the man who"-- Mann did not finish his remark, for suddenly the music ceased. Jacob was free from the chains of courtesy. He seated himself near Mathilde, who received him with a smile. The pale moonlight streamed in from the windows which opened on the veranda, and the light was softened by the leaves of the wild vines, which, with their long serpentine clusters, climbed over everything. They both wished to fly from this crowd, both wished to be alone; but to put this project into execution was not easy. Again Muse played, and under her skilful fingers the notes wept, groaned, sang, murmured, and sighed. It was Liszt's music. Every one was enchanted. "She is wonderful," said Mathilde. "As for myself, when I have been a half-hour at the piano I am fatigued. It seems to me that my tired soul flies away with the sounds. But what power she has! She laughs at difficulties, and rises even fresher and more radiant." "It is there, truly, that one finds the difference between her playing and yours. You put your soul into it. Her playing does not affect me at all. It is as if the piano played alone. With you, the soul sings to me." "No, she is a true artiste. I am only a musician." "I cannot admire the artists of the present day. They are but the masters of their art, skilled workmen who know all the tricks of their trade. The shepherd who by inspiration plays on his bagpipe a simple air, be it very simple, very primitive, is much more an artist than this or that fashionable performer. Like everything else, art has been profaned in these days; it has become mercenary; it is a bread-winner, and not a priesthood. The artist of to-day strives for the fame that pays best, and not for the contentment of his soul. Who, then, now-a-days would paint frescoes for nothing but piety and for the love of God? Music, literature, painting, all at present go to the highest bidder. Muse belongs to the modern school. She has art, but art without soul. She plays Liszt and Walberg, but Chopin is inaccessible to her. She seizes the _bizarre_ side of Schumann, but the pathetic side, never!" "You judge her a little too severely. There is in the depths of her heart a little divine light, on her brow a little flame. But, alas! the unfortunates are not sure of to-morrow's bread, and I cannot help regarding with pity this woman and her daughter, for I know their situation." "Are they not rich?" "No! They are poor, very poor, though they affect riches." "This is frightful. This comedy of luxury is odious. The tears of dupes will pay for it. Indigence with courageous labour is a hundred times to be admired." "It is true, but false pride"-- "That word tells all; it is real deceit." "She pains me," said Mathilde. "Under the velvet there must be tears and anxiety; at the door poverty waits while they serve a sumptuous repast; to-morrow, solitude after the brilliant reunion of to-day. What a tragedy! It pains me even to think of it." Muse ceased to play. Every one applauded, and Henri hastened to kiss the artiste's hand. Mathilde, who was stifling in this atmosphere, said to Jacob,-- "Let us go out a moment and get some fresh air. No one will miss us. I cannot breathe." They passed through the crowd and reached the veranda. Muse followed them with her eyes, and turned ironically upon Henri. "I see," replied he to the mute question, "that my wife was too warm. She has gone out on the veranda with Jacob." "Then you are not jealous?" "Near you, mademoiselle, I think of you alone." "You have no right to talk thus." "Do you not know that that which is illegal is most attractive to men?" "You are perversity in person!" "Alas! a god would succumb before you, how much more a simple mortal." "Truly, monsieur, you flatter me." "No, mademoiselle, I assure you." Then he spoke to her in a low voice with much familiarity, and with a perfect understanding. When Mathilde left the _salon_ she gave her hand to Jacob at the threshold. "What is the matter, my child?" said he tenderly. "I feel very happy," said she; "I know not why, and very calm. I desire nothing. It seems as if my life were slipping away little by little. You are by my side; I am sure of your affection. What further happiness can I have?" "There would be very few who would be satisfied with a chaste love like ours. When I observe in the world the different personalities, different characters, I think, mademoiselle"-- "Why do you call me mademoiselle?" "I think, I say, that there are in each human being two powers who are antagonistic, like God and Satan. The contrasts are often striking. For example, you and Muse." "Do not judge her so harshly; you should be indulgent to all." "Very well. Who, then, are pure and innocent in the depths of their souls around us? Life is short. Every one must taste the bitter cup. Every one has his troubles, and most men, instead of seeking happiness in their own souls, seek it elsewhere and find it not. The world terrifies me with its variety of elements where evil predominates over good. I cannot understand this predominance of evil." "That is one of God's secrets, incomprehensible to our finite intelligence. What good will it do us to try, like the Titans, by force to pierce the closed heavens? Man seems to be the plaything of an implacable irony. He bears within him the sparks of an ardent fire, but he does not succeed in developing a large flame, for the wind of his passions scatters the firebrands. In his heart exist noble sentiments which are changed into gross appetite. Man grows more corrupt instead of purer. All is surprise in life; all an enigma. Then this dream of immortality and a future existence. Can we believe it?" She smiled sadly, and Jacob listened. Under their eyes lay a superb view. A light breeze murmured through the dark foliage of the old trees in the avenue. In the sky, the moon glided through the deep azure, and the stars twinkled as if to shake slumber from their eyelids. In the distance could be heard the faint sound of the city. "In contemplating creation," said Jacob, "do you not hear something within you say that we shall live beyond the tomb? That thought should destroy all fear for the future. Even if thousands of years of faith do not confirm this hope, it shines in the reply of the soul like stars in the depths of a well." "It is impossible," said Mathilde. "In any case, the other life will not be like this. My future will not be a continuation of this miserable existence. Perhaps I shall come again to live on earth. Oh, who knows anything about it?" "This death, so terrible to most of us, is represented in our Hebrew books as a sweet, an easy, passage to another existence. The Talmud, Berakhot 5, calls it the kiss of God." "How sorry I am not to have read those books, and to know so little of the Hebrew language! I have been educated for the world. My soul has not been nourished. The tempest of doubt has overthrown it." "There is yet time, dear Mathilde." "No, it is too late. Faith is the beverage of youthful souls. When unbelief is developed, the ground is dried up and a new graft cannot shoot forth. But God is full of mercy and pity. He will not punish us when we are not in fault. He will make allowances for our education." They were silent, but had no desire to return to the _salon_, where Muse, at the piano, was playing one of Liszt's most brilliant compositions. "Come, Jacob," said Mathilde, "you must do your duty. Go and compliment Muse. I will not be jealous. She is on the wrong path; you can convert and save her." "It is too late; that which you falsely said about yourself applies to her. Her intelligence and her heart have matured, and her character is already formed." They entered the _salon_. Mathilde's first glance showed her husband leaning on the back of Muse's chair, and his tender glances told that he was very much impressed. She did not feel the slightest chagrin. She was completely indifferent to Henri, and she rejoiced to think that he amused himself elsewhere, provided he spared her all importunate tenderness. Madame Wtorkowska was very nervous; she feared that the entertainment would not lead to the desired results. Jacob seemed absolutely indifferent to her daughter's charms; as for the other young men, they all admired her, but at a distance; and the marked attentions of Henri Segel displeased her because they came from a married man. With music, singing, cards, tea, and supper, the _soirée_ was prolonged to a late hour. The elder guests took leave under pretext of engagements in the morning. Mathilde went home, as she had a headache, and left the field free to her husband. Jacob had accompanied her to her door, and had received his orders to return. This thinning out of the rooms favoured the charmer's plans. The young man carelessly turned the leaves of an album; his conduct during the evening had strictly conformed to the rules of politeness. Yet this cold observation of the proprieties exasperated Madame Wtorkowska, who resolved to undertake his subjugation herself. She drew near him, and, as Jacob rose to give her his seat she said, taking his arm:-- "Monsieur, let us walk a little, and tell me about yourself. Now that you have returned to us, what do you intend to do?" Surprised by these attentions, he replied:-- "I intend to study and lead a life of leisure." "We have heard so much in your praise," said she, "that we were very desirous of knowing you." "I am infinitely obliged, madame." "Especially, Emusia. She admires such men." She could not find an adjective to designate exactly what kind of men, and added after a moment of hesitation:-- "I mean superior men. For, you see, my Emusia is a young girl of talent. What intelligence, what gifts! She devours an incredible quantity of books. Her memory is prodigious. Her wit is of the finest quality. In short, if she were not my daughter I would say that she is a marvel." "That is what I hear from every one," said Jacob politely. "My situation," continued she, "is an anxious one, for I have a mother's heart. To whom will my cherished one give herself? Will he appreciate her? Alas, the young men of to-day are so frivolous!" "Mademoiselle Emusia has but to choose." "How little you know the young men, monsieur!" For want of breath the mother stopped. She had commenced the battle with so much impetuosity that she was already worn out. She could think of nothing more to say. She was driven to her last intrenchments, and, on his side, Jacob had exhausted all his praises. Notwithstanding, after a moment of reflection she took breath and continued:-- "You, who are so great a connoisseur, what do you think of Emusia's playing?" "It is truly marvellous, madame." "Liszt, the master, was stupefied with astonishment when my daughter played for him his overture to _Guillaume Otello_. He watched her execute this, that, all the most difficult parts, and was wild with enthusiasm. It was at Spa. There was such clapping of hands, bravos that almost shook the house, an avalanche of bouquets! What an ovation, _mon Dieu!_" "It was merited, no doubt." "Oh, yes," said the mother. "An Erard piano fairly spoke under her fingers. She has such strength and incredible power." She was thus extolling her daughter when the young lady herself came to join in the conversation. Her eyes shone wrathfully. The more invulnerable Jacob showed himself, the more she was determined to bring him to her feet. Henri had given her the key to the character of this man, whom he called a religious fanatic. She resolved to read and study the Bible, and even the Talmud, if necessary. Already she commenced to play her new rôle. "I detest these noisy pleasures," said she. "Reading, meditation, quiet, they are the things that I love. And you?" "I also love study and tranquillity," said Jacob. "You men," said Muse, "have everything in your favour. You can, at your pleasure, devote yourselves to intellectual occupations; you are not slaves to the obligations of society, as we poor women are. You cannot imagine what a humiliation it is for a young girl to be taken continually here and there, and shown like merchandise." "Mademoiselle, although what you say is partly true, I assure you that the mothers and daughters exaggerate these pretended obligations. Our poet, Krasicki, has said somewhere, 'Nothing ever comes of a dialogue prepared with too much care.'" "That is very true, monsieur. Also most matches that end happily are made without thought, and as it were by a miracle." "Yes, I am convinced of that." "And it is probably by a miracle also," added the elder woman, "that marriages are maintained." "Have you been in the Orient?" asked Emusia, to change the conversation. "Yes, mademoiselle, and I bring back a sad impression. The land of poetry is to-day the land of misery. The cradle of civilization has become the tomb." "But there are still traces there of biblical times, are there not?" asked Muse. "Certainly. The costumes, the habits, the landscape, all remind one of the Bible. As in old days, Rachel still leads her flocks to water, and the white-bearded patriarchs still welcome you to their tents." "All that must be very interesting." "Not for the children of a civilization, enervated and weakened. We can no longer live this poetical life. It is rigid, painful, grave, primitive, and laborious. It impresses us, notwithstanding its poetry, with a strange emotion toward the fountains which now are dried up." "And the old biblical traditions?" "They clash on all sides. With us the old traditions are preserved, like withered plants in an herbarium; while there they still live, mixed with the daily existence. With what emotion one contemplates stones taken from the aqueducts of Solomon, the ruins of the temple, the places sanctified by the patriarchs! Christians and Jews both find there the cradle of their faith. In Europe we are only colonists." Emusia had taken a reclining attitude near Jacob, and listened with great attention. The mother profited by the occasion, and left them alone. Thus these two, in the midst of a crowd, found themselves alone. Simple politeness forbade Jacob's retreat. Muse attempted to magnetize him by her glances, by her gestures, by the sight of her gleaming shoulders, by her beauty, while she idly played with her bracelet, her rings, and her embroidered handkerchief, useless for any other purpose. The young man scarcely perceived these affected and enticing airs. "I know not," said she with hesitation, "if it be owing to the blood that flows in my veins, but this Orient has for me a certain attraction. It is thither that my desires tend. It has been torn from us, and we have been forced to forget it. It is a source of sadness for me that I know a mass of useless things, and that I am ignorant of that which most interests me." "What, for example?" asked Jacob, interested in spite of himself. "I will tell you," replied she, in a low voice with a feigned alarm, "provided mamma does not hear me. I am curious about all that concerns us that is Jewish. A Christian nominally, I am of Jewish blood, and Jesus has declared that he did not come to destroy the ancient law. Mamma, like many of our race, avoids and forbids all allusion to the past." "If you really wish it, mademoiselle, you can easily become familiar with our traditions; you have only to consult several books." "Alas! I do not know Hebrew." "There are translations in many languages." "Really? Could you not secretly lend me one or two? I would be very grateful to you; but it must remain a secret between us." This was a skilful move. Mystery brought them together. Emusia quietly put her little hand into Jacob's, and pressed it warmly as if to thank him. This grasp produced on the young man the effect of an electric current. He felt uneasy, troubled, and confused, as if he had committed a sin. "I will send you some volumes," murmured he. "That is not all," said she sweetly, still keeping her hand in his. "Guide me in the study for which I thirst. I have hours of liberty; mamma goes out often, and I am at home alone. I depend on you to be my master, my instructor, in the first principles of the faith of our ancestors. This may appear a little odd on my part, but you will excuse my ardent desire for light." "I fear"-- "No scruples, monsieur! If I have appeared impressed by you, I assure you it was only because I wish to learn from you something of Judaism." A slight feeling of suspicion entered Jacob's mind, but he thrust it away from him with contempt. He would not admit that acting could be carried so far. He believed that Muse was sincere, and he arose to go with a much better opinion of her than when he came. She seemed to him more beautiful than before, and with something poetical about her. He sought already in his imagination for the biblical type to which this strayed lamb of the fold of Israel belonged. He felt no sympathy for her yet, but his curiosity was awakened and his repugnance had disappeared. Emusia was radiant, and in her triumph said to herself:-- "I have hit Achilles in the heel." CHAPTER XIII. AKIBA. Jacob, admonished by Mann, bantered by Henri, lectured by his former guardian, and opposed by Bartold, had, nevertheless, commenced his apostleship. He essayed to group around him the youth of Israel, for the old men were against all reform. The most polished and the best educated did not like to recall their origin, nor to hear of the religion of their fathers. This was grievous. The disciples did not appear; all minds were absorbed in the revolutionary movement. Jacob's activity became more and more circumscribed. His co-religionists avoided him; but in spite of this abandonment, in spite of his isolation, he still clung to his ideas. He hoped to convince by his example, and to gain followers when calm should succeed the present political agitation and society regain its normal condition. He was sadly afflicted to see the irreligion of the youth of Israel, irreligion much more widespread than he had at first supposed. In the desert around him any mark of sympathy would naturally move him, touch him, and console him, and Muse profited by these circumstances. She put herself in possession of Jacob's ideas, procured the books recommended, and reading the ones he lent her, learned some things, guessed more, and thus armed, went forth to combat with fair chances of victory. Madame Wtorkowska had adroitly seized the opportunity of drawing nearer him whom she already called, to herself, her son-in-law. She took possession of the first story of a house of which the Jew occupied the second. As there was nothing easier to ascertain than when the recluse was at home, they sent to his rooms under pretext of returning books or to ask the loan of new ones. Then they begged him to come down to them. They also met him often on the stairs. Emusia became a fervent and intelligent disciple, and the apostle felt more and more flattered by this adhesion. "Would you believe it," said she one evening to her mother, "the fool imagines that I am nearly ready to embrace Judaism, while in reality his Bible and his Talmud, with all their silly old legends and their stupid stories, weary me dreadfully." "Do you believe that the idea of marriage has entered his head?" "Bah! I will put it there when I wish." "In that case you had better do it as soon as possible." "I am awaiting a favourable opportunity. With this man it is not the senses, but the heart, on which we must count, and we must not be in haste. Be tranquil, I lie in wait for the moment." "How do you watch for it? Flirting with Henri? God knows that if you were only safely married to Jacob I would not care how much you saw of Henri; but as you are not, I think these badinages are very ill-timed and take your mind off the principal business." "I know what I am doing, mamma; the best tactics with Jacob are to proceed slowly. If we try to hasten matters we may lose all." "Well, work it your own way." This phrase always terminated the altercations between Muse and her mother. The young girl's calculation was not destitute of judgment. Jacob did not love her, but he was becoming accustomed to her. As for the thought of marriage, it had never entered his head. His heart was filled with Mathilde, this fading flower that charmed him more each day. One thing only drew him to Emusia; it was the fervour that she manifested for the Bible and the Hebrew traditions, nothing more. The mother did not altogether approve her daughter's plans, and shrugged her shoulders, saying:-- "If he escapes we are lost." "Oh, no! It is not my Waterloo. I have not staked all on him. I have still the stage," said she laughing; and she continued to simulate an ardent admiration for the Jew and his doctrines, while at the bottom she detested them all. With Henri, on the contrary, full of familiarity and enjoyment, she was in her element. The better to insinuate herself in Jacob's good graces, she flattered his mania by suggesting to him the thought of giving lectures on Judaism. He fell into the trap with enthusiasm, in spite of the obstacles which he knew he would encounter. His friends, under one pretext or another, refused to give their houses for this edifying purpose. At last Bartold, against his will, but for friendship's sake, put his at the Jew's disposition. Israelites alone were invited. The only exceptions were Madame Wtorkowska and her daughter, as was very natural. Many Jews, for fear of being accused of superstition and ridicule, excused themselves at the last moment, feigning indisposition. The room was large and commodious. It had no Jewish features, for the master of the house lived in European style, although without luxury. Ostentation was nowhere to be seen in the dwelling of this descendant of Levi, who, with all his boasting of his biblical nobility, was really an honest and a modest man and a good Polish citizen. That evening Madame Bartold had put her children to bed at an early hour. She was dressed in good taste, and took great care that nothing should be wanting in any direction. The ladies were in the minority,--Madame Wtorkowska, Emusia, Mathilde, and two others. Among the men were missing Mann and Mathilde's father, who thought all this Hebrew nonsense the issue of a diseased imagination. Kruder was there, for he desired admittance to all reunions. Ivas also, and Wilk, who sought everywhere converts to the revolutionary cause. Henri had come, ostensibly to escort his wife, but really to converse freely with Muse. He often visited her; but her mother was always present, and she frequently took advantage of his attentions to her daughter to borrow money of the gallant visitor, whose passion disposed him to pecuniary sacrifices. At nine o'clock the room was full. Madame Bartold, crimson with fatigue, and redder still with timidity, sought to give every one a seat. On a table loaded with books was a carafe of water, a glass, and some sugar. All awaited the lecturer. They commenced by serving tea to the company; then Jacob appeared. A solemn silence indicated that his audience was prepared to listen attentively. Not being accustomed to speaking in public, he looked around him, and commenced in a weak and hesitating voice, which gradually grew stronger. "Ladies and Gentlemen: It is not without apprehension that as a Jew I present myself before Jews, many of whom blush for their origin; before Jews who know the history of France and England better than their own history; before Jews who know more of Sanscrit literature than of the Bible. From all sides we have been reproached for our spirit of retirement and of separation. We have been constrained to it, and the fault was not with us. How much more justly could men to-day make the merited reproach of our having ceased to be ourselves, and of losing our own identity without identifying ourselves with others. We are here in continual antagonism with the country we inhabit, to which many ties should unite us. It appears that even that does not suffice us, and we have divorced ourselves from our own past. "It is this past, with its poetry, that I would recall to you; for the time has come to appreciate it, and I wish to show you some of its characteristic beauties. "Without culling here and there detached fragments of this treasure, I prefer to relate to you the entire life of a man who holds a place in sacred and legendary history. My hero is the celebrated Akiba. "Akiba was so poor in his youth that he served as a shepherd for the wealthy Kalba Chaboua. He became enamoured of his master's daughter, and this love was the source of his wisdom. The young girl responded to the tender sentiment, but she made it the spur of an intelligence of which she had divined the value and the extent. "'If you wish me to marry you,' said she, 'you must promise to devote your life to science.' "Akiba promised, and they were married clandestinely. Kalba Chaboua discovered the secret, disowned his daughter, and drove them from his house. They wandered a long time without shelter, sleeping at night under the open sky. For a bed they had only a small bundle of straw, and tradition relates that one morning the beautiful black hair of the young woman was full of straws. Akiba drew them out gently, and lamented their hard fate. "'Dearest,' said he tenderly, 'if I could I would give thee rich garments, and I would hang on thy neck a golden Jerusalem,'--an ornament which represented the city of Jerusalem, and which was much worn among the Jewish women. "As he said the words he was accosted by a beggar clothed in rags. "'Have pity on me,' cried he, 'and give me a handful of straw to put under my wife's head. She is sick, and lying over there on the cold ground.' "Akiba gave the poor man what he demanded. "'Behold,' said he, 'an unfortunate still more wretched than ourselves!' "Akiba, in order to keep his promise to his wife, decided, in spite of his repugnance, to enter the school of Nakhum Gamsu. He was obliged to leave his wife, who entered service, and never ceased during the twelve years that separated them to write her husband encouraging letters, completely forgetting her own discomforts. "One day, pensive and sad, Akiba followed a solitary path. A little brook attracted his attention. The water had pierced a rock by gradual dropping, and flowed gently through. "'If drops of water,' remarked the future sage, 'have such power, what force will not then the human will have.' "He presented himself before his teachers without weakness and without false shame. He commenced with the letters of the alphabet, and in his free moments he gathered wood and sold the fagots in the market-place. Half of his earnings fed him, the other half clothed and lodged him. "Akiba soon astonished his masters. From a scholar he became an eminent professor. Thousands of disciples grouped around him. "During this time his wife waited. A wicked neighbour insinuated that he had abandoned her and would never return. "'It was I,' replied the wife, 'twelve years ago, who begged him to leave me and devote himself to science. If he prolong his studies twelve years longer, it will be well.' "Akiba heard of this advice, given indirectly, and profited by it. After the lapse of this time he returned to his native place. His renown had preceded him. All the population turned out to see him, and his wife was in the crowd. The wicked neighbour asked her how she dared present herself in rags before such an illustrious man. "'My husband knows my heart,' replied she simply. Before she was perceived, she ran out and threw herself at his feet. The pupils of Akiba would have repulsed her, but he said:-- "'Let her come to me. She is my wife, and it is to her that you and I owe much.' "Kalba Chaboua at last forgave his daughter and his son-in-law, and received them into his house. "Akiba had two remarkable teachers,--Eliezer and Nahum. The former was called the sealed vase, for he never lost a drop of acquired science. The latter, subtle and penetrating, shone by the fineness of his analysis. Their pupil united to the erudition of the one the critical spirit of the other. "When he commenced his teaching the Jews had many traditions accumulated for ages and transmitted orally. He collected and wrote them down, accompanying them with commentaries intended to reconcile the legends with the sacred writings. He founded a school which attracted universal admiration. "At the epoch when he lived religious spirit fermented; by the side of the philosophical sects of Greece, Christianity developed; Gnosticism grafted its poetical reveries on monotheism, and differences multiplied. "Many Jews were converted to the gospel under one form or another. Akiba remained faithful to the Mosaic belief. He was so profoundly absorbed in the mystery of the divine essence, that the angels wished to chastise him for his presumption in wishing to know all, to penetrate all. God restrained the wrath of these messengers, and said to them:-- "'He is worthy of meditating on my grandeur.' "Devout as was Akiba, he excelled in modern science. He destroyed by his criticisms many things which his contemporaries called miraculous, rejected the prodigious pretensions credited by superstition, and was pleased to demonstrate the immutability of the laws of nature. * * * * * "Contrary to the other rabbis, he rejected the belief in eternal punishment. One day, when travelling, having with him a cock and an ass, he arrived at a village, and went in vain from door to door asking hospitality. "'God doeth all things well,' said he. This was his favourite saying. Then he entered a deep forest, where he sought by the light of his lantern a place to repose. The wind put out his light, and he lay down repeating, 'God doeth all things well.' Just then a wild-cat strangled his cock and a wolf came and tore his ass in pieces; still Akiba repeated 'God doeth all things well.' "In reality, though he had met these misfortunes he had saved his life, which had been surely lost had he slept in the village. His humility and confidence in God were his chief characteristics. "Once Akiba appeared in great spirits at the bedside of a dying man who lamented his approaching end, and whose friends were weeping around his bed. When asked the cause of his gayety,-- "'There is no man without sin,' said he, 'and I am rejoiced that this one has expiated his during his life.' "Another time it was a wise man who was tortured with frightful pains. Three old savants, his friends, came to console him, and spoke in praise of his wisdom. "'Science,' said the first, 'is more useful to Israel than the dew to the earth. The dew gives the earth temporary life, wisdom prepares the soul for eternal life.' "'Wisdom,' continued the second, 'is more necessary than the light of the sun. The one guides us here below, the other conducts us to heaven.' "Then the third spoke thus:-- "'You have been to Israel more than a father and a mother. Our parents give us earthly life; you, the life celestial.' "When Akiba's turn came to speak, he said simply:-- "'It is sweet to suffer here below.' "'Raise me up,' cried the dying man; 'I wish to hear the second time these words, for they comfort me.' "Akiba deemed suffering salutary for individuals and for nations. He compared Israel, stained with blood by Vespasian and his successors, to a white horse adorned with purple reins. He was not over-scrupulous in religious observances. His prayers were short. He wore his usual simple garments on holy days, notwithstanding the biblical command to array one's self with particular care. "'God,' said he, 'will more readily pardon sins committed against himself than evil done a neighbour. The Israelite owes justice not only to the Israelites, but to the pagans.' "He loved to discuss morals under anecdotal form. Here is a specimen of his method:-- "Two men were in the midst of a desert. They had only water enough for one. What ought they to do? To share the water was certain death to both. 'That is not the solution of the dilemma,' added Akiba; 'one must sacrifice himself for the other, that one, at least, should live.' "In advance of his times, the sage had a profound respect for human life, and he was one of the first opponents of the death penalty. "Having become rich, thanks to his father-in-law, he was a benefactor to the poor and a promoter of all charitable associations. "'Whoever,' he used to say, 'does not relieve a sick person, when it is in his power to do so, is an assassin.' "The destruction of Jerusalem and the temple did not weaken Akiba's faith in divine justice. While Israel wept over the smoking ruins of the holy city, he smiled and predicted a brighter future. He always taught resignation to the divine will. But incessant persecutions aroused in him a violent irritation against the Romans, and a thirst for martyrdom. He lived in an epoch when the Jews were most unfortunate. Domitian continued the horrors of Vespasian and of Titus. They struck blows on all sides, and sought particularly a descendant of David, of whom popular rumour proclaimed the existence, and who intended, it was said, to avenge Israel's woes. "Akiba converted many Romans to the Hebrew monotheism, Flavius Clemens, a relative of the emperor, was put to death for having embraced this doctrine, and his wife was, for the same reason, condemned to exile. After the death of this Cæsar, Israel breathed again during the two years' reign of Nerva and during the first ten years of the reign of Trajan; but they paid dearly for this short respite. The Jews of Syria, of Mesopotamia, of Armenia and Persia, took arms in favour of the Parthians, and drew on themselves the wrath of Rome, whose soldiers massacred them in great numbers. They soon took up arms again upon the Euphrates, and revolted at Cyprus and in Egypt. New persecutions and repressions followed under the reign of Adrian. "Akiba, a man of science, was changed by these troubles into a man of action. He travelled over the different parts of the empire to prepare a general uprising. He entered into relations with Simon, or Bar Kokhba, called the child of destiny when he was in the height of his prosperity, the child of lies after he had lost his fortune. "This Simon, intrepid, daring, and of attractive manner, had with his majestic height all the qualities required for the leader of an insurrection. He pleased Akiba, who proclaimed him Messiah. The title attracted thousands of volunteers, for the idea of a deliverer sent by God was attached to the name of Messiah. Simon admitted to the ranks of his army only the strong and vigorous, many of whom were able to tear a large tree from the earth with their hands. Full of a confidence which he communicated to others, Bar Kokhba often addressed to God this strange prayer:-- "'If thou dost not wish to come to my aid, at least do not favour my foes; for if thou dost not support them I will vanquish them.' "To excessive presumption he owed his ultimate defeat after many brilliant triumphs. The Roman governor of Palestine was completely routed. Fifty cities or towns and nine hundred and eighty-five villages fell into the power of the insurgents. Established at Bitar, Bar Kokhba made that city his capital, fortified it, and coined money in his own name. Adrian was troubled. The Jews everywhere refused to pay taxes. He sent to Britain for one of his most able lieutenants, Julius Severus. Severus advised patience; he attacked the Jews by detachments, and finished by surrounding Bitar, whose inhabitants he reduced to famine. Bar Kokhba defended his city until death. "It is sad to remember that this valiant chief soiled his life by an unpardonable act. During the siege, the wise Eliezer, Akiba's teacher, gave himself up to fasting and prayer. This contemplative life in the midst of general activity was called treasonable; the Messiah ordered him put to death, and the devout scholar was killed. It is estimated that a half-million of Israelites lost their lives in this formidable revolt. After the combat the fugitives were pitilessly pursued. Many died of hunger in the forests and caverns, the survivors nourished themselves on the corpses of their brothers, and those who fell into the power of the Romans were massacred or sold as slaves. Adrian renewed the edict of Trajan, forbidding the Jews to perform their religious rites or to teach their faith. All literature that might maintain or propagate the national sentiments was suppressed. Jerusalem was peopled with Romans, and on the site of the Temple of Solomon arose a temple to Jupiter, adorned with his statue. They even changed the name of the violated city, calling it [OE]lia Capitolina, from the name [OE]lius. The Jews were forbidden to stay there, or even to enter. At the gate which led to Bethlehem the head of a pig was exposed as a permanent insult. "After the peace, Akiba was not immediately molested in spite of his participation in the insurrection,--a moral participation, perhaps, but very efficacious. He continued, contrary to the imperial edict, to explain the holy books. He was soon arrested, on the order of that same Rufus who had conquered the 'child of destiny,' and who was the new governor of Judea. The old man was shut up in a dark dungeon, and his only nourishment was bread and water. Instead of drinking this water he used it for the ablutions prescribed by the law. He was condemned to torture and to death. In the midst of the most excruciating sufferings, when the hour of prayer, called Chema, arrived, he began to recite in a loud voice. The executioner was astonished, and asked him if he had charms to banish his pains. "'I have no charms,' replied he calmly; 'but I have always desired to offer God the sacrifice of my life. My wish is granted, and I rejoice.' "He continued his prayer, and reaching the words, 'There is but one God,' gave up the ghost." CHAPTER XIV. ALEA JACTA EST. The audience had listened attentively. The impressions produced were different and not altogether favourable. Some faces expressed an ironical disapprobation, others impatience and weariness. Nevertheless, after the lecture was over they all hastened to thank the orator with many compliments. After a while the critics commenced:-- "Fanaticism plays a great part in this historical lecture," remarked Henri Segel. "I do not like these legends; they are pure invention," said another. "All these old persecutions appear improbable today," added a third. "They can, nevertheless, be renewed with the most frightful details against us or against other nations," replied Jacob. "Conquerors are always savage in their vengeance, whether they are called Nero, Domitian, Trajan, Adrian, or"-- He was interrupted by some one who asked:-- "What, in the nineteenth century?" "Yes; in our own times. _Utinam simfalsus vates!_ Can I be a false prophet?" "But, monsieur," said Muse, "you owe us something more gay, more agreeable." "Hebrew literature furnishes certainly agreeable and amusing stories, but the choice is difficult." Jacob turned some pages of the Talmud. "The Rabbi Gamaliel, who was put to death by Rufus in the same manner as Akiba, related one day to a pagan prince the creation of woman in Genesis. "'If that is true,' said the prince, 'your God acts like a malefactor, robbing a rib from Adam during his sleep.' "The younger daughter of Gamaliel heard of the conversation. "'Permit me, father, to reply,' said she. "The rabbi consented, and she approached the prince supplicatingly. "'My lord,' said she, 'I come to demand justice.' "'What has happened?' "'A robbery has been committed in our house: a thief entered the house in the night and stole a silver cup, leaving in its place a golden one.' "'What an honest thief! Would to Heaven we had more like him!' cried the prince. "'Very well, then, my lord. Our God is a malefactor of the same stamp. He took from Adam a part of his body, and gave him the beautiful Eve in exchange.' "'The comparison is ingenious; but your God had better have acted in a frank and open manner. Why should he have employed clandestine means?' "The young girl said in reply:-- "'Will you permit me to bring here a piece of raw meat?' "'Certainly.' "As soon as she had the meat the daughter of Gamaliel went to the fire, cut it, and prepared it in the presence of the astonished prince, and when it was cooked, invited him to eat. "'My child, I know it is well cooked, but to have seen it done in detail takes away my appetite.' "'Behold why God did not wish Adam to assist at the preparation of his wife. Perhaps he also would not have wished to possess her.' "The Talmud," continued Jacob, "explains why God did not take the woman from the eyes, nor the mouth, nor the arms." "Suspend the conversation and conceal the Talmud. I hear knocks at the door," said Henri. "Why should I do that?" "Perhaps it is a stranger; it is not desirable that he should surprise us in full Judaism." "Should we, then, be ashamed of our part?" said Jacob sadly. Kruder, who had left the room, entered, pale and agitated. "What is it?" asked Bartold. "While you have been so quiet here there has been a massacre. The military have surprised a political meeting, and it is said that many were killed and wounded." "Let us go!" cried Jacob. "Let us go where the blood flows, and where victims are demanded. We should be found there;" and he seized his hat, but Bartold withheld him. "Wait," said he; "this is but the prologue of the drama. It is evident that we should not hold ourselves aloof, there I agree with you; but we must not act in an imprudent manner. The thing is probably over for to-day. I propose that we consult together as to what is best to do." "Where, where?" came from all sides. "At Mann's. We can do nothing without him." "When?" "To-morrow morning." Kruder threw himself in a chair. "_Alea jacta est_," said he. "Unhappy Poland!" The tragedy occurred on the street, at a time when the nobles had arrived from all parts of the kingdom, for a general reunion of the Agricultural Society. No one had foreseen the sinister event, no one wished for it; but an invisible hand seemed to precipitate it. After he left Bartold's, Jacob could not resist the temptation to visit the scene of the catastrophe. A lugubrious silence reigned there. Noiseless pedestrians hurriedly regained their homes, gliding silently through the misty shadows. Here and there a sentinel was stationed. On the grave faces of the soldiers he believed that he could read the struggle between military honour and human duty. Near the Hotel Europe Jacob met a group of nobles who came out of the governmental palace; they were excited, and conversed in low voices. As he passed on, by the door of the hotel, some one seized his hand, and he recognized Gromof, the companion of Lucie Coloni. Taking his arm, Gromof drew him into the house, and made him mount several pairs of stairs without saying a word. They entered the apartment of the Italian lady, and found her seated on a couch. She looked at Gromof and left the room; alone with Jacob, the Russian said:-- "You are young, monsieur, and you cannot be altogether indifferent to that which is happening; you ought to know everything about it." "Of what?" "Of the intended revolution." "I know absolutely nothing, I assure you." "Do you take me for a spy, an informer?" asked Gromof. "Be cool and wise, my friend. I have scarcely returned to my home. I am a Jew, and, if you will recall it, in the depths of my soul an enemy to all revolution." "And why are you opposed to revolutions?" "Because they lead to nothing, they are convulsive maladies, they retard the normal march of progress, and their cruel repressions push the people to despair. I think that there are means more efficacious than rebellions; but this discussion will lead us too far. I am not a revolutionist, I repeat to you; but if this country, which is the land of my choice, needs my blood and my life, I will give them willingly. I will go with the others." "You are a man of good faith. It is enough to see you and to hear you to be convinced of it. I will then be as frank with you as I can, without betraying the secrets of others. I am a revolutionist myself by principle, for I am a Russian. My neck bears the mark of an iron collar; on my arms are imprints made by chains; the stigma of slavery is engraved on my thoughts, on my conscience, and on my words. I am ready to sacrifice myself to overthrow the world, to shed torrents of blood, at any cost to deliver my country from intellectual servitude, from moral degradation, from a maternal slavery which makes me blush to call myself a Russian in the eyes of the world. With us a revolution is a necessity. Otherwise we shall never gain the rights of men; but in this uprising we must be united. Wait until we give the signal; then march united; if you engage in this combat against despotism alone, you will compromise both your future and ours. Use, I entreat you, all your influence to stop this absurd, tempestuous, and premature outbreak. Russia will remain chained for a century yet, if your foolish precipitation is not abated. If you rebel now, you will only be playing into their hands; it is the very thing they want you to do; as in 1812, they will appeal to the patriotism of the masses, and set them upon you like wild beasts after their prey. An infamous bureaucracy will wallow in the blood of vanquished Poland; oppressed and down-trodden, she will find it difficult to rise again. There will be persecutions, murders, and exile of hundreds at a time to Siberia. That is what awaits you if you do not take my warning." "Have you talked with any of our young men?" "Yes; with some of the military; but scarcely had I opened my mouth when they took me for an agent of the third section, and would not listen to me. And yet, if these madmen would only remain quiet two or three years, we Russian revolutionists would have time to work through the army and to instil in all hearts a desire for freedom, to turn the emancipation of the serfs made for the profit of the government against this same government, and to spread from the shores of the Neva the cry of freedom for Russia as well as for Poland. It is certain to come some day; but your headstrong Poles will retard it if they do not listen to reason. Could you not arrange for me to meet some of the leaders of the agitation?" "Truly, I do not know them. A youth who has more enthusiasm than good sense appears to be the leader in this movement." "This youth is only an instrument, I think," said the Russian. "Where are the serious men, the earnest ones?" "I do not believe there are any." "Young men are active in war, but need old men in counsel. How came the country to be abandoned to such authority? You are mocking me, no doubt. You do not trust me. You will not speak." "If I had had suspicions, they might have been justified, for I hardly know you; but I give you my word of honour that I do not belong to any such conspiracy, nor to any secret society. I am ready, however, to give my life when the hour of the supreme holocaust arrives." "I believe you; but your heroism is inconceivable. To be willing to die with those who do not confide in you is strange." "It is not so strange, and it is not heroism. It will only be the accomplishment of my duty, and a proof that there are some Jews who deserve a country, and that some of us love Poland." "Will you save her by your devotion?" "No. And we ourselves will perish; but we shall have contracted an alliance of blood with this country." "All that is very fine and very poetic, but politics require something else; they do not rely on sentimental pity. By her reiterated heroisms, Poland has weakened herself and perishes. Calculation, opportunity, and stratagem may save her. Why does she not seek to make allies of her own oppressors, when nothing could be easier? Why has she given up her place in the government of Russia to the Germans? Why has she not sought to take up all governmental interests, to endear herself to us, and to communicate to us her liberalism, her brilliant civilization? Why has she not been more politic? She has furnished us only some nobles with great names but without worth, lackeys in court dress; but men of real importance, not one. They have all kept aloof. In one century, since the first partition of your country, what has been your influence? The Poles are much more enlightened than the Russians; could you not have been benefactors? In a century so little has been done. You have dissipated the years in frivolity, and each generation has thrown itself entirely unprepared into a revolution, always cruelly repressed, the result of which was exile and oppression. Wives have left their luxurious homes and accompanied their husbands to Siberia. You have harangued, written, and revealed to the Russian government your own weakness, so that they know how to strike and how you will take the blow. The Poles have the chivalrous instinct too fully developed; you do not dissemble enough. My word for it, you must meet intrigue with intrigue. If you do not, you will perish utterly, and you will have deserved it by your candour." "A generation will perish, perhaps," said Jacob, "but not Poland. Under Russian oppression, under the knout and the gallows, she will learn to be more serious, more persevering, and more wise. The cowardly will be terrorized, but they will be the exception." "Do you know what your spiritual writer, Rzewuski, said to a Russian general?" "No; I have not heard it." "'I have a wonderful way of discovering the honesty of a Russian and the good sense of a Pole.' "'What is the way?' asked the general. "'It is only to look in the palm of the hand to see if there are any hairs there.'" "That is true," said Gromof. "The Poles lack good sense and we lack honesty. From the time of Ivan the Terrible we have been taught to lie, to steal, and to kill for the public good. Such teachings for three generations have naturally borne their fruit. As for the Poles, after experiencing such misfortunes by their precipitation, they should have acquired common-sense and judgment; but they have not, I regret to say." "What do you wish of me, monsieur?" said Jacob. "I wish you to try and quell the passions of your youthful revolutionists. Pray, supplicate, admonish, and entreat them to wait; in the name of Heaven, to wait; and if you think your influence is not great enough, introduce me to a leader, a chief." "One word, monsieur," said Jacob. "How can I be sure that you are worthy of confidence; you are a Russian; what proofs can you give of being worthy of our confidence?" "I assure you I merit your whole confidence," cried Gromof, "and I will give proofs in writing and on my own body. I will show on my back ridges left there by the knout, and on my arms the mark of chains. But, no! no! they do not wish to believe me. Unhappy Poland will fail to secure liberty, for her a forbidden fruit! The throne of the Czar will be strengthened by those who thought to overthrow it. The court will continue to suck the people's blood. Oh, what a satanic laugh does your idiotic revolution provoke in me! I will be among the first to prey on you, to avenge myself for my destroyed hopes. Yes, I will go to see you all hung with pleasure, for you will have ruined our future." "Be calm," said Jacob; "we have not yet commenced a revolution, and perhaps it may be averted. These youth are only a handful; they may yet be suppressed." "No; if young men are at the head, neither themselves nor any one else can hold them back. They will go to any length. Youth and the mob are two inflammable elements. The sacrifice will be accomplished. There will be a heap of corpses, and the bureaucracy will make merry with their samovars and their brandy on the battle-field. I see your future: the country ravaged, villages depopulated, cities pillaged, chained galley slaves marching towards Siberia, bloody executions, an insatiable vengeance, and everywhere ruins and ashes. That will be your fate for having retarded Russian liberty by your premature revolution." "Do not be so excited, I pray you." "Not be excited! That is easy to say. Have you suffered as I have? Do you know what exile is? Do you know anything about penal labour? I was condemned to it for life, but I escaped. Such labour is very hard, but exile is even more intolerable." After a short silence Gromof continued:-- "Braving all personal danger, I come here to prevent, if possible, a fatal precipitation; but I fear it is too late." "But," said Jacob, "how can they commence a revolution without arms, without money, without leaders or soldiers?" "Your crazy youth would go to battle with sticks and staves. The government, to encourage them, or rather to lead them into the snare of their own destruction, have permitted the underhand introduction of a small quantity of arms; they have been allowed to amass a little money, and the government has seemed to have its eyes shut to a movement that it has really instigated. Afterward they can repress it when they desire. In the eyes of Europe, the first aggression will be on your side. Your folly will have been heroic, but will only obtain a barren sympathy. Europe will authorize by her silence the horrible cruelties which Poland will again endure, and despotism, by this crafty political stroke, will be reinforced for a long time." Jacob did not reply, and Gromof grew warmer and warmer, when Lucie Coloni came out of the next room, and, putting her hand on his brow, said in a caressing tone:-- "Serge, calm yourself, or you will be ill." "It will kill me!" said Gromof, hanging his head for a moment, then raising it he cried furiously:-- "Bad luck to you! Bad luck to you, if our project is ruined by you foolish Poles!" Jacob drew out his watch; the situation was unpleasant and he did not know what to do, what to say. The Russian looked at him reproachfully as if he had thrown cold water on his hopes; he seated himself again, and instead of acting like one possessed, Gromof suddenly became pleasant and agreeable. "Pardon me, Monsieur Jacob," said he, "for having revealed to you the sufferings of my inmost heart. Savage blood flows in my veins, which is repressed only by civilization. All my countrymen are the same; we Russians are savages at heart, but you know now what I want of you or any other person who has political influence in the present crisis." They parted, and Jacob passing safely by the guards regained his dwelling. CHAPTER XV. A PERILOUS INTERVIEW. Returned home, Jacob found a note from Muse, who implored him, no matter at what hour he returned, to come to her, saying she would wait for him if necessary until morning. Until now the grave young man, notwithstanding the marked devotion of his lovely proselyte, had known how to maintain when in her presence a respectful distance, avoiding all familiar and compromising relations. The mother and daughter endeavoured in vain to put him in a compromising position. More than once things were arranged so that he was alone with the young girl, who then employed an insinuating sweetness and provoking tenderness; but Jacob did not cease to be respectful and dignified. There had been moments when this charming creature, animated by a simulated passion, and recalling the Greek bacchantes, had produced in him an involuntary sensation; but he conquered it, and his love for Mathilde served as a shield to defend him against temptation. It was past midnight when the servant who had brought the letter told him that he was expected on the floor below. Jacob hesitated; but he thought that some urgent business had caused these ladies to appeal to him, and he decided to go. He found Muse in a light piquant yet modest dress, her beautiful hair partly unconfined, her shoulders a little uncovered, as if by chance. She held a handkerchief, and was all prepared for tears. When he entered, she ran to meet him. "Oh, Monsieur Jacob!" cried she, taking his hand. "What has happened? Where have you been? You were no doubt mixed up in this affair. Oh, I ask you, for mercy's sake, not to throw yourself in the fray. Does not friendship permit me to ask this of you?" She fixed her eyes tenderly on Jacob, who, perfectly calm, did not reply. Muse continued:-- "I am all in a tremble about you. Do not misjudge my feelings, for I have for you only the sentiments of a sister," and she pressed his hand for the second time. "I thank you very much, mademoiselle; but I give you my word of honour that I know nothing of the events that have taken place, and I do not intend to take part in the fray." "In that case, why this prolonged absence?" "By a singular chance a person of my acquaintance stopped me and the conversation lasted long." "It is useless, you cannot deceive me;" and saying this she seized both of his hands and leaned toward him. He could hear the beating of her heart, her breath fanned his cheek, and her eyes sought to magnetize him. "I will tell you, then, that I passed the rest of the evening with a Russian," said Jacob smiling. This smile, this coldness and complete presence of mind, displeased Muse. She had hoped to see him succumb to her fascinations; but she had deceived herself, and this angered her against him and against herself. But the more difficult it was to inspire him with no matter what kind of love, the more she was determined to succeed. "Very well. I believe you; but look at me, monsieur," said she lowering her voice. "Have I not changed? Hours of feverish anxiety for you are graven on my face." These words were murmured in his ear, and were scarcely intelligible. "Truly, mademoiselle," replied Jacob, "I feel myself unworthy of such anxiety on your part." "No; you are not worthy of a sentiment that you have awakened without even deigning to perceive it. You are so indifferent, so cold." Then, as if she had said too much, she lowered her eyes and was silent. Jacob felt sorry for her, and leaning towards her he kissed her hand. Muse started as if he had applied a hot iron, trembled violently, und buried her head in the sofa-pillow. Then for the first the thought that Muse loved him struck Jacob. To have allowed such a sentiment to develop seemed to him a great crime. He was as horrified with himself as if his conduct had been that of a libertine. He started from his seat and looked at her. This sudden agitation could be interpreted in different ways. Muse did not prolong the scene, for even if the desired end was not completely attained, she hoped much for the future in the silence and troubled mien of the young man. "Go, monsieur!" said she. "I am ill. I do not know what I have said. My head is confused." Jacob hesitated a moment, looked at her pale face, saluted her respectfully, and went out. He had hardly closed the door behind him when the mother entered. "Very well, what has happened?" asked she. "He is stupid, very stupid," replied the adorable Emusia, shrugging her shoulders. "He is a fool, but I will conquer him yet." "I fear, on the contrary, that he is not enough of a fool for us," replied Madame Wtorkowska. CHAPTER XVI. THE JEWS IN COUNCIL. A great number of the most influential Israelites assembled at Mann's house on the following day. Mann, who was already proud of being considered the chief of the Israelites of Warsaw, was delighted to preside at a meeting of so much importance. "Mann," whispered Father Simon to Bartold, "this poor Mann, resembles this morning a bladder; look out, for he may burst." "And even if he does, with what are we threatened? A little wind, and nothing else," replied Bartold laughing. This vain personage had really assumed a very pompous manner. He looked around him from the height of his grandeur, and from time to time put his hand on his empty head. Seated on a sofa which he occupied alone, he opened the meeting majestically. "Messieurs," he said, "we have met here to discuss future events, for the situation is complicated. What, then, should be our rôle? That is the question submitted to you. We have always been united; I hope it will now be shown that we have not changed." "Excuse me," said Simon. "But I vote a distribution of cigars before the important debate." "Have done with your jests," said Mann in a firm voice, handing him a cigar. "This is no laughing matter; the times are grave and serious? What attitude shall we take toward the nobles? What will they do now, after this affair of last night?" "The nobles will do nothing at all. They will dispute, argue, vociferate, and threaten, and the result of their consultation will be nothing," said the incorrigible Simon. "Yes, that is usually the way; but this time they are forced to take action. I will add that the nobles have almost always been hostile to our race, and have often offended us by denying us justice." "The nobility will always be the nobility," replied Simon to the chairman, in spite of his efforts to silence him. "They look on us as their stewards, their brokers, their innkeepers. They accuse us of exhaling garlic wherever we go. But they are not at heart our enemies. Let us speak of the other side of the matter, for, messieurs, the nobles dream only of sacrificing themselves for their beloved Poland; we do not enter into their calculations in that regard, and is it not our own fault?" "The revolution is imminent," said Mann. "It is possible," observed Bartold. "But I believe the nobles would like to draw out of this affair, in which the middle class are so active, and into which they seek to draw us." "Then we must let ourselves be drawn in," said Jacob, "in order to become worthy citizens of the country that has received us when we were outcasts." "Jacob always returns to this refrain; we know his theories, but at present we are occupied with practical things. What interest have we in the past?" said Mann. "Our first interest," replied Jacob, "in a country where we are so numerous is to be admitted to a footing of equality. The opportunity now presents itself; let us profit by it; let us unite with the middle class." "Nothing is so alluring as a sham compact at the outset, but afterward there are sure to be mutual recriminations and quarrels," said Simon. "Take a cigar to close your lips!" cried the chairman, who was weary of the sentimentalism of the one and the everlasting jests of the other. "I will give you a second cigar, if you will be silent," added another. "I repeat my question," said Mann solemnly. "What rôle ought we to play at present,--we Jews?" "Excuse me," said a stranger. "There are no Jews here. We are all Poles, of the religion of Moses." A hearty applause showed approval of this expression uttered for the first time. "If this view is adopted it solves the question," said Jacob. "Pardon," replied Mann, "a thousand pardons. This phrase does not decide whether we will make common cause with the nobles, who do not wish a premature revolution, or with the bourgeoisie, who are the promoters of this movement." "That's the chief point," cried Simon, always eager to give his advice. "I vote for the nobles; by going with them we may succeed in obtaining crests. I am very anxious to stamp on my seal three onions on a field of gold." "Cursed babbler!" cried Mann, striking the table with his fist. "Will you keep silent or not?" "I will shut up," said Simon. "Let us be serious," replied Bartold. "Monsieur Mann has put the question well." "I do not think so," said Jacob. "To take sides with this party or that is all that we should have to decide. The question is altogether different for me. Here it is: What is the better part for us to take in the interest of Poland, our adopted country?" "Listen to me," cried Henri Segel. "We should be blind, indeed, not to see that, if we join in a revolution lost in advance, it would mean as certain ruin to us as to the rest of the country." A small man with a consumptive look gazed around him, coughed, and let fall, drop by drop, these words:-- "We have been long enough held in contempt and subjection. The time has arrived to come out of it. Let us think of ourselves only. The peasant does not like us, because he is stupid, and we do not inspire him with fear. The nobles detest us and continually humiliate us. They will take part in the rebellion; if they find it inevitable, they will consider it a point of honour. The Russian government hates them, and will take advantage of the opportunity to confiscate their estates and drive them into exile. If we can be neutral during the crisis, what a prospect opens before us! In every nation, whatever be the form of government, be always on the side of the governing class. We are prepared to seize a high position. We will become the masters of the country." "This idea," said Jacob, "has been often advanced, and is nothing new. But there is one objection: we shall save everything but honour. The fact of having been sheltered from all danger will condemn us. The nobility will not entirely disappear; many will remain. Russia, too, has her own revolutionists, who may overthrow her in a few years." "Yes, before many years," replied the little man dryly; "if we do not make ourselves masters here, we are not worth a farthing. Already we dominate more than half of Europe in money matters, and the German press is largely at our service. France, also, has not escaped our influence. Warsaw is called our capital, a new Jerusalem." "My dear sir," said Jacob, "your prophecy is not yet ready to be realized. We shall not attain our end by egotism. It would be much better to seal our fraternity with Poland, and by a sincere devotion gain her esteem by proving that the people of Israel are a noble people, that they will not abase themselves by taking sides with the strong or the oppressors. Never has the calculation of knavery been preferable to that of honesty." "What is that you are saying there?" interrupted Simon. "The Jew has always been a trickster, and will do well to remain such." "No, no!" replied Jacob warmly. "If servitude has taught us deceit and falsehood, is it any reason why we should persevere in it, now that our heavy chains are broken and the way is open to us? Let us march with the right, our heritage during thousands of years. The glory of Israel is very dear to me, but I rely above all on the laws of God and the justice of our cause. Let us prove that we are worthy of being called the 'chosen people of God.' There lies our grandeur, we do not need to seek another." "Fine words," said Mann. "And why shall we not exult over the defeat of our enemies? They have kept us long enough in the mud at the gates of their palaces; why should we not be glad to see them in their turn humbled before us?" "We reproach the pagans with love of revenge, and now do we wish to imitate them? Our faith has been accused of inculcating that ignoble sentiment; while, on the contrary, the Christians preach forgiveness to enemies and laud it as a virtue." "Virtue," said Mann, "is an excellent thing in private life, but when the welfare of a nation or a community is threatened, it is not expected that we should adhere strictly to virtue." "An old and pernicious prejudice. The magicians recommend the use of a soup made from the fat of corpses in order to attain happiness in life, and politicians of the old school preach villany in the interest of the public good. It is an error: a nation is never saved by evil." "You are eloquent, Jacob; but you generalize too much. You forget that the right of conversation is open to all. I refer you to the Talmud, which you quote so often." "The hour for the Bourse draws nigh, and we have decided nothing," cried another. "That which is difficult," said Bartold, "is to decide, with the meagre information we possess. One cannot foresee how things will turn out. We must wait. I wish, like Jacob, to follow the right, but on condition that it does not lead to a precipice; I admit the necessity of sacrifices when something is gained thereby, but I do not approve of useless sacrifices." "All sacrifice bears its fruit sooner or later," replied Jacob. "You return to your mysticisms. Our debate is ended." "Result: nothing, as usual," concluded Simon. "One word more," said Mann. "It has been said that we cannot foresee how events will terminate. Some one of us should seek admittance to the revolutionary meetings and observe what is going on; that may enlighten us. Prudence dictates this precaution. Jacob, will you undertake it?" "No, Monsieur Mann. I am not a revolutionist, and I refuse to lend myself to the rôle of a spy even for our cause." "What delicate susceptibility! We will send some one in your place." Mann sputtered wrathfully, and continued:-- "Thus we shall be informed of the actions of the revolutionary party, and if anything important occurs, my house is always at your service for meetings." "The Bourse, the Bourse; it is the hour!" cried several voices. And they all hastened away. CHAPTER XVII. REUNION OF THE NOBLES. Jacob, impressed by Gromof's words, sought an interview with Kruder or Ivas. The first was out, and the second he could not find. Returning from his search he learned that the people were assembled for the funerals of the previous night's victims. An irresistible impulse seized him, and he arrived, he hardly knew how, at the spot where the five victims had fallen. The place, after the murder, had been completely deserted. In the souls of the people surged an exaltation, a virility, a confidence which only demanded a signal of authority to become a revolution. They had lacked arms, but they had torn them from the Russian troops. Soldiers and officers seemed ashamed of the attack. The government itself, after so cold-blooded an act, hesitated. Orders were received from Petersburg to display a pitiless firmness, but they dared not execute them. It almost seemed as if remorse had overtaken the representatives of the Czar at Warsaw. Was it really remorse? No, it was rather a ruse. Clubs gathered in the open air and met everywhere without being disturbed by the police. For the first time in Poland they enjoyed under Muscovite rule a semblance of liberty. The capital was under the control of its inhabitants; in the circle of commerce delegates were chosen, whose duty was to present to Prince Gortchakof, Namiestnik of the kingdom, the will of the people. This removal of the yoke of the oppressor lasted for several days,--from March to April. Sad as its beginning had been, the nation breathed; she was free for the moment. Those who took part in the deeds of these days guard them in their memory as the most memorable episode of their lives. I doubt if it has ever been given a man to see twice, anything as imposing. Jacob walked about the city, his heart filled with sweet emotions; a single thought occupied him, that of the fusion of the Israelites with the rest of the nation. The hour was propitious, the moment was decisive. In spite of little sympathy for Mann, he realized that he could undertake nothing without his influence. Mann had not been chosen a delegate, for the Jews were represented to their satisfaction in the person of the wealthy and honourable Matthieu Rosen, a man of rare merit. He urged his people and their rabbis to join in the patriotic movement, for by that means they would share in a union of sentiments and aspirations with the Christian population and their clergy. A similar union had occurred in 1848, at Cracow. At that time the coffins of the massacred Jews were stationed before the church of Sainte Marie. At present they must guard against the pride and fanaticism of the Christians on one side, and the narrow-minded selfishness of the Jews on the other. Jacob hastened to consult Mann on this subject, but found him absent. But the young man's wishes, expressed at the late council of his brethren, were soon realized by an administrative decree. Jacob went to see the delegates, who in the silence of the night were occupied arranging for the funerals. They had at this time all authority concentrated in their hands. The Jew foresaw how fleeting this authority would be. These men were honest, but without the energy required for such a crisis, and they would in a short time lose their wits and abdicate the popular sovereignty confided to their keeping. The funeral details were arranged. Even the most intolerant of the Christians felt the necessity, in spite of their prejudices, of uniting for the time being with the Jews in perfect fraternity. Jacob passed a sleepless night on one of the benches of the assembly room. At daybreak he again hastened to Mann's house. He found him a little irritated that the popular vote had preferred Rosen to himself, and he had retired like Achilles to his tent. The pompous old fellow was awake and already surrounded with visitors, although he had not finished his toilet. Booted, but in his shirt, he presented a laughable spectacle on account of his extreme corpulence. He, no doubt, noticed this himself, for he interrupted himself in the middle of a heated harangue, to which his visitors listened respectfully, to throw over his shoulders a cotton dressing-gown. "Ah!" said he, "our friends the nobles have become, then, meek as lambs. It is they who first ask to embrace us. One sees that they know the proverb,-- 'Dans l'embarras Va chez Judas.' It is for us to remember the other part of the verse:-- 'Plus d'embarras Va t'en, Judas.'" "The harmony is well established," said Bartold. "It is sincere; we must take advantage of it." "No; it is not peace, it is only a truce. The Agricultural Society, representative of the nobles, continues to repulse us. Its secretary has sent Matthieu Rosen a letter, which leaves no doubt of their malevolence towards us. They wish, they say, that we should merit our right as citizens, as if we had not deserved that title since we were established on Polish soil. Feudalists, ultramontanes, fanatics, they desire war; let them go to the war, then. Let us not mix with them. Every one to his own interest." Thus spake the fiery Achilles, Mann, whom Henri Segel tried to calm. "You must admit, however," said he, "that Matthieu Rosen, though treated with little consideration by the secretary of the Agricultural Society, has been named a delegate. Let us strike while the iron is hot." "From this iron there can only come new chains for us," said Mann. "They are incorrigible, these nobles, eaten up by pride of long descent. We shall have conciliations when Dumah has thrown them all into hell; not before." "The Russian government agrees with you there," remarked Bartold; "but the nobility is capable of regeneration, of amending. They commence to understand their interests better, and if they hold out their hands to us, we should not refuse them." "No! the nobles are blind!" cried Mann, in a loud voice. "Give up all thoughts of alliance with them. What matters it to us what happens to them?" "If we keep aloof now," said Jacob, "it is the same as taking sides with the Russians. Let us go, my friends; when we are called in the spirit of sacrifice, the cause of the weak and the oppressed ought to be ours." "It is utterly useless to reason with you, dear Jacob. Men of your stamp go to their ruin and perish. I will not oppose you, though I deplore your fate. As for the mass of our people, they should look out for their own interests and for the country." "Let the majority remain conservative, but not for that alone; they should escape death in order to console and succour those who survive the catastrophe." "There will be time enough to speak of that," said Mann, with a disdainful gesture. "It is probable," replied Bartold, "that the burial of the victims of yesterday will be a European manifestation of the regeneration of Poland. Ought we to be indifferent lookers on? to take no part ostensibly in the procession? in a word, to wash our hands of it all?" "This burial does not concern us," cried Mann. "None of our people have been killed. Why should we thrust ourselves into the quarrel?" "It is not merely a burial, it is a grand political manifestation," said Jacob. "Before those coffins there will be a national appeal for vengeance against the assassins; and we"-- "We? Let it suffice us to behold from afar that manifestation! And you, Jacob, who preach with so much warmth a good understanding with the Christians, as you are at the same time a fervent and orthodox Jew, you cannot ask us to march behind the coffins, side by side with the Christian clergy. That would be breaking one of our laws, which commands all kohen to keep at a distance from bodies of the dead. How much worse the impure corpses of men of another belief, another race." "I know well that the kohenin ought to abandon even their dying wives, if they are not of Jewish origin. Their contact becomes impure. But I also know that the law, formerly so vigorous, and not without a wise motive, is indulgent under exceptional circumstances. A kohen who, in order to accomplish a good deed, touches a corpse is, according to the conclusion of all rabbis, exempt from sin." "I do not think that can be the opinion of all the rabbis. However, we can easily ascertain." By a strange coincidence, the door opened and admitted a dignified old man with a long white beard, clad in the ancient costume of a Polish Jew. All saluted him respectfully. He was a rabbi, generally esteemed for his learning and his honourable and upright character. His face denoted the serenity of a soul untroubled by terrestrial cares. Mann hastened to repeat what he had said to Jacob, and, wishing above all to have the approbation of the rabbi for his doctrine of hatred and vengeance, he added:-- "Ought we to forgive the nobles? Ought we to overlook the evils done us by them? The justice of God is implacable, and the hour approaches when we shall be avenged upon our secular oppressors." The old man listened attentively, then replied slowly and solemnly:-- "The Rabbi Ichochua ben Levi had for a neighbour a Sadducee, who had insulted him in many ways. Weary of enduring these affronts, he resolved to pray to God for vengeance. As he was preparing to go to the temple to accomplish his design, he was overcome by a profound slumber. On awakening, he said: 'The sweet sleep into which God plunged me so suddenly is a warning from on high; a just man never invokes divine vengeance against his enemies.'" Then the venerable man arose, bowed, and went out. Mann shrugged his shoulders, and was silent. His guests, most of whom were not very devout, took their hats, considering the question decided by the text of the law. In the Talmud, as in books of a character still more sacred, each interprets as he wishes. The passage proved Jacob in the right, but could have been perhaps contradicted by another passage which would put him in the wrong. Mann, fortunately, was not sufficiently familiar with the literature of Judaism to recall a text adapted to his argument. Jacob, triumphant, rapidly followed the rabbi, and kissed his hand with gratitude. He returned to the city, where he found that there had been a change in favour of the Jews. Their adversaries were silent, and public opinion approved their admittance on a fraternal footing, although the nobles still opposed it. Twenty-four hours had sufficed not to efface, but to mask, the prejudices of both parties,--prejudices of which they were ashamed, and which they concealed in an obscure corner of the soul and dared no longer show in daylight. The nobles were not in perfect harmony even with each other. Like the Jews, they held diverse opinions. Those among them who were the most obstinate were those who were not well informed as to the actual situation, who had learned nothing, forgotten nothing, and who had intrenched themselves in an exclusive adherence and devotion to the past. These were called on the streets ultramontanes, on account of their importation of foreign Catholicism,--a Catholicism which was monarchical and legitimist, an enemy of progress. Essentially different was it from Polish Catholicism, which was conciliatory toward republican ideas, but did not take sides with either party, and, with Copernicus, had left its luminous traces in the ascendant march of humanity. This group was Polish in its own way, perhaps by its attachment to the privileges of the nobility; but it was by no means patriotic in its alliance in heart or spirit with the political reaction in Europe, which weighed so heavily on Poland. It was not easy to be conservative in Poland. It was to condemn one's self to incessant contradictions of conscience and of conduct. How can one be at the same time a patriot, and submit to a foreign yoke? to be a Catholic, and prostrate one's self before a foreign authority which persecuted Catholicism? Weary of conflict, the conservative finishes by thinking only of saving his fortune and his social position, and pays no attention to the rest. Jacob, in wandering over the city from house to house, with the familiarity which always prevails in times of revolution, entered a circle of ultramontanes. The master of the house, who was seated in an easy-chair, which he never quitted on account of an incurable malady, had still more nerve and energy than most of the visitors assembled in his rooms. Here were genuine counts, specimens of the ancient aristocracy of orthodox Catholicism, and many young nobles fresh from the Jesuit colleges of Belgium and Bavaria. Among all these the most remarkable was a man of gigantic height, of irreproachable character, of rare eloquence, who, on account of his habit of repeating the popular proverb, _Jak Boga Kocham_ (as true as that I love God), had received the not very euphonious sobriquet of Boakoam. He was a descendant of a very aristocratic family, deprived of its former splendour by the prodigality of its ancestors. He lived ordinarily in the country on a small estate, all that remained of his fortune. The conversation was on the events of the day, and the social equality accorded to the Israelites. "In a hundred years," said Boakoam, "the Counts Z., P., and B. will have become coachmen, and their palaces will have passed into the hands of the R.'s, the K.'s, and the E.'s." "It is possible," replied the master of the house, who belonged to one of the families designated; "above all, if we make many more false steps like this one. It will be our own fault. We shall foolishly ruin ourselves. We have an aversion to work, while the Jews are economical, laborious, and persevering." "Thus, that the Jews may not devour us, my dear count, you wish we may be transformed into Jews. Pretty advice! If we must perish, let us perish at least as we are. Experience has demonstrated to us our inaptitude as financiers. To what end have come our navigation companies, or our industrial or commercial associations? We have lost money on all our undertakings. Distasteful as it is to admit, I must confess that we have arrived at a point of irresistible decadence. We have organic vices, we have attained the height of moral weakness. I would, nevertheless, like to believe that we shall yet regain our old-time vigour." "To rise again," said a country gentleman, "we must have several chiefs, several guides in whom we can place confidence, as in you, Monsieur le Comte." "You could not have a better chief than Count André Zamoyski, whose name is on every lip. Virtue, reason, grandeur of soul, patriotism, all these qualities he possesses." "Certainly Count André is the right man, he is honourable and worthy; but let us talk no more of politics just now," said Boakoam. "God preserve us from this mania of politics, unreasonable and inopportune! We can gain nothing by it, and it has already been the cause of many evils. True politics are agriculture, science, economy, and the amelioration of morals." "You are right, Monsieur le Comte," said a listener. "But what is to be done when, in spite of ourselves, the youth and the city rise in arms and draw us in?" "Youth has courage and action. Imitate them. If you do not wish a revolution, proclaim it loudly; not in any half way. I understand perfectly the blind but heroic ardour of these young men who offer their blood for their country. It is necessary that we have equal energy to arrest this patriotic uprising, that we do not give them encouragement by our inertia, our weakness." "Then we are lost," cried a voice. "Oh, not when we have just concluded an alliance with the Jews!" replied Boakoam. "The Jews will certainly save us." This pleasantry caused a ripple of laughter. "That which is certain," gravely replied the invalid, "is that they have more sense than we. They have proved it." "They will not lend us their good sense as they have loaned us their money," remarked Boakoam. "They know that it is a capital which we lack, and on which we could not pay them interest." "Where is the time when we did not know the Jews save as stewards and brokers! One could then pluck the extortioner by the beard." "Those times, alas! will never return," said one of the company in a sad voice. "The world is degenerating," added another. "Have you remarked, gentlemen," said a solemn personage with black hair and the Oriental type, "that everything is being gradually monopolized by the Israelites? They are the masters of the Bourse. Now the Bourse directs the world and governs the State. Without it, no loans and no wars. They manage public opinion through the press, the principal organs of which belong to them. In Prussia, in the rest of Germany, and in Belgium, journalism is in their hands. In France every newspaper has one or more Jews connected with it. Many have seats in Parliament and the German Reichstag. Some are ministers or ambassadors." "The reason is easily to be seen," replied Boakoam. "The Polish nobles could not exist without Jewish factors, and took them everywhere with them on their travels. Europe is like us, morally and physically declined; the governments are in decadence, and the factors do as they like." "French masonry," added the country gentleman, "and democracy have the Jews for their firm supporters." "But that does not agree with the Bourse, whose principals are far from revolutionary," objected some one. "They are," replied the gentleman, "both liberals and conservatives, but only in a measure. Liberals when they wish to undermine Catholicism, and conservatives when they have other ends to serve; but when it is a question of war, they are always conservatives, for they do not wish war at any price." "Never," said Boakoam, "shall we be able to get rid of the Jews, and they will yet ruin us." "If one is ruined it is usually his own fault," replied his friend. "True. But how can we change now? We, who are accustomed to a life of ease and to liberty of action, is it possible for us to become tradesmen? The Jews understand business, have money, skill, and avarice. And we? Nothing!" "Let us try to acquire these qualities." "How can we? The government oppresses us and seeks to crush us out of existence. We are weakened by this cruel oppression; where can we find strength for the struggle?" "In a sentiment of duty." "Too late to lift the burden now. I know not if the _Finis Poloniae_ will be accomplished, but the end of the Polish nobility is certain. I am afraid that we are doomed." "Listen to me, messieurs," said the master of the house solemnly. "I have not long to live. Every day death draws nearer to me, as you perceive. As the time to leave the world approaches, a man does not lie. Well, on the border of the tomb I adjure you not to lose faith in yourselves, for you who prophesy your own fall are the ones who hasten it. What have the nobles done since 1791? Where are their labours, their efforts, their sacrifices? Behold them unbalanced, their fortunes, activity, existence, entirely and foolishly dissipated in libertinage and idleness. Immutable laws regulate everything in nature. Once withered, the leaf falls; once unfaithful to its mission, every class of society is condemned to disappear. If, as you predict, the Jews are destined to supersede us, it will be owing to our improvidence and their superior virtue." "Frightful perspective!" cried the country gentleman piteously. "Do you say that my son may perhaps become steward for a Kronenberg or a Rosen?" "Perhaps he would be lucky to get that position. If I were a Kronenberg or a Rosen I would not think of employing so incapable a steward as your son." Boakoam put an end to the conversation by this sally, which was a little brutal. Jacob, unable to contain himself longer, believed it a duty to reveal his identity. "Messieurs," said he, "pardon me for interrupting this discussion, but I feel it my duty to confess that I am a Jew." All eyes were turned toward him in astonishment. The least surprised was Boakoam and their host. The former burst out laughing, and cried:-- "In that case, my dear sir, you have heard many curious things about your race." "Very curious, and I shall profit by them. As for your pleasantries, they have not wounded me. I could form some idea of how you spoke of us, by the way that we speak of you at our meetings. For compensation, you have finished by praising our qualities in such a manner as to make me very grateful. But your praises are more than we deserve. If we possess some good qualities, we have also many faults, and I ought to acknowledge them. This alliance with us seems repugnant to you; but, believe me, it will be for your advantage in the end. It is repugnant to you because, as some one here has said, we smell of garlic and old clothes; but just now you cannot have too many friends and allies." "As true as I love God," cried Boakoam, "your morals are golden. But I do not believe that we can trust in your friendship. You will be with us as long as we are standing, but you will go over to the enemy when we fall. You will then feel only contempt for us, and the thirst for vengeance will awaken in your hearts." "Never! I promise it in my name, and in the names of those who think as I do. We will remain united in misfortune as in fortune." "So as to profit equally by our success or our misfortunes? I am frank, and now that we are on this subject, permit me to finish. I am ready to acknowledge my fault, to avow all the vices and all the errors imputed to the nobles, but I cannot see that your rich men are any better. You accuse us of foolish vanity and aristocratic pride; your bankers have as much. The Count André, who comes from a long line of illustrious ancestors, is much more polite, more affable, more simple, than"-- "I do not deny it. Money often renders men impertinent. I have only one excuse to offer for my co-religionists: it is, that repulsed by the elegant society, overwhelmed with sarcasm, we have not had the opportunity to profit by the same schooling as yourselves. You must civilize us by your good examples." "Hear! Hear!" cried Boakoam. "We will teach you our refined manners in return for your practical spirit." "I consent," replied Jacob smiling. "One word more: you have alluded to some of us as rude and having repulsive manners. Very well; even among these men, vain, proud, and gross, there are some who are benevolent; though their appearance does not indicate it. I have not finished. In the presence of the representatives of the past I know not whether I shall be permitted to express my ideas. Behold them, if you will be kind enough to listen. Humanity will not retrograde. She has ceased to be led by a privileged class; she feels her strength and will walk alone. The feudal privileges are dead, very dead." "You avow, however," said the dark man with Oriental features, "that society, freed from privileges and belonging to itself, will still admit a certain division of classes." "Yes; but admittance to these classes will be given by personal merit, and not by birth." "Then we shall all be in the same boat," cried Boakoam laughing,--"peasants, Jews, gypsies, bourgeoisie, pell-mell with us the fine flower of the aristocracy." "Modern theories, fatal doctrines born of revolutionary folly," remarked a pupil of the Jesuits, fresh from Belgium. "I believe neither in progress nor a new order of things. All that I see in this accursed age is the hand of God, which chastises us and plunges us into confusion and chaos." Saying this the disciple of Loyola took his departure, furious. Many followed his example, while Jacob was making his final remarks thus:-- "We are new citizens, but rest assured that in recovering our rights of citizenship after so long ostracism we will not refuse the accompanying duties. If until the present the Jew has not considered himself a Pole, the fault has not been with him nor with Poland herself, but with the barbarity of past ages, to the shadows of a prolonged epoch of darkness. 'Light, light, still more light!' as said the dying Goethe, and the world will move on in the sight of God." "As true as I love God," said Boakoam, "these are holy words. And I must save myself, for my confessor would refuse absolution because I had dealings with the Old Testament, in the absence of the New. Good-evening." CHAPTER XVIII. THE COUNTRY WILLS IT. Events precipitated themselves with frightful rapidity. Veiled promises and secret encouragements on the part of Napoleon III. contributed largely to the development of an insurrection whose instigators were too confident in the diplomatic intervention of France, England, and Austria. A bitter disappointment was the result, as we know. A brutal reply from the Russian government sufficed to make Europe fall back, and rendered harder than ever the fate of Poland. At the point whither our story has carried us, all hope of preventing a fatal catastrophe was not lost. Several men of influence, whose foresight was better than that of the foolish masses, made heroic efforts toward this end. Among these was our Jacob, whose interview with Gromof had resulted in enlightening him as to the fatal consequences of a premature revolution. The most of the Jews rallied around the Marquis Wielopolski, a double-faced man, half Russian, half Polish, with equivocal politics. He was clever in appearance, but deceitful at heart, and sought to please both sides. This policy was not pleasing to the nobles, whom he held of little account; it alienated the ultramontanes, and irritated the revolutionists, whom he tried to reduce by violent measures. The marquis, much more authoritative than liberal, wished to inaugurate that which he called the legal progress; but not leaning on either party, he soon had every one against him. The Jews, however, sustained him for some time with ardour; but he soon displeased them, like the others, by an absolute want of tact in his conduct toward them. Men of exalted opinions, whose only wish was to benefit humanity, and who desired to maintain a just moderation, were alienated and were left alone. Jacob, although of an entirely different character from Wielopolski, was equally unfortunate. In his political rôle he was no more successful than in his character of religious reformer. Admitted to all the meetings, he perceived that he had no influence whatever. He displeased the revolutionists by his wise warnings; the conservatives, by his transports of spirit; and the partisans of legal progress, by his spirit of independence. He had no communication with the Russians, with the exception of Gromof. Among his own people, Mann detested him because he refused to bow down to him and admire him; for vanity was this individual's ruling passion. Mathilde's father was devoted body and soul to the palace of Brühl, which was Wielopolski's seat, and received his former pupil coldly, for he did not wish to be ranked under the same banner. For the same reason Henri Segel, a zealous servant of the marquis, looked on him with pity. Bartold, less servile, nevertheless adhered to the new régime to a certain extent, and was surprised that Jacob did not follow his example. Ivas, whose relations with his friend were growing cooler, accidentally met him one evening. "Jacob," said he, "the moment approaches when the country will need all her children's services. I was coming to ask you to pay your tribute, and I will give you the receipt. You have only to fix the amount yourself." "I do not dream of refusing to make all necessary sacrifices," replied Jacob after a moment of thought. "But in giving I wish to know why I give. Will you give me your word of honour that it is not to aid the revolution?" "It is truly to buy arms." "If it is for that, I refuse. I am ready to sacrifice half, or more than half, of my fortune for Poland, but not one cent to light the torch of incendiarism." "Man of little faith and frozen soul, how can you be presumptuous enough to suppose that you can hinder patriotic sentiments, or strong enough to overthrow all obstacles! Am I not right? We are sure of the people; we have the Catholic clergy, thanks to the marquis, who has also reconciled the masses; and we count on the greater part of the Israelites. We shall force the nobles to come out of their intrenchments and join us. In Russia the revolution ferments. Garibaldi promises us champions; Hungary, arms, men, and money. Austria is a beneficent neighbour; and, to finish, France and England will undoubtedly aid us." "Softly! Softly! Repeat your enumerations one by one." "If faith does not exist in you it is useless for me to talk further. I will listen to nothing. Will you give me the money? Yes or no." "For the revolution, no." "But the necessity is urgent, my dear Jacob. We must have money to-day; you cannot refuse us." "I refuse; I have said it." "I have been your friend and defender, and I am still; but above all, I am a revolutionist. Do you know to what you are exposed by your opinions? To death, perhaps; certainly infamy." "Infamy, never! A man can only render himself infamous; others cannot imprint this stain upon him. As for death, I do not fear it. The preservation of life or of fortune by the sacrifice of profound convictions is unworthy of a true man, is cowardly. You can obtain nothing from me by threats; kill me if you wish; I firmly believe in the justice of God and the immortality of the soul. And so I am tranquil." Ivas laughed, and was a little touched. "You are a great child, my dear Jacob," said he, with an air of compassion. "I pity you, for you are not a man of this century. I regard you as a phenomenon, as a mortal who awakes after a thousand years of sleep into an epoch entirely different from his own. Nevertheless, I esteem you." Jacob held out his hand silently. "You cannot change me," said he. "It will be useless for you to try it. I feel that the world which surrounds me is not with me; however, as I am here, and I exist, it must be with some special design of Providence." "I return to my pecuniary wants." "Ivas," said Jacob, "tell me, what sum do you require, for yourself?" "Nothing for myself; all for the country." "And it is expressly to buy arms?" "Yes; my conscience does not permit me to lie." "And mine commands me to refuse." "You are the first who has refused me so decidedly. Your conduct is a bad example. A rigorous condemnation awaits you. I leave you in sorrow, for, Jacob, you will die." "I am not at all afraid to die, and your threat will not make me break my word." "I beg of you, my friend." "Do not supplicate me; it is in vain. Tell me that you will use the money to save men pursued by the Russian government, to facilitate their flight, and enable them to live, and I am ready to reduce myself to poverty for that; but for your insane revolution, not a rouble." "I do not insist, but"-- "Very well. Have you seen Gromof?" "Twenty times." "What have you replied to his argument?" "That he is a Russian; consequently, ardent in words, and timid in action. For the Russians the opportune moment never arrives. Their former conspiracies were broken up by a word from Nicholas; a word sufficed to calm a popular disturbance. A weak-kneed race, they are still as cowardly as then. I believe Gromof to be an agent of the police. He is suspected." "What he says accords with the actual situation." "I am one of those," said Ivas, "who will not listen to reasoning. Good sense, circumspection, are empty words for us. Hurrah for blessed exultation! Hurrah for ardour pushed almost to folly! We will march against the troops with our batons, convinced of being victorious." "You are heroes," said Jacob, "and I admire you; but have you counted the cost? How long will this exaltation last? How many are there that feel as you do?" "A hundred, or a million, what does it matter? The masses will follow us." "The masses will be reduced to a handful of men, most of them adventurers who will do more harm than good." "Stop, you weary me. Adieu, egotist, I wash my hands of what will happen to you." "But before leaving in this hostile fashion, give me your hand as formerly, Ivas, and may God's will be done!" Ivas hesitated. "No," cried he. "I have ceased to be your friend, and in the future I will be your enemy." "Are you insane, Ivas?" "I belong entirely, body and soul, to the cause of the revolution; no more friendship. Good-night." "Wait a moment." "You will give us the money?" "Impossible." "You persist in not sacrificing your personal feelings to the interest of the country?" "Not contrary to my convictions, my principles, never!" Ivas was carried away by his enthusiasm, but was at heart honest and loving. At the threshold of the door strong emotion seized him; he returned and stood near Jacob. "After all," said he with tears in his eyes, "I esteem you. Let us embrace." They threw themselves into each other's arms. As he was on the point of leaving he said in a grave voice:-- "But if to-morrow I receive the order to kill you for your disobedience to the revolutionary committee, I will come with cold blood to stab you. The country above everything." "Blind heroism, which I respect without sharing. These are frightful times we are living in. How horrible is the regime which inspires hatred, and familiarizes honest souls with crime, and transforms an old friend into an assassin! What will not be the responsibility before God of governments whose tyrannous acts have engendered such despair!" Ivas, without replying, left him with emotion. Jacob expected to receive on the morrow his sentence of death, but it did not arrive either that day or later on. Ivas spoke on his friend's behalf, and he was not even declared a traitor to his country. All the revolutionists there understood Ivas, and ceased to have any relations with Jacob, who was considered from that day as a man from whom the revolutionary party had nothing to expect. * * * * * All this is true. The entire scene is scrupulously authentic. Author's note. CHAPTER XIX. A FATHER'S GRIEF. Two days after the dramatic scene that we have just related Jacob was alone at his house, when he was surprised by a visit from Jankiel Meves, he who had furnished Ivas his first shelter. The old man, who appeared to be very sad, commenced by saying that he had profited by a sojourn in Warsaw to once more see Jacob, for whom he had the greatest esteem and whom he considered the hope of Israel. Then he spoke of the troubles of the country, and Jacob told him of the situation, and of his vain efforts to restrain the impetuous youth of the city from certain defeat; he added that he was discouraged, for his advice had been rejected with contempt, indignation, or rage. "That is no reason," replied the visitor, "for abandoning your mission of peace, which is a divine inspiration. All truths," added he, "are at first badly received by men, but they soon take root, and often the very ones that shrugged their shoulders and refused to listen are the ones who become the most fervent converts." "Thanks for your consoling words," replied Jacob; "you reawaken hope within my heart." "Alas! I seek consolation from you," cried Jankiel; "I am an unfortunate father, a prey to the greatest sorrow. In my house shame and mourning are unwelcome guests. A serpent has glided secretly into my home, and has left his venom." "I dare not ask you to explain your words," said Jacob. "But I wish to tell you all. It is no secret; evil is difficult to conceal when the malefactor is proud of it. Of what use to me is the wealth that I have amassed by the sweat of my brow? To-day my most cherished daughter is no more to me than a stranger, and Lia is dead to her father! You know the David Seebachs, father and son. Accursed house, where the holy laws are neglected and ridiculed! Why has my daughter looked towards that dwelling? Would that she had died rather than that. Lia, my Lia, has been seduced by the younger David, who afterward abandoned her to her shame. And I--I ought to refuse her a refuge under my roof, so that she may not contaminate her pure and innocent sister, who laments the poor unfortunate in the most abandoned grief. My coffers are full of money, but Lia, perhaps, will be tortured with hunger! David was married; it was not known, for he lived apart from his wife. You saw Lia when you were at my house. Poor child, she believed in him; she was beautiful, but now she is a wreck; so young, what will become of her?" With these words the old man wept bitterly, and in his despair tore his hair. "You are," continued he, "honest and good; do not repulse me. Aid me. I am her father; honour demands that I keep aloof from my fallen child,--I who press the chaste lips of another daughter. My heart is broken, and I come to you." "I am at your service," said Jacob gently. "Where is the unfortunate?" "Here in Warsaw. But I am not permitted to see her; she dares not appear before me. The vile seducer has left her dishonoured. Who knows to what degree of misery she may fall! I have brought money for her; but, for her as for myself, there must be silence as to whence it comes. Will you take charge of it?" "Certainly. I am at your service." "I have the money with me. Take it and procure for her a shelter and a tranquil existence, where she at least can mourn in solitude, far from mocking sneers. Let her want for nothing. This is the service I beg you to do for me." The old man took from his pocket a wallet, and tearing it open with trembling hands placed on the table several bank-notes of value, and a piece of paper bearing in Hebrew Lia's address. Then embracing Jacob, "I leave for home to-day," murmured he, his voice broken by his sobs. "The air of this city oppresses me. Write to me. No, no! don't write. I will return. You will tell me all. Save her. The child is weak and accustomed to tenderness. Now she must meet misery, labour, suffering." "Cease from lacerating your heart," said Jacob. "Trust me, I will be a faithful friend." "Do not spare expense," cried the poor father. "Don't think of economy. I will supply you with more, but I beg of you not to let her know where it comes from; rather let her believe that distant relatives have aided her, that God has touched their hearts in her behalf." With these words Jankiel raised his eyes to heaven. A passage of the Psalms came to his mind, and he recited a prayer. Jacob was affected almost to tears. "I thank you for your confidence," said he. "I feel honoured by it, as you know me so slightly." "I have heard much good of you," replied Jankiel, "and I was called to open my heart to you as to a compassionate physician. Farewell!" CHAPTER XX. MUSE CULTIVATES THE RUSSIANS. Since the evening when Jacob had shown himself so much like Joseph in his interview with Muse, the relations between him and that young lady had gradually cooled. This resulted from an understanding between mother and daughter. They saw that his capture was not probable, yet resolved not to break entirely with him, but to keep him as a reserve. Henri Segel, although married, was much more promising. Muse did not deceive herself as to the nature of his love for her. It was a love which was not likely to prove lasting, but often led, when at its full height, to great follies. Madame Wtorkowska, again unsettled, insisted on the necessity of enlarging their circle of acquaintances, and said to her daughter:-- "These idiots do not appreciate you at your true value, and I am inclined to seek acquaintances among the Russians. They love society, and are better judges of grace and beauty than these foolish Varsovians. Let us attract them to us." "An excellent idea, mamma. With the Russians an accomplished woman endowed with talents is a rarity; with us she is more common, and must have all kinds of accomplishments. With a man like Jacob all efforts are thrown away. He is an honest man, but utterly insensible. Why, I almost embraced Judaism, but that did not melt him. This acting fatigues me, and I have no desire to prolong it; we can never obtain anything from him; never! I proved it in our last interview. Without having any particular affection for Henri, I avow, mamma, that I count on him. He is mine. Mathilde gets weaker every day. She fades before our very eyes; but suppose she recovers--she is no obstacle. She has no children. Divorce is common with the Jews. Here is a husband for me worth having." "My dear child, the honeymoon would be sweet; but afterward would he make you happy? He does not altogether please me." "As for me," said Muse, "I am not afraid. I know how to manage him; and as for Jacob, he wearies me. He is too good, too pathetic." As the result of this conversation, Colonel Sofronof and the Major Ierasimofskoy were introduced into the house of Madame Wtorkowska, who essayed to dazzle them by the elegance of her receptions. Muse captivated them both. Sofronof fell seriously in love, but as he was a practical man, much occupied with politics, he resolved to "kill two birds with one stone," and find out as much as he could in regard to existing affairs. He questioned Muse as to the opinions of her friends, ignorant that although she cultivated all, she had none. She had adapted herself to circumstances, she had sung patriotic hymns; but with the same ardour she had learned the Russian songs "_Boge tsara Khrani_" ("May God preserve the Tsar") and the "Red Sarafane," and on her piano lived in harmony, Polish inspirations and the official compositions of Lvof and Glinka to the glory of holy Russia. The assiduity of the colonel led the mother and daughter to affect conservative opinions. They mocked at the revolutionists and the patriots, and all this accorded well with their aristocratic tone and manner of living. Sofronof was a man of consummate cunning. Before he knew these ladies well he had believed them ardent Poles, and was very careful not to shock the opinions which he supposed they held. He spoke with great respect of the glories of ancient Poland, with pity of the sorrows of Poland of today. At the beginning of his passion for Muse he had been tempted, practical Russian as he was, to implicate the young lady in some political intrigue, and to have her imprisoned for two or three months in the citadel. Then he could pursue in the gloomy shadows of a cell the first chapters of his romance. The thing would not be difficult, the arrest easy; he had so many friends in the council of war. After some reflection, however, he abandoned this fine project, which had already been more than once put in execution by the gallant officers of the Tsar. Russians are so eccentric that their love-making even is somewhat original. After some visits the colonel decided that he could be frank in his language with these ladies, without danger of wounding their Polish susceptibilities. Madame Wtorkowska spoke with enthusiasm of the reigning dynasty, and was pleased to recall memories of the reigns of Nicholas and of Alexander I., from whom her mother, as she said, had received a present of an amethyst necklace. She did not say for what service it was given; one could divine it. Muse, as liberal in words as it is permitted to be under the Russian _régime_, approved the emancipation of the serfs, and exalted the other reforms of Alexander II. Like her mother, she was careful to condemn the revolutionists. Sofronof understood, after having listened to these ladies, that the _salon_ where his good fortune had led him could easily become the centre of an active political reaction. On intimate terms with Muse, a good musician and an ardent dilettante, he pursued a plan of conduct in which he did not forget the possibility of eventual marriage. With the usual blindness of men newly arrived in a strange country, he was thoroughly deceived as to Madame Wtorkowska's social position. Neither they, nor their manners, nor their borrowed elegance opened his eyes to their true character. He took for real their false luxury, their pretended relations with the great world. Yet he was a little surprised, without knowing why, with the silence and the smiles that always followed the name of Wtorkowska; but he attributed this to Polish malevolence at the Russian proclivities of the ladies. Muse knew well how to attract, encourage, and put her visitors at ease. After each visit the colonel was expected to return the next day. It was a commission with which he was charged, some desired information, or some promised anecdote. The mother could not have been more accommodating. She often made the cares of housekeeping a pretext for leaving them alone, and when she did remain, she appeared a little deaf. Sofronof was delighted with her. At the end of some weeks he one day found himself alone with Muse. "Mademoiselle," said he, "pardon me if I inflict on you a serious conversation, for I wish to express all that is in my heart. I wish to tell you of an occupation which absorbs me. You and madame your mother can, I believe, have a happy influence on present events. Why not profit by it? The revolution is imminent. We are here, yet we are, in spite of the military forces at our disposal, in an almost unknown country, and we are embarrassed to know the right way to maintain public order. You can be of great use to us." "How?" cried Muse. "We are only women." "Women play a primary rôle in Poland. They are involved in everything." "But those are women of the lower class, not of the higher order, the aristocracy." "Why should not a woman of the upper class who has opinions suit herself?" "Women who are _comme il faut_ cannot compromise themselves in the streets." "They can act without leaving their homes." "But why plunge us into these political questions?" "In ordinary times it would be wrong for you to take any part, but in troubled periods like these it is your duty. The government has the right to ask your aid for the general good." "And in what way can we be useful?" "By enlightening us as to the situation. I swear to you that I have the good of the country at heart, within just limits and a firm union with Russia. Unfortunately, I and others can find out nothing." Muse understood what he wished. She blushed at the suggestion, but the blush faded away rapidly. Lending herself to the colonel's views would, she thought, give her great power. It would raise her to great heights. Her imagination transported her almost to the steps of the throne, to the imperial dais. She looked at herself in the glass, and thought that her dreams of being at court had now some chance of being realized; and under this impression she replied:-- "Dear colonel, speak to me with entire freedom, I will listen." "Be my counsellor and my guide," said Sofronof. "You have many friends. You see much society. Aid me to understand them; walk with me hand in hand." Muse blushed, but said nothing and hung her head. "I do not like politics and its embarrassing complications," said she. "However, if, as you think, I am capable of making myself useful, I will devote myself to the work heart and soul. But taking part in politics is like playing with fire,--one is often burned. In my situation as demoiselle, above all, this occupation might ruin my reputation and destroy my future. It is so easy now-a-days to fall under suspicion." "Why entertain such fears," replied the colonel smiling. "You will come to Petersburg. There you will have the best reception. And every man on whom you deign to throw a glance from those irresistible black eyes will esteem himself happy, no matter how high his rank." He paused; the hidden meaning of his words had been rendered intelligible to Muse by some foreign overtures. She judged that it was not worth while to be too particular at this crisis, and replied gayly:-- "Now, then, my dear colonel, you have not understood me. I merely wished to say that politics often cause much trouble." Without further discussion they came to an understanding. Some days after, Madame Wtorkowska's _salon_ was thrown open with pomp. The assembly was, indeed, a motley one, and had been gathered from all classes; there were all kinds,--white, gray, red, blue. This was according to Sofronof's advice, and in this way was formed a neutral ground whereon all might meet on an equal footing. Jacob was there, and found himself more of a spectator than an actor. Since that famous evening when Muse reproduced scenes from the Bible, she had been very cold towards him. She no longer invited him to little games of cards, she sent him no more notes, and engaged him for no sentimental promenades. This change suited Jacob better than the attentions of former days. Henri Segel, also, was a regular visitor, and in the midst of the Russians was in his element; he paid court to them, accepted their invitations to dine, and invited them to his house. Mathilde, who under Jacob's influence had risen to a higher sphere intellectually and morally, was much disturbed by these incessant amusements. But her power was very limited, almost nothing. Absolute mistress of her own apartment, surrounded by her flowers and books, she lived a stranger in her own house. Her husband simply announced to her that such guests would dine with them that day, and often presented them to her without asking her consent. At table, the turn of the conversation was often displeasing to her. Her husband perceived it, but did not care. Jacob, absorbed in the political situation, came rarely, as he was now sure to meet the Russians, whose frequent appearance at Mathilde's house was repugnant to him. He could not expect frankness from them; and he could not, in his turn, express himself freely before them, and this constraint put him in a disagreeable and trying situation. Presumption and obstinacy usually accompanies a civilization as imperfect and superficial as that of the Russians. To appear progressive and liberal, they often, in conversation, express advanced ideas which they do not dream of putting in practice; to sincerity they reply by falsehoods. Mathilde's life became more lonely and more isolated; she wasted away. Her cough increased, and she was consumed with fever. She passed entire days with her music endeavouring to forget her wearisome life. This distraction weakened her strength, but she refused to submit to any treatment. At night she read, creating thus an artificial imaginary world. Her only consolation, her only joy, was to talk with Jacob, in whom alone she had confidence; but he liked to come only when Henri and some of his new friends were amusing themselves. Then Jacob hastened to make a rapid examination of the progress of the malady which seemed to be consuming the young woman, and she looked attentively at him to discover if his brow was more gloomy, more care-worn. Afterward they pressed each other's hands, and separated. It happened one evening at tea that no one was near Mathilde when Jacob arrived but the old English governess, who had become a friend of the house. He found Madame Segel very much changed. "How rarely you come," cried Mathilde. "I know it is not indifference on your part, but if I had not perfect confidence in you, I should accuse Muse of depriving me of your society." "Why do you speak of her?" "Because it is evident that she has given entertainments in your honour." "In my honour and in honour of a dozen others; Colonel Sofronof, and also Henri, your lord and master." "I am not surprised that her fresh and blooming beauty pleases Henri more than my pallor and fatigue. There he finds smiles and songs, here sighs and tears. I do not wonder that he prefers her." "Well, I do," said Jacob. "If he were more devoted, I should reproach myself for not loving him. He is just as I wish him to be, polite, cold, and he leaves me entirely alone. It is some time now since Muse captivated him, but why should we care? What matters it to us?" "Henri's conduct is indelicate"-- "What matters it, when I do not love him?" Jacob walked up and down the room, and then stopped near Mathilde and looked at her fixedly. "Pardon me," said he; "but a wild idea has just come into my mind." "What idea? Tell me quickly." "Divorce." "No, no!" cried she. "I do not wish to bring to one whom I love with all my soul the miserable remains of my life, a broken heart and a sick body. Your idea is wicked and foolish. We have no right to seek happiness through scandal. Happiness gained thus will soon cease. Are we not happy as we are? What more can we wish? We can see each other often, talk, and press each other's hands, and we ought to be satisfied. To come nearer would, perhaps, prove a disenchantment for us both. Let us not renounce a supportable existence for dreams. Humiliated, faded, and weak, I am no longer the girl you formerly loved. No, no! Jacob, in the name of our love, never mention that word again. Do not tempt me; do not make me dream of happiness that can never be realized; it is impossible." "The impossibility is only in your imagination. The thing is very feasible, dear Mathilde. What is there to bind you to your husband. He is as indifferent to you as you are to him. You have no children." "Do not make me blush, Jacob. A woman should belong to but one man; whatever be her lot, happy or unhappy, she should submit, and be humble and resigned. I cannot commence life over again, and, moreover, I am standing on the threshold of the tomb, while your life has just begun." "I thought that you loved me, Mathilde, as much as I love you!" "More, for I have courage to sacrifice myself for your happiness. You cannot imagine how this idea of belonging to you has troubled my spirit. I assure you it has tempted me more than once, and I have always put it from me, as I do now. Have pity on me, do not oblige me to weep. I am weak, do not take advantage of my weakness." "But this man is unworthy of you." "Unworthy or not, I married him." "And if he himself desired the divorce, would you hinder him?" "Have you any reason for saying that?" "No." "Very well, then, say no more. Even if he desert me, I will refuse to be yours." "This is folly, Mathilde." "No, it is love. The true love of a woman who can love chastely. To give you my hand would be to put you in his place. After him; oh, no! that would be too humiliating." "You are an angel, but I wish you to be a woman." "Let us seek rather to elevate ourselves above this idle humanity." "Perhaps you can attain this ideal, but I cannot." "I can understand," said Mathilde with a slight blush. "I can understand an instant of aberration, a sudden and unforeseen fall; but I have no sympathy with the profanation of conscience by a designing woman. She who has pressed two men to her bosom, becomes afterward like an inn open to all. One only! only one for life and death!" "And that only one, Henri!" "No, it is not he! It is you, Jacob; he has only my body, you have my soul." After a moment of exaltation she continued:-- "Tell me," said she, "do you really believe in the immortality of the soul and a life beyond the tomb?" "Yes, I believe it. Otherwise man would have been an aspiration that God would not have realized. How else can we account for the desire for immortality that each one bears within his soul? Why should we suppose that this presentiment, this divination of a future existence, should be an illusion? As to the conditions of the future life we are ignorant. Man dreams that he will awaken the same as when he closes his eyes here below. That is perhaps an error; but one sure thing is, that the soul will not lose acquired virtues nor the reward for suffering, courageously endured. Certainly there is another world." "You throw balm on my spirit; I desire to believe, but it is in vain that I search for faith in books. They puzzle me, and I always end by being confirmed in an ignorance which can be expressed in these words: I know nothing." "Yes; but one does not draw faith from books, it proceeds from an inner voice." "But this uncertainty; everywhere this dreadful uncertainty. Virtue, science, reason itself are so many spider webs which are torn by every wind. Yet it is frightful to die with this idea of annihilation in one's heart." "Belief in God warrants us in this hope for the future. God cannot be unjust. He could not have implanted in us such strong and persistent hopes to make a cruel mockery of us. It is inadmissible if one believe in him. Have confidence in God and keep his commandments." "But where is this law of God? In the books called holy? They differ; some of them are supposed to be revelation, others simple popular legends. How uncertain everything is, cold, empty, frightful!" With these words she trembled, as if the spectre of death had appeared before her. Then she went to the piano, and played one of Chopin's touching fantasies, while Jacob listened. Some one put a hand on her shoulder, and Mathilde gave a little cry of fright. The dream was over. This was reality. Henri, with a cigar in his mouth, appeared before her. "You have at last deigned to remember us," said he jokingly to Jacob. "You haven't been here for a long while. Mathilde, will you order the tea? What time is it? Nine o'clock. At ten I must be at the chateau. I have scarcely time to dress and to take tea, which is much better than I get there, in spite of their golden cups; but how can you stay in this room, it is freezing." "I have not felt cold," said Jacob. "The music has warmed you, then. Have you heard Muse play Liszt's last fantasie? It is stupefying." "Muse's execution is marvellous, but she plays without expression." "Profane blasphemer!" Jacob said no more, and Henri looked at his watch. "That which exasperates me is the white cravat; but one meets the best society at the chateau. The Namiestnik is one of the most courteous men in the world." "Good-night," said Jacob, taking his hat. "Good-night." CHAPTER XXI. LIA. Jacob sought for two days the place where Lia had concealed herself. He at last obtained some information about her, and found that the poor girl's misery was horrible, but that she had endured it uncomplainingly and with angelic patience. She lived in the _rue des Jardins_, called thus because of the gardens which formerly abounded there, most of which had long since disappeared. The house was old and in bad repair, but it still possessed a small garden planted with fruit-trees. Under the shadow of the apple and pear trees grew beets, carrots, potatoes, and onions, also strawberries and raspberry bushes. In the centre rose a magnificent linden-tree, the pride of the proprietor. This tree gave shade, as well as some profit from its flowers and its bees. In many places the old and ruined house was propped up to keep it from falling, and the shingles on the roof were covered with a thick moss. In the lower part lived Jewish families blessed with many children; Lia lived on the floor above. At the door Jacob met the landlady. She was very fat, and muffled up in an apron of foulard, on which the portrait of Napoleon I. was printed. At his first question regarding the lodger he sought, she looked at him suspiciously, and replied:-- "The woman for whom you ask lives here, but she receives no one. If, however, monsieur, your business is important"-- "Yes; I come on business." "In that case you will find her in her room. She occasionally comes down to the garden, and sits under the shade of our linden. She has no right to the garden, but she is a poor girl, sweet and quiet. I pity her. Do you know her, monsieur?" "Very little, hardly at all; but I have been sent by the family," said Jacob, somewhat embarrassed. "Her family! At last, then, they have remembered the poor abandoned one. Oh, my good monsieur, she has suffered greatly! Go! Take the stairs. You will find a bell near her room; but if you prefer it, I will announce you. Your name? Perhaps she will refuse to see you." "She will not recognize my name," replied Jacob. "In that case, do as you think best, monsieur; to the right." The staircase was old and dirty, with broken and uneven steps, and in place of a balustrade a rope was strung from one end to the other. Through the open doors of the rooms he could see large chinks in the walls through which came the heat and rain in summer, the cold and snow in winter. Jacob knocked two or three times at the door; receiving no response, he decided to open it gently. The spectacle which met his eyes was heartrending. A chamber, or rather a miserable garret, destitute of furniture, was dimly lighted by a little window sunk in the wall. In one corner was a pallet, and by its side an old broken-down cradle which had done service for several generations. With her head leaning on a table a young woman slept. She had evidently been overcome suddenly by fatigue, for she still held in her hand some coarse cloth on which she had been working. Her feet touched the cradle in which reposed a feeble and sickly babe. The nourishment that the poor little thing drew from the maternal breast was not sufficient to develop its strength and vitality. Lia opened her eyes, swollen with slumber; she believed that the intruder had made a mistake in the room, and remained silent and inert. Her sunken eyes and sad but calm expression denoted habitual suffering with resignation to misery. Jacob stood on the threshold, undecided. Lia spoke at last and said: "Monsieur, what do you wish? Why do you come here? Who are you?" "I come from your relations." "I have no relations; I am an orphan," replied she apprehensively. "I am sent for your good," said Jacob. "Do not be afraid. I do not bring bad news," said he tenderly. "I do not expect news from anybody," cried she; "leave me, I implore you!" With these words her terror increased, yet her slightest movement was graceful, full of candour and charm. Jacob commenced by speaking of her native place. She began to weep bitterly. "They have forgotten me there," murmured she. "Oh, do not try to deceive me! Yet," added she, looking at him fixedly, "you have the appearance of a good and honest man. Why should I fear you?" "You have no occasion for fear, my poor girl." Just then the babe awoke and commenced to stretch out its little arms. The mother forgot her sorrows and the presence of a stranger; she leaned over the cradle, over the only link that bound her to life, and caressed the frail creature, smiled, and spoke to him in a language which listeners do not comprehend, but which is intelligible to babies before they can speak. In this dark picture it seemed like a ray of sunshine. The infant soon slept again, soothed by his mother's caresses. During this scene Lia's beautiful hair became unloosed; it fell over her shoulders in thick tresses whose length denoted that she was unmarried, for the Jewish law obliges married women to wear their hair short. She blushingly repaired the disorder of her toilet and offered her visitor the only chair in the room, while she sat down timidly on the edge of the bed. In the meanwhile Jacob had examined the room; a few iron pots on the little stove showed that Lia did her own cooking; stretched on a ladder against the wall some linen was drying. In spite of poverty the room was exquisitely clean, and from the open window could be seen the trees, while the birds sang in the garden. "Your family have sent me," said Jacob. "Your friends have perhaps been too severe, but they still love you. You are in want of"-- "No, I am very well where I am. The house is quiet, no one disturbs me, no one questions me; at first it was a little trying, but now I am accustomed to it." "If not for yourself, it is necessary for your child that you should leave this unwholesome place. That is the object of my visit; you must take a better lodging and a maid to help you." Lia looked at Jacob, and her eyes filled with tears. "But I desire nothing," said she. "I bring you money," replied Jacob. "I will not have it. I refuse this charity. I can work for my baby and myself." "Your work will kill the poor little one who is dying for want of nourishment." "Why should he live with my shame graven on his brow? He is my consolation, my only joy, but how much better would it have been for him never to have been born!" "Do not despair; have confidence in divine goodness. You have been deceived by a wicked man." "Wicked! Ah, yes, very wicked! I, who believed his words; I, who loved him so--perhaps he has sent you?" "No." "Swear it!" cried Lia. "I swear it," replied Jacob. "Then who is the charitable person?" "It is enough for you to know that it is not he. As for the person from whom I come, it is a near relation, but you must not ask the name; I am not permitted to tell you. Confide in me. I will find you a quiet house where you will be protected." "Oh, no! no protector, I wish to be alone." "As you please; but at least you must leave here, and permit me to leave you a small sum for your immediate expenses." "God is merciful, but man is wicked! I cannot believe that I can find a better place than this, where I am concealed and ignored; elsewhere they may be curious." "Do not fear. I assure you I will find an asylum as retired as this, but more commodious." "God is merciful!" repeated Lia. She kissed the infant's brow, and held out to Jacob a wasted hand, wasted by fatigue and poverty. "I have been deceived once," said she; "but notwithstanding all that, I have confidence in you. Some one has thought of me enough to send you; perhaps they weep and love me still; but if it were not for my baby I would not leave this place. I cannot earn enough for two. I have had frightful days: only a cup of water, a crust of dry bread, and not a cent for milk. I knew not where to find work. I lost my head. I wished to die, yet the child demanded life. What terrible nights have I passed in cold and hunger while the child tore my heart with its cries. Oh, you cannot imagine greater torture!" "You will be delivered now," said Jacob gently. "But one thing that I cannot understand is why you did not demand of the seducer aid for his child." "I!" cried she. "I accept anything from that wretch! Before doing that I would a thousand times rather die, and see my child die. He wished to give me an income for life, and I threw his money in his face. He is a stranger to me, and my child shall never know him; he would have reason to blush for his father. Never shall my lips utter his cursed name, and I will efface it from my memory." Jacob soothed her, and gradually reassured she asked:-- "Have you come from my house? Have you seen the old man whose name I dare not utter, the old man with a white beard, and the afflicted mother, and the sister who suffers for my shame, and the house where all were so happy before my folly converted it into a house of mourning and covered it with shame?" "No, I have not been there recently." "I believe I recognize you now. I saw you once when we were all so happy. You came one Sabbath, did you not? and you had a long and serious interview with the aged man." "Yes. And I have not been there since that time." "But he lives, does he not? They have completely forgotten me?" "Yes, they are all living. God is pitiful, and his pity will extend to you." "His greatest mercy for me and for my child would be for us to die." "Life may yet have many pleasant things in store for you." "Never!" Jacob tried to divert her thoughts, and rose to go, saying:-- "To-morrow or the next day I will return myself or I will send for you. I will seek a more commodious lodging and a servant for you. Here is money for your urgent expenses and for new clothes." He placed the money on the table. Lia was really so poorly clad that it was unpleasant for her to show herself on the streets. "Cheer up," added Jacob; "I will look out for you." Lia became frightened again; she wished to speak, but the words died on her lips, and her heart beat violently; her doubts returned, and Jacob divined it and said:-- "All that I have told you is absolutely true. I will never trouble you; it will be from a distance and invisible that I shall protect you. I beg of you do not misjudge me." He bowed respectfully, and Lia, seeing that he had read her thoughts, repented of her unjust suspicions, and bowed in return. After he had gone she returned to the cradle and embraced the sleeping infant. CHAPTER XXII. THE OLD MOTHER. Carried away in the whirl of active city life, Jacob, since his residence in Warsaw, had had little communication with his family, who had remained in his native province. Twice a year he received, by letter, his mother's blessing, and news of his sister and elder brother. Despite the intellectual distance which education had put between him and his relations, he did not forget them, and he scrupulously acquitted himself of his duties as son and brother. Since the recent political disturbances he had been deprived of a correspondence from which he always derived much pleasure, and to the regularity of which he was accustomed, and he felt a certain inquietude in consequence. One day, on returning home, he was informed by his servant that an old woman, dressed in strange fashion, who said she was a near relation, waited to see him. In saying this the servant seemed a little embarrassed. "I knew not what to do," added he awkwardly; "I told this person that monsieur was absent, but she was obstinate and would not go. She raised her voice, and the noise attracted the attention of the servants on the floor below, and it would have created a disturbance if I had, as I at first intended, ordered her out. So there she is, monsieur." "Who is this woman?" asked Jacob. The servant, judging his master by his own way of seeing things, dared not reply. "I do not understand who she can be," muttered he. "She did not pronounce her name distinctly. I believe she has come to ask for help. I am not positive." As soon as he opened the door Jacob saw a woman who was walking up and down the room, examining everything with curiosity. She was dressed in the ancient costume of a Polish Jewess. She wore a black dress of strange but simple fashion, and around her throat a necklace of pearls with a large gold medallion; a long black mantle completed her costume, and her face was sprinkled with patches, following the ancient fashion for Jewesses. Jacob divined, rather than recognized, his mother, and with a cry of joy threw himself at her feet and covered her hand with kisses. The old woman was so agitated that she could hardly speak, and her eyes filled with tears. Jacob seated her on the sofa and ran for a glass of water. In his haste he ran against the servant who was peeping through the key-hole, and who had no time to conceal himself. "Go for water!" cried Jacob. "You gave this lady a fine reception! It is my mother!" "That is just what she told me," murmured the man; "but"-- "Not another word! Get some water, I tell you!" When he returned, he found his mother much calmer. "God of Israel, how great has been thy goodness to my child! Oh, if his father could have seen the elegance with which he is surrounded, he could not have said enough prayers to express his gratitude! God of Moses! Alas! I can only thank thee by my tears." "The most precious gift of God for me," said Jacob, "is the joy of a mother's heart." "Your prosperity is the celestial recompense for your father's virtues. This recompense has not been accorded to all my children. Sarah is ill. Miriam's children are dead. I could not resist the desire to embrace thee once more before I die. I said to myself, 'Perhaps he will be ashamed of his old mother;' that kept me. Afterward, I thought that at the worst I should have seen thee, if even from afar, and given thee a secret blessing." "How couldst thou, dearest mother, think me capable of such vile ingratitude, and such forgetfulness of the commandments of God?" "O my Jacob, I know the world! Your eldest brother respects me, although I am not his mother, but only his father's wife. He is a good man; yet if I go to his house poorly dressed, when he has elegant visitors, I can see that he is ashamed of me. But don't be afraid, my son, I will not show myself before your fine friends." "Then you will cruelly offend me," cried Jacob. "Never shall I be ashamed of my mother, nor my father, nor my race, nor my religion, nor anything holy. To conceal one's origin is a foolish pride, a criminal lie." Just then the servant entered, much disturbed, and said:-- "One of monsieur's friends is here; shall I show him in?" "Certainly," said Jacob. It was Mathilde's father. He did not recognize his relative, and was surprised to see an old Jewess seated on the sofa. He had suspected Jacob of entertaining a visitor of another kind. "Mother, you remember Monsieur Samuel, our cousin, and my guardian?" said Jacob. "I owe everything to him." "After God, it is to you that I am most grateful," replied Jacob's mother. Monsieur Samuel was somewhat embarrassed; he succeeded, nevertheless, in addressing some words of courtesy to the good woman, and to relieve himself of his embarrassment he drew Jacob aside under pretext of pressing business. "I came to consult with you," said he; "but we can leave it until some other time. Now let me ask you, what will you do with your mother?" "The name of 'mother' is my only reply." "A beautiful phrase; but do not be sentimental, I beg of you, dear Jacob. Do not compromise yourself in the eyes of the world. This queerly dressed old woman, if she is seen with you, will hurt us socially as well as you. You cannot brave public opinion." "I do not care to cultivate the acquaintance of those who mock my affection for my mother," said Jacob. "This will prove their worth; thus I can tell the gold from the baser metal." "A truce to poetry! Let us look on life as it really is. As soon as the world scents a Jew, it will tolerate him only when his perfume is sweet; the odours of the iarmulka are obnoxious." "I will make no concessions to the prejudices of the world," said Jacob. "Well, then, spare me the honour of receiving a visit from your mother." Jacob grew pale and his eyes flashed. "You have been my benefactor," said he slowly. "Do not make me forget it." "Excuse me, there are degrees in Judaism; for example, I give myself out as a descendant of rich German Jews." "Why do you prefer the German Jews," asked Jacob with a smile of pity. "Are they any the less Jews?" "Perhaps not. But they rank higher, and their past is different. Will your mother live with you?" "I hope so. I shall be very glad to have her near me." "I see that it is useless to reason with you. I cannot convince you; but if you have thoughts of Muse, I advise you to be careful." "I do not dream of Mademoiselle Wtorkowska." "There have been rumours"-- "These rumours have no foundation." "The presence of your mother in your apartments will shock many people." "So much the worse for them. I do not intend to offer my mother as a holocaust." "Has she brought any more of the family?" "I believe that she is alone. Poor old woman! to see me she has undertaken a long and wearisome journey." "She had better have sent for you to come to her, instead of suddenly appearing at Warsaw." Then Mathilde's father returned to the _salon_, saluted the old woman politely, and took his leave. On the first floor of the house the news of the arrival of a Jewess in the ancient national costume was circulated from mouth to mouth. Jacob's servant had no secrets from the Wtorkowska's maid, and he soon told her all about it; she carried the news to madame, who, inspired by Paul de Kock, her favourite author, arranged the story in her own fashion and went to relate it to Muse. "It is nothing to me," cried the young lady. "Jacob is no longer on my list." "Alas," replied Madame Wtorkowska, "to be so rich and to remain such an obstinate Jew!" "Mamma, would you have any objection to Sofronof, if he declares himself?" asked Emusia. "Do as you wish. Provided that you marry, your choice will be mine. Yet be on your guard with this Sofronof. These Russians have no scruples, no delicacy; to break a woman's heart is for them a pleasure, something to glory in. Under apparent splendour, they are often penniless adventurers who come to Poland to replenish their purses. I know the Russians well. Many of them parade about in a brilliant uniform and live in poverty." "Mamma, Sofronof has a fine property in the province of Kostroma." "I have met these brilliant officers who boast of possessing hundreds of peasants near Iaroslaf or Tambof. They lied, and this one may also. Let us go to Kostroma. The government pays these colonels so poorly, and even the generals, that they are obliged to rob to cut any figure." "It is not called robbery in Russia. They give it another name,--indirect revenue, I believe. The country is so organized that the employés, civil and military, without exception, procure indirect revenues to increase their salary." "Yes, dear Emusia, I regret Jacob. Unfortunately, he has a mother who is an impossible Jewess." "If I willed it, nevertheless, I could make him leave father, mother, and religion. I am sure I could overcome him; but I do not care to make any more efforts in that direction. Jacob is not congenial to me. My favourite, you know, is Henri." "You always force me to repeat that he is married." "The obstacle is Mathilde. She will soon die, and Henri would marry me immediately." "The grapes are too green." "We will see, and as a last resort I have always Sofronof." Some days after the arrival of Jacob's mother Henri Segel said to his father-in-law:-- "This Jacob is intractable. He will never be a society man. Presumptuous and obstinate, he refuses to see the world as it is. His head is full of fantasies from the Talmud, of dreams of reform, strange ideas of fraternal union. He is for Poland, and at the same time against the revolution. He refuses to enter into relations with the most important persons. He keeps to himself and is a real savage; useless to the world, yet not deprived of intelligence. But he is of no use to us." "He always reminds me of the beggary from which I took him," said Samuel. "He seems to be proud of it." "It is too bad; with his large acquaintance he could have been of great service to us. He has good manners and a sympathetic character. No one would ever take him for a Jew, if he did not foolishly avow his origin on every occasion. He is compromising in society. Men of his calibre are destined to an evil end, and he makes himself disagreeable to all. He must be blind, to act so much against his own interests." "Have you heard about his mother?" "Not yet." "Imagine, then, a Jewess of the lowest rank suddenly appearing at his house. He has welcomed her, and made much of her, and walked with her on the public streets. He would have brought her to me, if I had not begged him to spare me this ridicule." "The same danger threatens me, I fear, and he is capable of choosing the very day when I have the best society of Warsaw in my _salon_. This eccentric has turned Mathilde's head. She will suffer no one to ridicule him, and looks on him as a saint." "They have indulged in a Platonic romance since their childhood; but I will give you the means of breaking the charm which enchains my daughter's spirit. Behold! he whom she takes for a saint pays his tribute to frail humanity." "How? I have never heard any scandal about Jacob." "He has concealed it well; but I have a good detective who has told me that this sage, learned in the books of Solomon, follows the footsteps of that voluptuous monarch. Only they are not beautiful Midianites with whom he shares his wealth. He has succumbed to a pure-blooded Jewess." "Tell me about it, I beg of you." "Well, you know that I like to look about me a little everywhere. Sometimes I profit by it, and it always amuses me. Sometimes in one direction, sometimes another, I have bloodhounds that I chat with. Of late, that old man with a red nose, whom they call Trompette, has spied about for me. One day I was occupied; he insisted on seeing me, and came in with a mysterious air as if he had a state secret. He told me that Monsieur Jacob,--you will never guess,--the pious Jacob, had a mistress. She is a Jewess, whose father is very rich. The romance has lasted a long time, for the result is a child, on account of which she has been turned from her father's house." "Well, well!" cried Henri. "Why, it is impossible!" "At first he hid her with the greatest mystery in a little old house in the _rue des Jardins_. Now he has established her, still secretly, in a much more comfortable place in Saint George's street. He often goes there in the evening. I know it to be so, and I am told that the girl is pretty, graceful, and modest." "How does he reconcile this proceeding with his principles?" asked Henri. "Really, I am surprised." Samuel laughed heartily, and added:-- "Yes; Jacob has concealed this intrigue well; but some day I'll tease him about it. That will be great fun." "I can hardly believe it yet," said Henri. "There is no doubt whatever, I assure you. Jacob supports a pretty girl, and she lacks nothing. If you think it is for love of humanity and chastity, explain his motive." "He is, then, a Don Juan disguised as an anchorite. It is a side of his character that I have never suspected. I never dreamed of it." "Do you wish to be convinced with your own eyes? Here is the address, go and see for yourself; you are one of the family, and you might take a little trouble about it. The thing ought to be cleared up. You will not fail, with a little pains, to surprise the gay Lothario _in flagrante delicti_. After that he will not talk so much about the saints and holy writ. At heart he is no better than the rest of us." "Alas, poor Jacob, where is your character now! Do you know how this original romance commenced?" "It is a secret that you will discover, no doubt. I can only say one thing, that it is a secret no longer." "But it is such a short time since he returned, that the connection must have begun abroad. Who knows where? Perhaps at the baths." Henri Segel, seemingly absorbed in thought, went in the early evening to see Muse. This was for him the privileged hour for a charming interview, when no one ventured to disturb them, not even Sofronof. She had so well arranged her time that her favourites never ran the risk of meeting each other. The early part of the evening was given to Henri, who could then at his ease chat and joke with the siren and kiss her lovely hands. Segel was so preoccupied that the young lady noticed it. "What has come over you?" asked she. "Why are you so quiet? Have you lost at the Bourse, or has your dancer left you for the epaulets?" "How cruel you are, dear mademoiselle, to think that such selfish preoccupations should cloud my brow." "I think that you are a sensible and practical man, that is all." "Well, this time you deceive yourself. That which troubles me is the downfall of a man whom"-- "The fall of a man? That is curious." "Very curious." "Do I know the man?" "Very well. He is one of your friends." "Speak, then! Why distil your story drop by drop?" "It is Jacob." "A fall! His mother's visit, then?" "No; better than that." "What, then?" "An original adventure, a strange story. Jacob, our saint, our immaculate Jacob, has a mistress by whom he has a child." "Pure calumny!" said Muse. "At first I thought so too; but, alas! it is a fact; there is good proof." "This will destroy his character." "Simple truth that all men are fallible," said Henri. "I am dying to know the details!" cried Muse. "Is she young, pretty, blond or brunette, poor or rich, well educated?" "She is only a little Jewess, daughter of a merchant, but young and very pretty." "When did this intrigue commence?" "I am ignorant of the circumstances. It was my father-in-law, whom nothing escapes, who discovered it. At first I did not believe it, but he soon convinced me. The girl lived in the _rue des Jardins_ for a while, now in Saint George's street." "And this offspring of which you spoke?" "Did you not understand me?" Muse smiled and did not repeat her question, she only added:-- "He played so well the rôle of chaste Joseph that no one would have suspected him of this." "Humbug! His character now appears to me in a new light. I must commence to study him again; until now I was all astray." "I," replied Muse, "was convinced that he was ice toward women. At last I see that he is vulnerable." She was so impatient to repeat this scandal to her mother that she dismissed Henri. "At present," said she, after finishing her story, "this man seems to me more inexplicable than ever. A common girl succeeds where I have failed." "He loves; that explains all," said her mother. "He loves! That is no reason; it is no excuse. I am furious, now that I see that his coldness was only assumed so as not to marry me." Colonel Sofronof paid dear for Muse's vexation. She deprived him of little bits of news that she had been in the habit of giving him, and in order to irritate him displayed some patriotic songs. However, he did not get angry, but only smiled, and said:-- "You are not feeling well to-night." The calumny spread rapidly. Henri arrived home in good humour. Not finding visitors, he resigned himself to tea with his wife. After tea the Englishwoman read in one corner, Mathilde in another; finally Segel broke the prolonged silence. "Have you seen Jacob lately?" asked he. "No; he has not been here for some time." "Without doubt his mother's society"-- "Yes, he told me of her arrival," said Mathilde. "Has he ever spoken of any one else?" "Of whom, then?" "Bah! It is useless to tell you. It is not worth while to destroy your illusions. You have an affection for Jacob; let it rest." The least curious of women have still a little touch of curiosity, especially in regard to the man they love. Mathilde became uneasy. "I am sure," said she with agitation, "that Jacob has done nothing to destroy the good opinion that I have of him." "If you are sure, so much the better." "Do not torment me thus. As you have commenced, tell me all." "Why should you take this lively interest in Jacob," said Henri smiling. "I love him as a brother; I have never concealed it. We were brought up together." "Well, this Jacob has committed no crime. He simply possesses a mistress whom he conceals from public view." Then he repeated cynically all he had heard, with a malicious irony. "If you do not believe me," added he, "ask your father. He is the one that discovered the secret." During this narration Mathilde had grown red and pale, and listened with bowed head, trembling nervously. Suddenly she raised her head and said boldly:-- "It is a lie! I believe neither you nor my father. It is an unworthy calumny." "And why do you say that?" "Because it is not possible." With these words, instead of going to the piano as usual, she went and shut herself up in her room, where she could give free vent to her tears. Until then she had been so proud of the man whom she had made her ideal. Her idol was overthrown from his pedestal and was reduced to the level of ordinary men. Then she said to herself:-- "No, it cannot be possible." An inner voice replied: "They are all built on the same model. The whole world is corrupt." Life now appeared so empty, so sombre, so odious to her that she would gladly have died. The next day when she seated herself at the table, her face bore traces of the great suffering she had endured. She was very pale, and her features were drawn and pinched. She replied indifferently to her husband's questions, and pleading a violent headache, hastened again to her chamber. She wished to be alone with her sorrow. CHAPTER XXIII. RUSSIAN POLITICS. Russian tyranny increased the number of the revolutionists, for often a cause which has at the outset few adherents rapidly develops when blood has been shed. Jacob, who had been opposed to those who incited the country to a revolution, modified his sentiments in its favour when the government displayed bayonets and erected scaffolds. At the head of the saviours of Poland by terrorism was the Grand Duke Constantine, brother of Alexander II., and the Marquis Wielopolski. These two would probably have adopted another system if Petersburg had not forced them to employ the traditional remedies of cruelty and tyranny, banishment, the penalty of death, Siberia, and penal servitude. Jacob did not protest against resistance to arbitrary enlistment accomplished in the most outrageous manner. From the Polish nation, wounded in its dignity, rose on all sides the cry of revolt. "Rather death than be slaves, kissing under the knout the hand of our executioners!" Jacob was willing to do anything he could, but his former prudence had alienated him from the revolutionary party. So he employed himself in publishing a Jewish journal in the Polish language, in which he continued to maintain his ideas of Jewish reform; but for such a propaganda the moment was not opportune. New troubles also awaited him. His articles, written in elegant style with warm conviction, attained recognition from his co-religionists only on their literary merit. To some it was superstition, to others fanaticism, and so he remained alone in politics as well as religion. He was too much Jew or too little Jew, too patriotic or not patriotic enough. The society of his mother was a great consolation to him at this time. He had installed her in his apartments, and often walked out with her, and his filial devotion had put him under the ban of the wealthy Jewish society. He was avoided by all. He perceived it, and renounced all relations with these narrow-minded men. He even ceased to go to Segel's on account of Henri's coldness. Mathilde gave another explanation to this voluntary ostracism; in it she saw confirmation of the rumours she had heard. The poor girl suffered greatly. One evening Jacob was tempted to visit the Wtorkowska's, hoping to meet Mathilde. In the midst of an assembly composed almost exclusively of Russians appeared a new-comer, the Count Bavorof, counsellor of state. He was scarcely thirty years old, and was said to be a great favourite of the Grand Duke Constantine, and above all he was a bachelor. Naturally, Muse wished to count him among the number of her adorers, and had already tried on him the irresistible combination of beauty joined to wit. Jacob approached Mathilde, who was seated at one side, alone. Her deadly pallor shocked him. "Are you suffering?" asked he, in a low voice. The young woman threw on him a glance of profound compassion, and replied:-- "No. I feel no worse to-day than usual." "I have not seen you for a long time," said Jacob. "That is true." "It is my fault; but I cannot impose myself on men who repulse me." "Rather, is it not you who repulse them?" The remark sounded like a reproach. "How? I? They avoid me because my dear old mother, who is endowed with many excellent qualities, is not an elegant and fashionable woman. Is that any reason why I should not love her and cherish her? The ridiculous snobbishness of my so-called friends will not regulate my conduct." "Is it your mother alone that keeps you from us? Perhaps there is another person who absorbs your time?" Jacob opened his eyes, astonished. There was something in his look so open and reassuring, that she felt shaken in her conviction. She blushed, and was too embarrassed to prolong the conversation, so she rose and went to sit near Muse. She took her leave soon, bowing to Jacob from a distance. The latter was downcast. He sought in vain the key to this enigma. He understood that some one had calumniated him to his beloved, but who or what it was he could not imagine. In the _salon_ the conversation was animated. Colonel Sofronof, Count Bavorof, Muse, and the Counsellor Pikulinski made most of the noise. The recent recruiting, from which had burst out the first revolutionary spark, was the subject of the discussion. Sofronof did not approve of the measure, and commenced to question the genius of the Marquis Wielopolski. The Count Bavorof, with his ideas fresh from Moscow, told of the atrocious repressions, since perfected and adopted with so much cruelty, which the journalist, Katkof, was disposed to raise to the height of a system. The Counsellor Pikulinski was one of those counsellors from whom no one expects the least counsel. He was an absolute nonentity. The sole thought which predominated in his poorly developed brain was the perpetual fear of compromising himself. Like a doll that always squeaks alike when it is struck in the stomach, at each instant he repeated the word "yes," with an approving nod of the head. It mattered little to Pikulinski if the "yes" accorded to one person contradicted the "yes" offered to another. The essential thing with him was not to oppose superior authority or its representatives. Thanks to this invariable line of conduct, he had made a splendid career in the bureaucratic hierarchy. Decorated with the cordon of Saint Stanislas, the cross of Saint Waldimir, he enjoyed the entire confidence of the government as a reward of twenty-five years of faithful service. Despite his intrinsic nullity he displayed an enormous activity. Official presentations, manifestations of devotion, addresses of submission to the government, subscriptions of command, deputations, wherever he could make himself conspicuous, Pikulinski appeared. A kind-hearted man, he knew how to render himself agreeable to the old dignitaries and to the venerable dowagers, and it was natural that he should expect still further promotion in his civil career. The title of senator and the order of the White Eagle could not escape him; it was only a question of time. At each new favour from the government Pikulinski was profoundly touched. He quickly put on his full-dress uniform covered with decorations, and hastened to present himself at the chateau, in order to return his humble thanks. He always returned from these interviews puffed up with pride at the flattering words of his chiefs. "If every one," thought he, "would imitate my example, how many evils might be averted. Unfortunately, most of my Polish compatriots are wanting in tact and have little policy." In Madame Wtorkowska's _salon_ he took no active part in the conversation, but contented himself by throwing in here and there a "yes" which was only varied by the inflexion. "Russia," said Bavorof, "can say that she will act independently with more justice than Italy. She will carefully refrain from an alliance with perfidious Austria and feudal Prussia. Young and vigorous, she is strong enough to make head against the whole Occident united." "Yes," immediately assented Pikulinski. "It would be wiser to avoid the conflict," said Sofronof. "Yes," said the counsellor of state feebly. "For my part," said Jacob, "I think it would be a sensible thing for her not to engage in so formidable a combat." "And why, then?" demanded Bavorof. At this question Pikulinski accidentally let fall a "yes," which he tried to smother by coughing. "Poland," replied Jacob, "claims only the liberties guaranteed by legitimate treaties of the past. It would be much better to give them to her, than to reply by terrorism and false claims." The counsellor of state could scarcely suppress a "yes," which was on the point of coming out; then he feared that he had compromised himself by merely assisting at this conversation; he was taken with pains in the stomach, and took refuge in another part of the room. "You are putting yourself in a bad light, monsieur," replied the count. "We do not recognize any rights whatever on the part of Poland nor the Poles, not even the inherent rights of men. Our first duty is to repress this revolutionary tendency. Our strength sustains us; it is by this that we live. Our sole means of existence are our swords." "To say that Russia's only power is brute force," replied Jacob, "is to avow her moral weakness." "Until the present the empire has had no other foundation than force, described by you as brutal. That may change, perhaps; but in the meanwhile I repeat to you our gospel is the sword." The count's cynicism shocked the colonel, who was more diplomatic. "Monsieur le Comte," said he, "I cannot entirely agree with you. There are certain hereditary rights which should be superior to force." Pikulinski almost let fall a "yes," but judged it prudent to await a better occasion. "Passive obedience," continued Jacob, addressing the count, "seems to be your principal axiom." "Yes, for it is a national axiom, powerful as a religious dogma. Add to that, money, official position, decorations, titles of nobility, and all advantages which the government can give"-- "Then you speculate on human weaknesses, cupidity, vanity, ambition?" "You have said it. All the science of statesmen worthy of the name is summed up in working men through their vices. To speculate on virtue is only a dream, a childish illusion. Why? Because in humanity vice always predominates over virtue." Muse, who practised after her own fashion the maxims of Bavorof, believed, nevertheless, that it would look better for one of her sex to appear shocked, and cried:-- "Oh, Monsieur le Comte, your ideas are really shocking." "Pardon me, mademoiselle, they were not said for your charming ears." Pikulinski let fall a loud "yes," being sure that he could not compromise himself this time. "You know, however," replied Muse, "that just now most of our women are mixed up in politics. We are accustomed to hear everything, and our influence is widespread." "It is a misfortune. It does not well become your white hands to stir up the filth of life, nor to penetrate, elegant and perfumed, into the laboratory where are prepared the drugs for the maladies of humanity." Pikulinski thought this remark merited a repeated "yes, yes." "You think, then," asked Jacob, "that morals should have no part in the government of nations?" "Morals! There is no sense in the word. Politics exclude morals." "If that is your profession of faith, all discussion is impossible between us. I believe in morality, always and everywhere, and every time that an injury is done to it I call on the justice of God." "God! Justice! You believe in that? Are you a Catholic?" "No; I am a Jew." Bavorof had never met a Jew of this stamp. He looked at him in astonishment, and asked:-- "German Jew?" "No; Polish." "Does Poland contain many Jews who think and reason like you?" "I do not understand the question." "I mean no offence. I wish to know if there are in Poland many Israelites who are polished and educated." "There are many better educated and more polished than I." "Then so much the better. You can exercise a happy influence over the people in curing them of their patriotism without a future, and of their superannuated Catholicism. Eliminate the feudal spirit and that of the nobility, and with these new conditions will come the fusion between Russia and Poland." "The Jews who are preserved, thanks to their religious faith, cannot employ themselves by tearing out the hearts of others." "I have, then, the pleasure of talking with a revolutionist." "Not at all. Though there are circumstances when men who were most opposed to revolution have taken part in them, in spite of themselves." "Pardon me," said Sofronof, interrupting him. "The truth is that Poland will never be satisfied. Give her autonomy. She would soon demand the annexation of the provinces included in Russia, Prussia, and Austria. Give them all that, and they would claim the ports on the Baltic and on the Black sea." "One thing certain," replied Jacob, "is that Russia never yet has tried to satisfy Poland in any way." "And Alexander I.?" asked Bavorof. "Alexander I. promised much and performed little, and that little he has taken back again by the hand of his brother, the Tsarevitch Constantine." At these words Pikulinski was thoroughly frightened; he was afraid to breathe even the same air with this audacious man. He thought of pretending to have the nose-bleed for a pretext to leave suddenly. However, he remained. "And Russia did wrong to promise and make those concessions," replied Bavorof. "Since 1815 it has been necessary to uproot and overthrow Polonism and Catholicism. They must be replaced by the Russian spirit and the orthodox Greek church." "But, Monsieur le Comte, did you not just avow that Russia's power is in her material force? In that case, what is the Russian spirit, and how shall she inspire others with a spirit which is actually incompatible with strength?" "The contradiction is not so apparent. Our spirit is to destroy all those who do not think with us. We were wrong to deceive Poland with fallacious promises; between us it is a battle to the death. Her annihilation is our end, and always has been." "And what will come out of the ruins?" "An enormous Russia, a Russia semi-civilized,--paleoslav, democratic, and social, with a Czar at the head. A republic, if you will, _democ-soc_, as they said in 1848, with a hereditary president clothed with dictatorial authority, and to the eyes of the ignorant masses of a sacred and divine character. I am a noble; but to tell the truth, in Russia nobility does not exist. It never has existed, and never will. All Russians are equally under the knout." This expression of the republic, _democ-soc_, even in the mouth of Bavorof, sounded so badly to the ears of Pikulinski, that this time he suppressed the "yes," and, under pretext of the nose-bleed that he had in reserve, hid his face in his handkerchief. Jacob, after taking the tour of the _salon_ two or three times, took his leave. "Who is this man?" asked the count. "Is he really a Jew?" "Yes," replied Muse; "and there are many Israelites here who are as well educated." "And have they the same ideas?" "Not by any means," replied Sofronof, who had some acquaintance with Jewish society. "This man is an exception. He is an idealist, a dreamer, a reformer. An original, he walks alone." "A dangerous man," muttered Bavorof. "He is obstinate, no doubt, like all men with convictions, imbued with a fervent mysticism and plunged in the clouds of spirituality. He sets up a standard of morals and right that takes with weak-minded people everywhere; above all, the women. If he were a Catholic I would have arrested him and banished him without further ceremony; but he is only a Jew, so we can have a little patience." "At Warsaw," said Muse, "the Israelites play a grand rôle. It is difficult to distinguish them from the rest of society at first sight." "But from what I have heard they are not friends with the feudalists." "It is not so; they are reconciled." "That is a pity. Then we must sow discord among them. Divide and conquer is one of our maxims." "You are a strange politician, dear count," said Sofronof; "you think aloud." "Like a celebrated minister. To-day it is the best way to deceive the world. Men are always disposed to attribute to you ideas contrary to those which you loudly proclaim." Pikulinski confirmed this sentence with two loud "yeses," and went away wondering if he could in any way have compromised himself. One day, soon after, Bavorof said to Sofronof:-- "I recommend you, colonel, to warn the police not to lose sight of this Jew, Jacob. He displeases me. He sees through our plots. There are only two alternatives: to oblige him to serve us, or to send him to Penza." "What good would that do? His is an open nature, from which we have nothing to fear. He is wrapped up in the Talmud and his innocent mania of playing the prophet." "As for me, I despise his prophecy. Is he rich?" "Very rich." "So much the worse. Ambitious?" "Not the least in the world." "Still worse. Is he a coward?" "I do not think so." "In that case to Penza! To Penza!" "But he is not a revolutionist." "That is still worse. Sooner or later a revolutionist will change his skin. A revolutionist can be dealt with; but a liberal, a legalist, a moralist, who believes in men's rights, this is a dangerous animal. Give me individuals like Pikulinski, malleable to our will, and I will place them in the centre of our social organism. We can control them, and, with the rabble at our feet, all will go smoothly. Hurrah!" CHAPTER XXIV. THE SEDUCER. Jacob was absorbed in the study of the works of Maimonides, when his servant brought him a visiting-card. This servant had replaced him who had so rudely received his master's mother, and who, on account of her, had left Jacob's service, with tears in his eyes, but too proud to serve a country-woman in Jewish costume. The visiting-card bore a name engraved indistinctly. Without deciphering the name, Jacob received his visitor. He frowned when he recognized David Seebach the younger, the seducer of Lia. He was dressed richly, but in bad taste, with a cane in his hand, an eye-glass at his eye, and a smile on his lips. Jacob received him coldly, and, with a wave of the hand, indicated a chair. David seated himself, put the end of his cane in his mouth, adjusted his eye-glass, and spoke in a low voice:-- "My presence at your house is perhaps a surprise, for you gained, I fear, a bad impression of us on our last interview. We were very sorry, my father and I, not to have been able to conceal that unfortunate exile for you, but"-- "I do not blame you for that. Every one has a right to act as he pleases." "Since then I have thought it over, and I admit that I was in the wrong. Your reasoning was just at all points. We must follow the current; we must side with Poland. My father and I, however, do not think alike, on account of his former relations. He remains in the Russian camp, while I take the side of the Poles. Thus we are safe in any case." "As you please," said Jacob, in an indifferent tone. "You are on their side, are you not?" asked David. "I am for Poland, but I am not a revolutionist." "As for myself, I have made the acquaintance of the principal agitators. I attend all the meetings, and I will aid the revolutionists, for there is money to be made by so doing. As a measure of precaution I have put all my property in a safe place across the frontier, so that in case I am taken the Russians can get nothing, and my father can save me from the hands of the police through the protection of the high functionaries with whom he is in favour. The patriots will need capital to procure arms at the Austrian frontier. I will accommodate them, and the profits will be worth running a little risk." "Excuse me," interrupted Jacob. "I do not wish to meddle in such business." "How is that? Have you not said that you sympathize with Poland, and did you not reproach us for being opposed to it?" "Listen to me, my good David. If I am Polish, it is not from love of lucre, not for fear, but from conviction." "I am equally patriotic at heart," said David. "I sing the recent hymns which ask God to manifest his power against the secular enemy. I believed that you would aid me to conduct my business to a successful termination; for to speak frankly, as I am a new convert the patriots have not yet entire confidence in me. Your recommendation would have weight, and you can share the profits." At these words Jacob rang, and the servant appeared immediately. "You see this gentleman," said the master. "Look at him well so as to recognize him." "Monsieur, I will remember him." "Very well. If he ever presents himself here again you will not admit him." David arose, frightened and furious. "Be careful how you treat me, my dear Jacob," said he, as he left. "I have your life in my hands, and I will be revenged." After this scene Jacob's brow was bathed in a cold sweat, and he fell on a couch nearly prostrated. He was aroused by the arrival of Lia's servant, who said that her mistress begged him to come immediately to St. George's street. He called a carriage and hastened to the dwelling of David's victim. Near the house he perceived a veiled woman, who seemed agitated on seeing him, and leaned against the wall as if faint. Then she rapidly disappeared around the corner. Something about this woman reminded him of Mathilde. What if it was she! This thought could be imaginary only, and Jacob did not entertain it for a moment. Lia, all in tears, ran to meet him for whom she had waited impatiently. "Oh!" cried she, "that wretch has been here; he has dared to look at my child. Save me from him! He has threatened to return. I will not see him. I do not know him." "Be quiet. You have nothing to fear. Did he tell you why he came? Perhaps he is divorced from his wife, and he wishes to marry you." "Then I will refuse; but he cannot give his wife the Ghet, for he knows not where she is. And as for me, I have taken an Issar. I have sworn never to marry the man who caused the tears of my father and my mother." Wrath and contempt gave to Lia's face a wonderful beauty. She continued:-- "May my child be among the Asufim, the Piggum, and the Schetukim, rather than bear the name of his miserable father!" Jacob made vain efforts to calm her, and said:-- "I do not approve of your Issar. The child needs a father, and the marriage would justify you in your parents' eyes." All at once they heard David's voice in the antechamber. Lia snatched her child from its cradle and fled to another room, and Jacob was left alone. The door opened violently and the seducer rushed into the room, his face purple with rage. He was stupefied to find in Lia's visitor one whom he had not expected to meet again so soon. After a moment's silence his anger returned, and with drawn sword he rushed on his enemy, but his coolness and the heavy cane which Jacob presented kept him at a distance. He lowered his arm and muttered some unintelligible words. "Why do you come here?" asked Jacob, with a firm voice. "And you?" "I am here at the request of Lia's father, with all the rights of a guardian." "And I come to see my child." "Neither the mother nor the child belong to you. Have you given them your name? Have you shielded them from shame, misery, and malediction?" "I intend to divorce my wife and marry Lia. I must speak with her. Why do you hinder me?" "I consent that she sees you in my presence, if she wish. Otherwise, no." "She ought to be willing, for I hold her fate in my hands." He had hardly ceased speaking when Lia opened the door and entered, her features convulsed with aversion and contempt. She was superb in her scorn, and David trembled as he regarded her. She hesitated an instant, then cried;-- "Between you and me there is no longer anything in common. I declare, before this witness, that I will never be your wife, and I forbid you to call yourself my child's father. May my tears, my sobs, my sufferings, my sleepless nights, and the disgrace that I have brought to my family bring down upon your head divine wrath! May you be tortured by demons, and may Dumah invent for you new torments!" In the midst of these imprecations her eyes became suddenly fixed in her head. Her arm appeared paralyzed and her legs sank under her; a froth came from her mouth, and with a convulsive laugh and piercing cries she fell senseless. David fled from the house, his face covered with his hands. The maid ran for a physician, who, on his arrival, said that it was not an ordinary fainting, but a dangerous attack of apoplexy. All remedies used in such cases were employed, but the stricken one did not regain consciousness until toward evening, when she heard her child cry. She extended her arms to him, but her strength failed anew. Jacob watched by her bedside until daybreak. CHAPTER XXV. BETWEEN TWO FIRES. Overcome with lassitude, Jacob, after returning home, threw himself on a couch, and was just going to sleep when the voice of Ivas awakened him. The young man, despite the efforts of the servant to bar the passage at such an early hour, had forced his way into Jacob's room. He wore a heavy hunting-coat, and carried on his shoulders a haversack. Heavy boots completed his costume, and his bearing expressed ardour and energy. "We are to-day," commenced he without preamble, "in opposite camps. But I have not forgotten that I owe my return to Poland to you, and probably my life also, for your helping hand drew me from the deepest misery. I come to thank you for the last time, and to bid you an eternal adieu." "Why that?" "To-day I go directly to the forest. Our insurrection may last some days, and it may last for years. We shall march, armed with batons, against the regular troops. The forests will serve us for camp, fortress, and arsenal. We shall march, scoffed at by some and cursed by others, and accompanied by the tears of the women who love us and whom we love. We will advance with despair in our souls, ever forward!" "Why are you so hopeless?" "Because the young men who had confidence in us have been torn from us, and compelled to put on the uniform of the Muscovite soldier. We must save them or die! You see I have no illusions. I know that I risk my life, and that perhaps in the future we may be accused of presumption, of folly, of puerile enthusiasm. No matter. National honour commands it, and I obey. For the last time, Jacob, I who am so near death adjure you not to be a traitor to your country, not to work against us." "Who has dared to accuse me of treason?" cried Jacob. "This accusation has been circulated. Perhaps they wish to make a striking example. I will no longer be there to defend you, and you will fall a victim to your own obstinacy." "Why I, rather than another? Have I ever made you any promises that I have not kept?" "You have enemies, and very dangerous ones. They accuse you of secret relations with the Russians, here on the first floor, at the rooms of your betrothed." "My betrothed! I have none. She of whom you speak will never be anything to me." "But you go there, and you also go to Henri Segel's, who is in very bad odour with us. You openly speak against us; and, lastly, you refused to pay that money to us." Jacob smiled sadly. "Singular destiny," said he. "I have enemies, and many of them; I, who am no man's enemy. But you, Ivas, you do not mistrust me?" "No, I honour your character; I esteem you; I have defended you, and I will continue to do so; but the great majority of my companions think otherwise." "Let us talk no more of me. I am prepared for the worst. But tell me, is it not possible to delay the insurrection?" "It is impossible, and in my turn I also ask you to speak of something else." He was just going, when Kruder, all out of breath, rushed into the apartment. "Ah! you are here," said he to Ivas; "at last I have found you. I see by your accoutrements that you are off. It is too soon, too soon, do you hear? In Heaven's name do not act prematurely and unreflectingly." "I suppose you would advise us to wait until the Russians seize us?" "You will all perish if you commence now." "So be it. At least our blood will be prolific." "Listen to the voice of reason." "We prefer to listen to that of despair. Have you witnessed any of the scenes provoked by the nocturnal recruiting, when our men have been seized and forced into the Russian army? Have you heard the prayers of the young men torn from their mothers' arms? Do you know what it is to be a Russian soldier?" "I know all; but this is a supreme moment, and your action will involve the salvation or the loss of the country. Your passion is only a heroic egotism. Once more I call you to reason." "Say no more, Kruder. Folly is our reason, our watchword. And now, farewell, Jacob." Ivas and Kruder left at the same time, and Mann, who had just arrived, met them in the antechamber. He was struck with the appearance of the two men. The younger man's dress shocked him. It had been for some days the sign of suspected revolutionists. He sank down in an arm-chair, while Jacob, surprised in the midst of his toilet, dressed himself. "I come," said he, "as your guardian's friend and your well-wisher, although I know you dislike me, to give you a salutary warning. It is useless for you to try to deceive me, or to resort to falsehoods." "I never lie, either to you or to any one else. Learn this, monsieur; it is true that I do not see the necessity of boasting to every one, but I never say anything I do not mean." "If that is so, perhaps we can come to an understanding. I will show you my hand. You are, without flattery, a prominent figure in Jewish society; your education and your fortune assure you an enviable position. That is why you are not absolute master of your acts, of which the responsibility belongs to the class you represent. In compromising yourself, you compromise us. The government watches men of your stamp, and we are judged by your conduct. Every one is talking of your discussion at Madame Wtorkowska's with Count Bavorof and Colonel Sofronof. Pikulinski has spread it in the city. And what did those two men want that just left here? Evidently you are being induced to take part with the revolutionists. What folly! If it only endangered yourself it would not matter so much, but it can injure us who belong to the same society as you." "Is that all?" asked Jacob impatiently. "It is enough, I think. What was the tenor of your conversation with Bavorof, the remembrance of which has made Pikulinski's very hair stand on end?" "Do you know the counsellor of state?" "Certainly! He is an ass in every sense of the word." "And you take notice of his judgment?" "Because Bavorof, also, thinks you a dangerous man. And this young man in revolutionary costume, with his great boots, what was he doing here? A conspirator, probably." "You are mistaken. He came to warn me to be on my guard, for I am threatened with death from his party. You see how that agrees with your accusation." "That proves that you lack tact. You are, then, suspected by both parties." "It is often the fate of a conscientious man to bring upon himself the condemnation of all, because he tells the bitter truth to both without shrinking under their threats or trying to gain favours. I am one of those men who act according to their convictions, and I will not abandon them to please you." Then he added in Hebrew:-- "'Happy he who dies as he was born, pure and without stain.'" (Baba Mezzia, 107. a.) Mann threw upon him a look of ironical compassion that might be literally translated: A fool you have lived, a fool you will die. "Really," said he, "there is nothing to be done with a man who quotes the Talmud when one is talking business. You wish, then, to be incarcerated in the citadel? And we shall suffer more or less from having been intimate with you. That is the worst of it." "What can I do?" "You say that you are not a revolutionist?" "Truly, I am not." "Very well, take sides with those who oppose the revolution." "But they are not content with fighting them legally. They add to it arbitrary terrorism," said Jacob. "Of two evils choose the lesser." "Yes; the evil is in the two extremes, or rather the two extremes meet and form one evil. Despotism above, despotism below. I will serve neither the one nor the other. I am between the two." "I congratulate you on the excellent means you have taken to ruin yourself. I am really sorry for you. The best thing for you in your frame of mind is to depart for foreign lands." "You would advise me, then, to desert, when my duty orders me, in this difficult crisis which has overtaken Poland, to remain and do what I can for truth and justice. If I embarrass you," added he laughing, "you can blow out my brains for the public good." "Unfortunately that is not practicable. We should be implicated in an assassination. Well, if you will not go away, at least shut yourself up, and do not go on the streets." "Then they will say that I am a conspirator." "Meet only Russians." "I will irritate them by my remarks." "Be silent, then." "I must speak." "May Dumah and a million devils catch you at last!" cried Mann, rushing toward the door. "Farewell!" CHAPTER XXVI. THE RECONCILIATION. It was a sad day for Jacob, for many reasons. His friend had left him for almost certain death. A rude person had come to weary him with reproaches and complaints, and then followed a message from Saint George's street to hasten, as the invalid was in the last extremity. When he arrived, she was no longer of this world. Lia had breathed her last. There remained the orphan: what should he do with him? To whom confide him? Jacob thought of his mother at first; the good woman blushed; she attributed the parentage to Jacob, and in order to satisfy her scruples, he was obliged to relate to her the whole sad history. "I believe you," said she; "but will others believe it? Seeing the child under your protection, what calumnies, think you, will be circulated?" "Is it necessary, then, that I leave this poor innocent to hirelings? And ought I to refuse to do my duty for fear of unjust criticism?" "The child will never again find a mother, but I will place him in good hands. I will not hinder you from doing a good action, but I will save you from the blame which might attach to your good name. You may leave it to me," said his mother. In his present mood, Jacob felt instinctively drawn toward Mathilde, and late in the evening he directed his steps to her house. The servants, accustomed to see him enter unannounced, opened the doors of the _salon_. He waited there for some time, looking at the closed piano, the stiffly-arranged furniture, and the withered flowers in the vases. Everything bore that air of desolation found in houses that have been closed for some time. Clad in a long, trained peignoir, Mathilde appeared, gliding like a shadow, with slow and measured steps. She was very much changed since he last saw her. Her eyes shone with a feverish fire, and her cheeks were sunken. Her former soft lassitude had become a torpor. She offered him a cold, trembling hand. Jacob understood by this reception that here as elsewhere he had been slandered; but, happily, he was one of those characters whose clear conscience fortify them against all contumely. "Have I come at an inopportune moment?" said he. "In that case, I will go." "No. You could not arrive more opportunely. I was anxious to see you, monsieur." "You are ill." "Not the least in the world." "Well, Mathilde, so many unfortunate things have happened to me lately, that I come to you to comfort my tortured heart." "Your heart? It is in the Old Testament." "I do not understand you. Do you doubt me?" "Ah! I do not know. This doubt is killing me. I wish to know all the worst; then I can die. You used to be frank and sincere. Why do you deceive me now, like the others?" "This is too much, Mathilde," said Jacob. "Oh! I have proofs of your deceit," cried she. "Would it not be better to confide in me as a sister, and say, 'I love another, I am tired of contact with a corpse. I wish a living creature? I would have answered you thus: 'Go, be happy!' In losing you I would at least have kept my respect for you." "Why do you not respect me now?" "What! you dare to deny it?" "Mathilde," replied Jacob gravely, "I assure you I have done nothing to merit these reproaches. I have never been guilty of forgetting you." "How explain, then, your mysterious adventure; that woman, who is she?" "You shall hear the truth," said Jacob. "Listen!" He then related the dark drama of which Lia was the heroine, not omitting the scene of the previous evening and the morning's death. The poor girl's fate made Mathilde weep, but at the same time she felt proud and happy. Her beloved was worthy of her deepest respect. When he had finished she could hardly refrain from throwing herself at Jacob's feet and asking pardon for her unjust suspicions. "Forgive me," she cried, "for my foolish credulity. But the calumny was so well devised that it had all the appearance of truth. It was repeated to me as undoubtedly true." "One thing astonishes me: it is that you did not come to me about it immediately. You were wrong not to demand an explanation." "A long and frightful torture has punished me for my hesitation. The days that have passed since then have been the bitterest of my existence. Your supposed infidelity poisoned all remembrances of the past, and I tried to tear your image from my heart." "I could not have foreseen that a good action would have had such direful consequences," said Jacob sadly. "How happy would I be could I adopt the orphan! Unfortunately, in this house I am a slave, a prisoner. I am respected, it is true, and the master surrounds me with luxury to gratify his vanity; he strews flowers on my path to dazzle the world; but in the midst of this perfumed atmosphere I am a captive, and very often envy the working women who live by labour, or in their poverty beg upon the streets. For a long time I have been abandoned. Henri Segel divides his days between the Russians and Muse. When I feel very ill the physician comes here. Sometimes a beggar appears, and, you will not believe it, under this exterior wealth I am often without money, without a sou to give for charity." She sighed, and continued:-- "To-day I live again; my soul is at peace once more. I have been given back the only man in the world who makes me love humanity and believe in virtue." Their conversation was continued for a long time. Tea was served at the usual hour, and the Englishwoman arrived, but she had a bad cold and her presence was a constraint. Absorbed in each other, they forgot the world. Mathilde went to the piano, which had been closed for several days, and the celebration of their reconciliation ended with the polonaise of Chopin (A-dur). When Jacob found himself some distance down the street he went back to look at the house he had just left as if he had a presentiment of not returning. CHAPTER XXVII. JACOB IN FLIGHT. Warsaw presented a strange sight. From all its doors the population hurried toward the forests. The combat had been precipitated, and they rushed eagerly to death. The Russians paid no attention to this exodus. They did not wish to oppose it. At the Chateau de Brühl they repeated the saying: "When the abscess is ripe it must surely burst!" The cold-blooded authorities did not say that this abscess was the result of a purulent malady, engendered by unbridled oppression. They cared neither for the suffering which it produced in ripening, nor for the blood which was lost in bursting. In the interior of the capital everything seemed to be in a normal condition. Only the initiated recognized in the streets the gladiators vowed to death, for the fever in their souls was concealed by a deceitful calm. From time to time, rumours were secretly circulated that companies had been formed under the very nose of the Russian troops, that Muscovite detachments had been beaten, that the insurgents had taken such a village, that here and there the national flag had been ostentatiously displayed and the revolutionary government proclaimed. Gromof alone persisted in declaring the revolutionary movement premature, and sought to check the torrent. Vain efforts; the dikes were broken, and the rallying word was "Liberty or death!" Thoughtful men, however, foresaw the imminent explosion of Muscovite vengeance. A barbarous and savage repression began, like that of 1794, in the time of Kosciusko. Then some concealed themselves in the thickets, while others fell into the hands of the police. Houses were searched, and in some cases destroyed, during the hunt for insurgents. Roofs were broken in and floors pulled up, and often, in default of finding the guilty, the innocent were made to suffer in their stead. The citadel was crowded with prisoners. Every day files of the unfortunates, including nobles of high degree, left for Siberia, and chains commenced to be lacking, so many were imprisoned. And during these horrors the groves put forth joyously their green leaves, the turf was carpeted with flowers, and the lark sang in the clear azure heaven; but the doom of the destroyer was over all. Russia prepared her saturnalias to celebrate a definite victory. By hundreds of thousands the soldiers tracked the insurgents, who were scattered in bands without camps, without money, without arms or powder. Yet victory was delayed for a whole year. One might attribute the rage of the Russian government to the humiliation of the army, if the slowness of the man[oe]uvres had not, as we have already said, been premeditated. The Russians wished to crush Poland, but they wished it to appear as if the revolution had been entirely a surprise. Since 1863 her vengeance had increased in ferocity, redoubled under a thousand pretexts. Her cruelty had now become systematic. And the civilized world assisted at this frightful execution by looking on with cold indifference at such sufferings. Jacob saw in his imagination the dark future of Poland,--a future become a perpetual present. He was almost desperate at his impotency to stay the impending disaster. To despair, succeeded apathy. What good was life, thought he, without high aim. And, alas, all the ways towards this end were closed to him! He tried vainly to become absorbed in reading, but his brain seemed congealed. A heavy slumber like a lethargy overtook him. When he opened his eyes the lamp was out, and the morning light filled the room. He opened the windows. The sky was sad and sombre, like his soul. In the silence of the new-born day he heard steps on his staircase; some one knocked at his door. He opened the door, and a man quickly entered. A long cloak covered him completely, and his hat was drawn over his eyes. It was Kruder. "You know all, do you not? Then you are all ready?" cried he. "All--what?" "There's not a minute to lose. It is four o'clock. You have an hour and a half, or two hours at the most, before you." "What is it, then?" asked Jacob. "There is no use beating about the bush with a man like you. In two hours they are coming to arrest you." "Why?" "One never knows why in these times. I bring you a passport. I procured it yesterday, before the authorities at the chateau had warned the police against passports. Come, do not tarry!" "Where shall I go?" "Where you will." "Would it not be possible for me to wait, and prove myself innocent?" "You jest! They would answer you by sending you to the extreme borders of the Russian empire. They are doing it every day." "Be it so! They would send me back." "And you would submit to Russian brutality when you can avoid it?" "To leave my country at such a supreme moment would be to compromise my Israelite acquaintances, which Mann has recently reproached me for. I would be accused also of cowardly motives, of excessive prudence, of calculating egotism, and my flight would justify the accusation." "The moments are precious. Keep yourself for better times. Captivity would ruin you, and unfit you for the future. The insurrection is strengthening. No one can foresee the result. European diplomacy may interfere. It is true that the uprising is premature, but it is possible that this time they may obtain some concessions. You can be useful to us. Keep your intelligence, your relations, and your fortune for Poland." "Intelligence falsified by mysticism. Every one says 'relations,' but with whom? My ideas are always in contradiction with those around me; there remains to me only a fortune. Alone, whom can I serve?" "Come on! This is no time for pessimism. You must decide." "My resolution is taken. I will go and make my farewells to my mother, and leave her in charge of the house. I will go far away, and there reflect as to what is the best course to pursue. I can give myself up to the gendarmes at any time, but not just yet. I will accompany you. Do you know of a safe place for a few hours?" "Yes. Come with me." Jacob lost no time in changing his clothes and ran to embrace his mother. He filled his pocket-book with bank-notes, and a quarter of an hour later was in the streets with Kruder. By many devious ways they arrived at the poorer quarter of the town. The fugitive had for a moment entertained the idea of seeking the hospitality of Segel, of Bartold, or of his guardian, but after reflection he feared to compromise them. "We are going to the 'Kafarnaum,'" said Kruder smiling. "The Kafarnaum? What is that?" "A sobriquet of my own invention to designate the place where the revolutionists meet." "You belong to them, then?" "I belong to everybody and to nobody," answered he. "I enter, I listen. I give my advice and I engage in arguments, and I wait. With me you will be welcomed at the Kafarnaum." "Is it a safe asylum?" "Excellent, no one suspects, and therefore it has nothing to fear from the police. It is in the house of the _commissaire_ of the ward." "Let us go there, then." Kruder turned into an alley. It was growing light, but the city was still quiet and deserted, and the only people abroad were the milkmen and the hucksters. They stopped before a house. At the entrance were some gendarmes, police, and individuals in citizens' dress. By a staircase which opened on the court they ascended to the second story. The house was new, and the apartment at the door of which they stopped had a fine external appearance. A servant who was half asleep let them in, and without question indicated a second door. This led them to a spacious _salon_. Two men were writing at a large table by the light of a lamp. The couches and easy-chairs were occupied by young men, whose fatigued air bore witness that they had passed a sleepless night. Kruder whispered some words into the ears of the two men at the table. These persons, whose faces were somewhat familiar to Jacob, offered him their hands. "Here," said they, "no one can come to seek you. As we have no secrets from honest men, we will continue our work before you. We conspire even in the open air, in the public streets, and as yet we have not fallen under suspicion. Be seated, take part in our deliberations, give us your advice,--we ask it. Today it is necessary to combine all our forces to arm, to rouse enthusiasm and practise strategy. Do not be disturbed, monsieur; do as you would in your own house." Kruder, whose custom was to take no sides, went from one to another, read the order of the day over the secretary's shoulder, listened to short dialogues between different persons, and then hastened to some other meeting. Jacob, left there by his friend, assisted at a strange, and to him novel, spectacle. Every instant the door opened; it was a continual going and coming of individuals of all ages and of all ranks of society. Among them were women, children, Jews, and ecclesiastics. Some brought good or bad news, messages and money, while others came to receive orders or to bring letters, and in this crowd appeared some in uniforms which bore the insignia of high rank in the army. They showed by their faces and bearing traces of a long and fatiguing military career. The breasts of many were covered with decorations gained in the Caucasus or in the Taschkend. In contrast with these officers were workmen, artisans, idlers, and vagabonds. The movement was incessant, and the crowd was continually changing. A youth who had been wounded came to relate the particulars of the combat, where he had received a bullet in his leg. He asked for a surgeon to extract it, and seemed impatient to return to the seat of war. His face was lighted up with heroism, and the fever of his patriotism exceeded the fever of his wound. A workman came in haste to announce that the police had made a raid on a clandestine printing-house where he was employed, and from which he had escaped through the roof. Immediate decision was taken to establish another printing-office in another hiding-place. The revolution displayed an immense activity which, notwithstanding, was defective. Necessary funds were not forthcoming, in spite of the threats and prayers employed to procure them. Every moment there arrived from the insurgents scattered in the forests complaints of lack of arms, powder, ambulances, medicines, and surgeons. There were rumours that this or that emissary had fallen into the hands of the Russians, or that a knavish contractor, who had been paid in advance, had delivered a cargo of guns which proved to be utterly useless, the refuse of the Austrian arsenals. These difficulties did not daunt the committee, for it was composed of men of unheard-of audacity and bravery, who had already accomplished miracles with their scanty resources. Russian surveillance was relaxed, and this fact, which should have made the revolutionists suspicious, encouraged their efforts. Their confidence increased daily. From all the Polish provinces, and even from the districts incorporated with the Russian empire in 1772, came assurances of warmest sympathy, but each accompanied by an urgent prayer to delay the uprising. It was too late. The duchy of Posen, annexed to Prussia, and Galicia, with the city of Cracow, which was subservient to Austria, viewed the situation with the deepest interest, but did not revolt for fear of drawing down on Poland two more adversaries. These remnants of the old republic sent volunteers and money, and at the same time procured some arms from Austria, not always openly, though the government at Vienna closed its eyes and let them pass. Gromof had the right of entrance to the Kafarnaum. Here he continued to oppose the insurrection, and excited general ridicule. "Instead of blaming our enthusiasm," replied they, "do something for us. Work the army. Work the dissenters from the orthodox church." "Alas!" replied Gromof, "that is what we are doing. But our people do not respond to the first appeal. We have yet to instruct them and teach them their rights." "And you desire us to remain inactive and wait for these babes to grow up? Oh, no! You cannot expect that any more than for us to return to the Greek calendar." "But you are going to your own destruction. You are on the brink of an abyss." "An abyss! To hell! rather than your yoke," cried an impetuous youth. This argument was interrupted by a woman who came to tell that her son had been sent to the citadel, and that she had succeeded in saving some very compromising papers that he carried on his person. After the woman came a youth almost a child. He told how he had fled from the soldiers who had seized him for the Russian service. Amid this noisy crowd came and went women chatting tranquilly, carrying important despatches hidden in their stockings or their corsets, and messengers waited while cobblers drew the nails from the heels of their boots where messages had been inserted. Jacob saw before him an admirable tableau of devotion. To him the spectacle was most pitiful, for he was convinced that all these efforts could only result in a final catastrophe. Kruder returned. He informed his friend that one hour after their departure the police had invaded his dwelling, searched his papers, demolished stoves, had even taken up part of the floor, and carried away as sole trophy a pocket pistol, a prohibited weapon. The house was placed under strict supervision, and the search for Jacob was now going on in the streets. There remained to him the choice between flight or prison; but whither should he fly? He thought of some obscure streets where the poor Jews lived. He had among them many friends whom he had aided in their distress. He had often penetrated into these houses of misery with the idea of devoting himself some day to their total extinction. With this end in view he had organized a Jewish school, for in his opinion popular instruction was the basis of moral reform and material improvement. One man in particular in this quarter he knew well. A certain Rébé Schmul, a petty merchant who had been on the verge of bankruptcy when Jacob had set him once more on his feet. His back loaded with old clothes, he walked in the cold or the heat crying in the streets, "_Hendel! Hendel!_" ("Old clothes! old clothes!") Nothing escaped his glance or his hearing. He heard the calls from the garrets, and introduced himself into the courts at the risk of being harshly treated. It was a laborious business, and often scarcely sufficed to sustain existence. At the most it permitted him to buy a little fish and a morsel of white bread for the Sabbath. Rébé Schmul and his wife were growing old; they had five daughters, two of whom were married, while three remained at home. In all, five mouths to feed. To do this it was necessary that each day, in all seasons, the pedler should tramp from early morning until nightfall. He must also be careful not to make a bad bargain in buying old clothes, which often appeared so well that a hole would pass unperceived. There lies the danger of the business, and Schmul, although experienced, had been taken in more than once. Tall and thin, he did not look his age, for, as he said, he had no time to think of it. In this business, which he had followed for more than thirty years, he had become a keen observer of men; and from this study was born in his soul not contempt, but compassion, for his fellow-creatures. Although he was very poor, he often found some one more unfortunate, who drew from him the last sou in his pocket in charity. Besides this sensibility, he was distinguished by a jovial humour. His natural gayety served him well in trading. A smile always attracts, and he by his bright ways encouraged men who were obliged to sell their best garments, and softened the bitterness of the sacrifice. Schmul always had a joke to tell, and a smile on his lips, when he left home in the early morning or when he returned weary and footsore at night. He treated his sick wife with pleasantry; by pleasantry he consoled his daughters in their chagrins; and lastly he fortified himself thereby, when he felt that a sigh was likely to escape his breast. No one celebrated with more enjoyment the feast of the Sabbath than did Schmul, in his narrow and crowded lodging, by the light of a tallow candle. His business did not prosper, although he worked so hard. This was a disappointment to him, for he had dreamed of enlarging his stock by the addition of blacking and matches; but circumstances had not as yet permitted the realization of his hopes. Then he bought tickets in the lottery, and each time hoped to gain the grand prize. In vain did his wife beg him to renounce this delusion, and use the money in buying the necessaries of life for his family. When she had scolded him well, his only reply was that he must not shut his door against the good God. Schmul lodged with his family on the third floor of a large house inhabited by many other Jewish families, all equally poor. This building, it is needless to say, did not shine with neatness. It was constructed in a rectangle with a narrow front, and opened upon a court. On each story a wooden gallery served for the workroom of the household. Here they washed and dried the linen. Here they split the wood, and cooked the food, and dressed the children. What did they not do here? Old clothes of all kinds were stretched on ropes, and the odours of the cooking, the steam from many wash-boilers, the waters from which ran through the court, produced a perfume which the lodgers endured from force of habit only. The inhabitants were like one family, many of whom had been born and were destined to die in this receptacle of misery. Schmul occupied three dark rooms, where the air and the light came only from the court. You can imagine what air and what light! Both had to filter through the wet clothes and the rags which hung on the ropes stretched from one gallery to another. One of these rooms served for a parlour, and possessed a rickety sofa and two old arm-chairs. The other apartment was the bedroom for the old couple; the third, the chamber of the three girls. It was here that the Schmul girls cleaned, patched, and mended the old clothes. A memorable event happened here. The father loved to tell of it as a proof of the protection of Providence. Ten years before, the pedler's position was desperate. He had been so unfortunate as to buy some clothes that proved to be stolen. He was obliged to give back the goods, beside paying a large fine. To raise the money for this he had appealed to several friends in vain. Seeing no way out of his embarrassment, he had gone out and had succeeded in selling an old cloak for a few florins. He had just returned home when a soldier came and wished to sell him an old velvet waistcoat. He refused to buy it; but the man insisted, and seizing him by the arm, made such a noise that Schmul gave him a small sum for the garment. He soon perceived that he had made a poor purchase, for it was nearly worthless. He gave it to one of his girls to patch, who presently uttered a great cry of joy, for under each button she had found a piece of gold, the total of which was sufficient to pay the fine. The waistcoat contained also a paper written over closely, but the writing was almost effaced and indecipherable. It was not possible to return the garment to its owner, for the soldier had evidently stolen it. Nevertheless, Schmul did not believe it right to appropriate a sum which seemed to have been sent from Heaven; he considered himself the depositary, and distributed the whole in small sums to political prisoners. This act describes the man. Unfortunate though he was, he paid his debt to an unknown. He often showed pieces of the waistcoat when he had occasion to relate the story, and returned thanks to Providence, for he was very pious. He always left home early in the morning and did not return until dark. He carried an old umbrella, formerly blue, but become by long usage an indefinable colour. It was less to shield himself than to shelter his merchandise from the rain, the snow, and the sun. His breakfast was invariably composed of a raw onion or a smoked herring, with a morsel of bread and a small glass of brandy. In the evening he loved to find some hot dish awaiting him, and seated at the table he related the most amusing incidents of the day, to which his family listened attentively. Then came the prayer before going to bed. The pedler was generally loved on account of his good character and jovial spirit. People were surprised that with his intelligence he had not already made his fortune. He replied by likening himself to a pair of scissors. Be they ever so sharp, they were no use without something to cut. Gold was the something that God, in his wisdom, had not given to every one. Jacob arrived at the staircase which led to the Schmuls' lodging. He ascended without seeing the pedler, who, returning from his work, followed him, and stopped at the same time before the door of his lodging, on which was graven the name of God. Following the custom, he touched it with his hand and afterwards kissed it. It was then that Schmul recognized him. "_Salem alekem_," said he. "_Alekem salem_," replied the fugitive. "Rabbi Jacob, tell me why I am honoured by your presence?" asked Schmul. "I am in trouble," replied Jacob. "Can I do anything for you?" "Yes, and easily, I hope." "Even if it were not easy you may count on me to do all I can." They entered; the old man dusted the sofa and the table in Jacob's honour, and begged him to be seated. The prettiest and the boldest of his daughters, Rosélé, came to help him. Notwithstanding their poverty, she was dressed neatly and in good taste, and her beautiful black eyes indicated a certain coquetry. "Now that you are seated," said Schmul, "I will listen to you." "In a moment. Rest yourself first, you must be tired." "Oh, as for that, yes! I cannot say how many stairs I have climbed to-day. I have done well. There are some young Poles who sold their last fine shirts to buy thick warm garments. I did not have to make myself hoarse to-day by crying '_Hendel!_ Everybody called to me. They sold at any price. I had not enough money, and was obliged to borrow of old Mortchel." "I am obliged," said Jacob in a low voice, "to leave Warsaw. The police paid a visit to my house this morning." "To your house? Is it possible? Are you then, Rabbi Jacob, one of those madmen who tempt God?" "No; but the Russian government often arrests innocent people." "This is true. They do it every day. No one is secure here, nor ever has been under Russian rule." "Do you know any one who can conduct me in safety to the first post station?" "Certainly. Under this very roof dwells Mordko. As every one must live by some means, he is a smuggler. Merchandise, papers, men, he gets them all across the frontier. Thus, by exposing his head every day, he feeds his stomach." "Can I trust him?" "Entirely. This Mordko is a queer fellow, and when you see him you will not doubt him. Half mute, almost blind, he can scarcely say four words or take three steps. He has such a stupid and innocent air that he is never suspected. I will go and find him." Madame Schmul came in to keep Jacob company, and at the half-open door the three girls peeped at him with admiration. Rosélé said to herself: "What happiness for me if I could please this rich man. But, alas! I must not think of it. I am called beautiful, but no doubt I should not satisfy a man such as he." In a few moments Schmul returned with a very shabby individual. He looked at Jacob from head to foot attentively. "He already understands the situation," said the pedler. "You need make no farther explanations." "I wish to leave at once," said Jacob. "To-night? No!" replied Mordko. "Too dangerous! Morning will be better." "But I cannot sleep here, there is no room, and the hotels are surrounded by the police." "I know a place where you can sleep quietly. I will return in a moment, and conduct you to it." As soon as Mordko had gone, Schmul said to his visitor:-- "Your flight gives me great sorrow. When will you return? No one knows. Your absence is a misfortune for the Israelites. You are the only one who could restore our old purity of religion. No one else, and now you are taken from us." "If I am really useful to our cause, be sure that the God of Israel will protect me," replied Jacob. "Then you will return, safe and sound. I have a presentiment. And waiting here we will drink the bitter cup to the dregs." Mordko returned, and Jacob, under his guidance, went to a small hotel in the suburbs, where he was given an isolated chamber. He soon slept, and for several hours the fugitive was oblivious to the world. CHAPTER XXVIII. LOVE OF COUNTRY. It was not an easy thing to travel in Poland in the time of the revolution. The country was scoured by bands of Cossacks, and battalions of regular troops inundated the cities and villages, took possession of any place they fancied with impunity, and committed all kinds of excesses. In the ravaged fields the unfortunate farmers beheld both their friends and enemies tear from them the nourishment of their wives and children. Mordko brought Jacob safely by a circuitous route to the post station, whence a carriage took him to the village where Jankiel dwelt. Here he learned that the two Davids were absent. The elder lived in Warsaw, under the protection of the Russian governor, and the younger took some part in the insurrection, and had acquired the name of an ardent patriot. Jacob surprised Jankiel, all alone, bent over a large book. He saw how suffering had emaciated the old man, who, not divining who his visitor was, did not raise his head, but signed with his hand that he wished to finish his pious meditation. At the end of a few moments he closed his book, and recognizing Jacob, received him with great cordiality. "Do you bring me bad news?" he asked. "No, I will tell you all frankly. I have been threatened with arrest; for what, I know not. I have been advised to absent myself, and I come to you to shelter me a little while from the storm." "The storm is still far from its end. The clouds thicken; but come what will I receive you with all my heart, and my house is at your service." "I am at present at the hotel." Jankiel rose, went to the door, and called by name a Jew who was passing, and who came running to him. "Go and get this gentleman's luggage at the hotel, and bring it to the chamber opposite mine. "I will not permit you to dwell away from me," said he. "There is in this village a regiment of soldiers, who search every traveller. You will be safe here. But much as I desire your company, and you know how welcome you are, yet believe me it will be better for you to leave this place. There will soon be trouble here. The Russians are letting the revolution grow, so as to have a greater chance for pillage. I have been through all this before, in 1809, 1812, and 1831. What the result will be now, God only knows; but I fear the worst." After a moment of silence and visible embarrassment, he added:-- "My wife is ill, my daughter is ill, and our house is in mourning. Only the holy books help me to bear my sorrow. Those people," he pointed to the house of the Davids, "are gone. One to the city, the other, it is said, to the insurgents. I do not congratulate them on the acquisition. Unhappy is the cause which is upheld by impure men!" Jankiel and Jacob were reading, when suddenly there was heard in the silent street the sound of horses galloping over the uneven pavement. From the window they saw in the square below a group of Cossacks and several carts. There were savage cries, and then, in a vibrating voice, came an order for silence from the commander. Jankiel sent out for information. A detachment of Russian soldiers, the advance guard of several regiments, escorted a chief of the rebels taken in a bloody combat, wounded and dying. The straw bed on the cart where the man lay was soaked with blood, and yet, if alive, he would be hung on the morrow! Such was the story told by the soldiers, who soon spread themselves through the dwellings of the village. Jankiel foresaw that some of the officers would be quartered upon him, and, fearing what might follow, went to hide his daughter in her mother's room. He disposed of his money in secret places, known only to himself, keeping in his pocket a sufficient sum for urgent necessities. The precious vessels had already been carefully put in a place of safety. With perfect presence of mind he warned the servants to say that Jacob was his son-in-law, and then seated himself quietly to await events. The village was full of soldiers, who received orders to form a camp in the market square. The officers alone installed themselves in the private houses, and the night was advanced when the colonel of the regiment arrived at Jankiel's dwelling. He was not a barbarous-looking man; his manner and bearing were those of a cultured person. Notwithstanding, the man was not necessarily a gentleman. For in the Russian army, as in Russian society, superficial culture often covers the most base corruption. Men who are charming in the drawing-room are often cruel and brutal in the exercise of authority, as if they wished to make up to themselves for the restraint placed on them by the requirements of society. The colonel bore a German name, Tendemann; his extraction was a mystery to every one, and perhaps to himself. He was pale, excited, and angry; the reason for which was the responsibility which rested on his shoulders. He was no longer a man; he was a Russian in the full sense of the word. He entered without saluting any one, and without informing the proprietor. All he thought of was to lodge comfortably. At the door of his sick wife's room Jankiel barred the way respectfully, and said:-- "This is my wife's room, who is sick in bed." The colonel, without noticing the old man, opened the door, examined the place indicated, looked into the next room, and then descended in silence to the lower floor. There he stopped, and said that he would stay for the night. His men soon spread themselves over the house, demanding loudly a samovar, a fire, candles, and hot water. In a spacious chamber several officers were engaged in boisterous conversation; from above it sounded like the noise of a storm accompanied by peals of thunder. Jankiel and Jacob were seated alone, watchful and anxious. Information gathered from the servants verified the first reports. A Russian detachment, sent in the pursuit of a troop of insurgents, had surprised them in the middle of the night, surrounded and captured them. The Poles defended themselves with their usual heroism, but they lacked ammunition, and they were soon beaten. Their young chief fought valiantly until he fell grievously wounded. It was this hero whom they were taking to be hanged, a proof of his distinction, for the other officers who were captured had been simply shot on the spot. The colonel of the detachment watched this prisoner with great care, that he might not escape the scaffold, and ordered him placed in a neighbouring house under a strong guard,--an unnecessary precaution, for the unfortunate could not move and his case was a desperate one. His name the Russian soldiers mutilated after their fashion. Like most of the revolutionary chiefs, he went under one that was assumed. The sufferings of the unknown, for whom a scaffold was being erected on the market-place, moved Jacob's sympathies strongly. If he could not serve him, he believed it his duty to at least console him. He communicated his desires to Jankiel. "The thing seems very difficult to me," replied the old man; "but I will try and see him. After all, I do not risk much at my age." Then Jankiel put on his long black coat, took his _czapka_, descended the staircase, and begged the guard at the door to announce him to the colonel. The latter was lying on the sofa, his legs stretched out, with a cigar in his mouth, when Jankiel entered and stood respectfully at the door. "What do you want?" asked the colonel brusquely. "I wish to know if your lordship lacks anything." "If I wanted anything in the house, I would take it without your permission. These are times of war." "Certainly." "What do they think here of the rebels?" "Nothing, that I know of." "Have they passed by here?" "No." "You all reply the same way, for you are at heart their friends. Jewish dogs!" "We have always been loyal to our sovereign." "And why, then, do you not chase the insurgents, and give them up to the authorities?" "That would not be natural for Jews. We are peaceful men and have a horror of war." The colonel rose and walked up and down the room. Jankiel bowed low, and said to him in a low voice:-- "Your lordship knows, perhaps, that, following a custom of our religion, when a man is sentenced to death, it is the duty of the Jews where the execution takes place to offer a repast to the condemned." "What is that you are saying? The custom of which you speak no longer exists. You have invented it. Why do you wish to see the prisoner, and how dare you lie to me?" The custom did not really exist; Jankiel had imagined it in pious thought, but how could Colonel Tendemann know about it? That is what the Jew asked himself, fixing a scrutinizing glance on the officer. "Why do you look at me thus? What do you mean?" cried the colonel. "It is admiration, for your lordship must be deeply learned to know what the Talmud does and does not contain. You have then, no doubt, read that which the rabbin Ichochuah said of prisoners." The colonel, pale and trembling, listened to the old man. There seemed to be a struggle going on within him; his lips trembled, and a mist came over his eyes; the voice of Jankiel made a strange impression on him. He tried to force himself to be cruel, but in vain,--an invincible sentiment held him. The old man remarked this emotion, but did not know how to interpret it. After a short silence the colonel wiped his forehead, and said in an angry tone:-- "Why do you remain here? What are you waiting for? Go away! Go away! Do not think of the condemned. His hours are numbered." "May your lordship"-- "Go away before I do something to you!" cried he. At the same time he approached the Jew, and whispered in his ear in German:-- "Go away. I will come to you soon." In the German pronunciation of the colonel, as well as in his features, there was a barely perceptible trace of Jewish origin. But why suppose this Russian officer to be a child of Israel? Jankiel refused to admit the thought. Nevertheless, he could not forget it, and was thinking of it when he entered the room. He said nothing to Jacob, who went to his chamber, a prey to the deepest anxiety. About a half-hour later a step was heard on the stairs. The Muscovite entered, his face as white as snow. He glanced eagerly around the room, the Jewish character of which seemed to fascinate him; books, inscriptions, portraits of rabbins, all attracted his attention. He held out his hand to Jankiel, and said to him:-- "_Salem alekem_." "_Alekem salem_," replied the old man, amazed. No more explanation was needed. Without doubt the colonel was a Jew. His father, or he himself, in order to enter the service of the government, had adopted the orthodox Greek faith. Nevertheless, the fire of the belief of his ancestors and of his repudiated race burned beneath the ashes. The colonel seated himself. Jankiel observed him thoughtfully. The Russian's figure trembled with the remorse of apostasy. He was one of those numerous Jews who have adopted the belief, the customs, and the prejudices of the country in which they live, but have, in spite of themselves, often after several generations, irresistible longings for the faith of their fathers. By a sign he indicated to Jankiel the sacred word inscribed on the door, and, approaching with veneration an open volume of the Talmud, turned the leaves respectfully. For many years he had not come in contact with the Hebrew characters and the language of the commandments, but he remembered the days of his childhood, when his father taught him secretly to read that language which had come upon earth from the mouth of God. At first he could hardly read the letters, but little by little light dawned upon him, and with intense delight he read on, oblivious to all around him; the day's combat, the tragedy of the morrow, his military rank, Russia, his Czar, and the entire world were all forgotten. His eyes, unused to weep, were full of tears, of regret or of consolation it would have been difficult to say which; probably the two sentiments were united. By chance his eyes fell upon this prayer for the dead:-- "God of mercy, deign to remember the men who have been more swift than the eagles and stronger than the lions in the accomplishment of thy holy will, and do not forget to show thy vengeance on those who have shed the blood of thy servants." Jankiel contemplated with emotion that which seemed to him a miracle. The colonel, after reading for some time, seemed overcome, and leaned back in his chair. His host said to him gently:-- "God will be merciful to those who repent." "I do not know," answered the servant of the Czar, "which I ought to regret more,--what I have been, or what I am; but is it my own fault that I am a renegade? My father chose for himself and for me. I belong to-day to an alien race. I weep when I remember Israel, until a wild madness possesses my spirit; then I tremble lest they may recognize under his new skin the cursed Jew. I tremble for fear I may betray myself by pitying a brother Jew. My children do not know that the blood of Jewish rabbis flows in their veins. Ah, may they never know that they are the children of a traitor, of an apostate!" "Brother," said Jankiel, hastening to take advantage of his softened mood, "what are you going to do with the prisoner?" "Do not speak of him. He is condemned by superior orders. To-morrow will be his last day on earth. I am sorry, but I can do nothing." "It is a pity. Perhaps he has a mother, a sister, or a wife. I wish I could be permitted to see him." "What is he to you? What have we Jews in common with the Poles? Have you forgotten their conduct toward our people?" "I do not forget that we are born on the same soil," said the old man. "And our immortal lawgiver orders us to raise the burden from the weary beast. Should we have less compassion for a man, even if he were a pagan?" "I am under the surveillance of a thousand evil eyes. You can, however, buy my soldiers with brandy or money. For money these wretches would sell their own father and mother. And then you may do what you can for the unfortunate man." "You will permit it? I will send my kinsman in my place. He will be safe, will he not?" "I permit nothing. I will shut my eyes, and I wish to know nothing of it." Jankiel left the colonel for a moment to tell Jacob, and found him dressed ready for any emergency. He had already arranged a plan with an old Jew named Herszko, nicknamed the Madré. He put on his old clothes, with two bottles of rum in his pockets, and they went out on the street. The hour was late, the soldiers snored, and the sentinel walked slowly on his beat. Before the house where the prisoner was shut up an under officer watched, seated on a bench. He cursed and swore between his teeth. Fortunately, he was a confirmed drunkard, by name Fédor Michailovitch Chelmenko. As soon as he saw the two Jews in the distance he immediately thought that this might bring him a rouble, or at least a glass of brandy. "Good-evening, officer," said the Madré; he saw that this was only an underling, but gave him the full title, hoping thereby to tickle his vanity. "Pass thy way, Jew!" cried Chelmenko. "You must be weary, seated on this bench." "Certainly it is not very pleasant." "Then why do you remain here?" "What is that to you?" "Excuse me, mere curiosity." Herszko mischievously showed the neck of the bottle as if it were about to leap out of his pocket; Chelmenko saw it; the very sight of it made his mouth water. "Let me taste it, miscreant," cried he. "You guess what it is? No? Well, it is the genuine Jamaica rum, worth a rouble and a half a bottle." "Let me see, quick!" Madré handed him the bottle; the officer put it to his lips and swallowed some of the rum with great enjoyment, then said:-- "Now tell me what this means?" "Officer," answered the old man, "my companion is a Jew, as well as myself. We have heard, but perhaps we are misinformed, that your prisoner is called Baïkowski; if so, he owes a large sum of money to my companion, who wishes to see him, and get his money, if possible." "Rebels, rascals, knaves, get out of here! Don't you know that no one can see the prisoner? It is strictly forbidden." Without hesitation Madré deposited on the bench the other bottle, and beside it three roubles. "No one. I cannot let any one enter," murmured the Muscovite; then after a moment of reflection he added:-- "Follow me." "Not I, but my companion," said the old man. "Which you like. It is nothing to me." Chelmenko, already tipsy, conducted Jacob to a door which he opened with a key. He pushed him into the room and shut the door after him. The dark apartment was lighted by a single tallow candle, which hung in a lantern suspended from the ceiling. By this uncertain light Jacob saw stretched on a straw pallet in the corner a human form with one arm extended. From the breast of the man came deep and broken respiration like that of the dying. The condemned made an effort to carry his hand to his wounded leg, but he fell back heavily with a sharp cry. His head was a little raised, and by the ray of light which fell on his face, Jacob, with a great cry of sorrow, recognized Ivas. With disordered hair, foaming mouth, and wild eyes, the young man raved:-- "I am ready. March! A ball in my leg! No matter! Down with the Muscovites! Let us attack them!" Then silence. "Ivas! Ivas!" cried Jacob. "Don't you know me?" The sick man turned, his eyes toward him. "You? Who are you?" said he. "Pole or Russian? A spy, perhaps. Yet that voice! Aqua Sola! Lucie Coloni! Paris--the boulevards! Who are you?" "Jacob, your friend Jacob." "Ah! Jacob the patriarch. Are you also a rebel? Oh, my leg, my leg! It is terrible!" "Ivas, try to collect your thoughts," said Jacob. "Perhaps I can be useful to you." "Certainly! More arms, more ammunition. Give them to me!" "My brother, you are wounded; a prisoner condemned." "Ah, yes! I remember. We were concealed in the forest. Beaten! Wounded! How dark it is here! Is it a hospital or a tomb? Can they not at least bury me decently?" "Have you any wish to have carried out, anything to confide in me?" asked Jacob. "The Cossack told me that I would be hanged to-morrow. No matter! I will return to the world in the form of a mad dog to murder them. Towianski teaches the transmigration of souls. He is right. If there is a God, where is he? Is he afraid of the Russians?" "Ivas," repeated Jacob, "rouse yourself, and tell me if you have any last instructions to give me." "Liberty or death! Have they all perished? The scaffold awaits me. A cord of hemp. After that, nothing! It will hurt my throat, like strong tobacco. Were you ever hanged, my Jacob? No? Who knows; perhaps you were, under another form, according to Towianski. It will, I think, be the first time for me. I haven't the least idea of the thing, but I will be calm; I am no coward." "Ivas, have you any relations, any friends? tell me." "None! My mother died a long time ago. There is no cross over her grave. She was too poor; I was a little boy. With pebbles I designed a cross. My father? I have never seen him. Other relations? They turned the cold shoulder to me because I was poor. My will? Behold it. To arms!" "Nothing more?" "Nothing," replied Ivas, who had somewhat regained his mind. "Nothing. I have no one in the world. Ah, yes! there is some one. You remember that old house that I showed you one day in Warsaw? On the fourth floor lives Marion, sad and thoughtful. She is a laundress, but in her former life she was, I am sure, a queen. But she has forgotten it. I think she loves me. Tell her that I thought of her when dying. She made me two shirts for the journey. Her hands are large and red, but she has the heart of an angel. Or, rather, tell her nothing. That will be better. She will forget me, and console herself with a Russian officer. The poor girl!" "Ivas," said Jacob, "my time here is short, we shall never meet again. Be calm, and think if there is anything you wish me to do." "I ask you to avenge me. How hot I am! Ah! Ah! An immense cemetery. They dance. The earth is freshly broken up at the sound of a violin. Some bears are dancing. The good God is looking at them from heaven through a little skylight. He strokes his mustache, and marks the measure." "Ivas," cried Jacob, "be calm, I beg of you." "Yes, I remember there were millions. We were a handful, and they attacked us, but we fought them. We did our duty! All dead! _Requiescant!_ Is this death? Provided my soul does not enter into the body of a Muscovite, I do not care." Jacob tried, without success, to make Ivas realize his situation. As soon as the dying man became more conscious, the pain of his wound was so extreme that, to prevent himself from crying aloud, he buried his head in the straw; then the delirium returned. It was a heartrending spectacle. "Do you wish a priest?" asked the Jew. "A priest? There was one in our band. Brave frater! A ball in his head, he is dead. A priest for me? What good? I have not confessed since my mother was no longer here to make me kneel and pray. A priest! I want none. It would do no good, for God has gone on a visit to St. Petersburg, and no one knows when he will return. They do not confess the dead, and I am already dead, although I can still speak." Then he continued his raving. "Do you think they could have taken me alive? Never! Tell Marion that I had one of the shirts on, and the handkerchief around my neck, and also the medal of Notre Dame de Czestokowa, but the mother of God did not aid me! They have killed me!" Jacob tried to revive him with some cologne that he had in a little flask. He bathed his forehead and temples, and poured several drops in his mouth; but it was useless. "You perfume me," said the poor boy. "I smell it. I cannot go to the ball, I cannot dance." He grew worse and his ravings continued. Snatches of songs, military commands, fragments of prayers and oaths, were all mingled together in an unintelligible manner. Jacob was kneeling, holding the burning head of his friend, when suddenly some one struck his shoulder. It was the officer. "Enough of this! Get up and come away!" said he. "Dear Ivas," cried Jacob, without paying attention to the man; "one word more, dear Ivas, your last word!" The condemned raised himself, threw his arms around his friend's neck, and with an expression full of love and enthusiasm, cried:-- "My country!" Then he fell back weeping and laughing at the same time. The delirium had returned. The officer took Jacob by the shoulder and forced him out of the room. Madré awaited him, and before he let them depart the officer extorted a present. Before retiring, Jacob knocked at Jankiel's door. "Have you seen the poor man?" asked his host. "Yes." Then he detailed the interview with Ivas which terminated with the thrilling words, "My country!" During this sad recital, in the silence of the night they could hear, on the square below, the blows of a hammer. It was the gibbet of the young patriot which they were finishing in the centre of the marketplace. They passed the rest of the night in prayer. Ivas died before daybreak, and as they were unable to execute him living, they hanged his dead body. The Russians having thus proclaimed their victory quitted the village, leaving their souvenir of terrorism. CHAPTER XXIX. THE GORDIAN KNOT. The same morning that Jacob left his house for fear of arrest, Henri Segel returned to breakfast. It was only at meal-times that he saw his wife, and then for but a few moments. He usually went away so early in the morning that Mathilde rarely saw him until evening. This day the poor woman, consoled by her explanation with Jacob, had more colour than usual, and appeared to have recovered her health. "I am really distressed," said Henri, seating himself at table, "and you will share my anxiety when you hear that Mann's prophecy has been realized. They have tried to arrest Jacob." Mathilde grew very pale, and cried:-- "Arrested? Did you say arrested?" "Why this emotion?" replied her husband smiling. "Answer me! I beg of you!" "He was warned in time, and has eluded the police, but they have searched his house." "I breathe," said Mathilde. "Is that all you know?" "Provided with a passport he will probably leave for Austria or Prussia. He is a strange man, I never could understand his character." His wife smiled. Henri was annoyed at this mocking smile and said:-- "It seems to amuse you that he should, be an enigma to me." "Not at all. It is very natural. Your characters are so dissimilar, that you could not possibly understand each other." Henri replied, with some bitterness:-- "You are very flattering. If this man, so opposite to me, has all your sympathy, what sentiment then have you for your humble servant?" "My sentiment for you," replied Mathilde simply, "you already know. It has satisfied you, and you have never tried to awaken any other." Henri looked at his watch, took his hat, and started to go; then he returned, and said in an offended tone:-- "My dear, if you are tired of our conjugal tie you have only to say so. It is very distressing to me to be the cause of your regret and of your secret sorrows." Mathilde looked at him with an air of dignity. "You wish to say," asked she, "that you do not find the situation to your taste?" "How can it be agreeable for me to contemplate without ceasing the statue of melancholy? Is this happiness? I think not. You must at least admit that I bear my fate heroically." "You reproach me?" "Your sadness, your gloomy looks, say plainly that you are not happy." "You believe, then, that the honour of being your wife ought to make me happy? What can we do? We cannot change anything, can we? We must bear it, for we have taken before God a sacred vow, and must drink from the same cup, be it bitter or sweet." Henri grew excited, while his wife's face remained as calm as marble. He shrugged his shoulders, and hastily left the room. The carriage awaited him, and he was driven alone to Muse. She was all alone, but ready to receive company. She was elegantly dressed, perfumed, and in charming humour, and she greeted Segel warmly. "Have you heard the news?" asked he. "What news?" "Jacob has fled." "How could I, living in the same house, be ignorant of it; and I trembled for him, from what I know of Colonel Sofronof and Count Bavorof." "He is now almost an outlaw," replied Henri. "More than once I have attempted, but unsuccessfully, to make him listen to reason. What eccentricity! He has often argued with the Russians and told all his thoughts, and the Russians did not like his sincerity; they required that men's convictions should bow to them, or else be concealed. I pity Jacob; but he is incorrigible and destitute of all prudence or policy." Several visitors arrived. There was as usual a mixed crowd, and on one side Mann harangued a little group of friends. "I avow to you, gentlemen," said he, "that I am delighted to be delivered from Jacob. He was a most compromising person, who belonged to neither party. He stood entirely alone, and such individuals are naturally victims of their narrow individuality; but after all I hope that nothing very bad will happen to him." "Provided that he is not drawn into the revolution," remarked some one. "I do not fear that," replied Mann. "Jacob is not a man of action. He knows how to think and talk only." Just then Mathilde's father came in; he was much disturbed. "What has become of Jacob," asked he. "He has gone." "Where? That is what I wish to know. He was the cause of a pretty scene at my house. His old Jewess mother came there in her ridiculous costume early this morning. She caused a general laugh in the house. That is not all. Unfortunately there arrived just then an aide of the Grand Duke Constantine. She was seated in the _salon_. Groans, tears, lamentations; judge of my situation! I had great trouble to rid myself of her. What a foolish visit! The good woman does not know where her son has gone but she is sure he has not crossed the frontier." "We shall, no doubt, soon hear of his exploits," said Henri. "The laurels of Berko will prevent his sleeping. He dreamed of the picture of Kossack, and of giving the artist a new subject. That which is most deplorable in this adventure is that it prejudices the government against us all. It will be necessary for us to be very circumspect, and to furnish fresh proofs of our devotion and of our loyalty." During these remarks from Mann the fascinating Muse questioned Colonel Sofronof about Jacob. He feigned surprise, and vowed that he had not heard of Jacob's flight, with an assurance that proved that he knew more about it than any one else. He questioned right and left, expressed some chagrin, and promised to make some inquiries, and from his face even Mann guessed that the source of the denunciation was well known to him. "In these days," murmured Sofronof, "it is wise to be doubly prudent as to what we say. Jacob did not weigh his words. I think, however, that he is not threatened with anything terrible. Perhaps temporary exile to the borders of Russia. He will not be executed." After the visitors had gone, Muse was going to the piano when her mother came to her. "Let us have a chat," said she. "Well, say on, dear mamma." "In all probability Jacob will never return." "No matter, he is crossed off my list." "Against whom, then, are your batteries directed?" "Against Henri first. Failing him, Sofronof." "I wish to talk of this Muscovite. Under his polished exterior I can discern the Tartar; his fortune is problematic, and his character is amiable enough in society to be disagreeable in private life. I do not like him. He is a cold-blooded animal. Why do you not repulse him?" "Alas! It may be necessary to take him as a last resort." "Henri gives us very little hope. He will not divorce Mathilde, and she obstinately lives on. She is not consumptive; her physician has told me so. Her malady is only _ennui_ and weakness. She may live for years." "Never fear. Henri becomes more amorous each day. He has no secrets from me, and he has decided to divorce her; but, can you believe it, mamma, she does not wish it. As she loves, I thought the idea would please her; but no. She has I know not what strange notions of the sanctity of marriage, the marital tie, and marriage vows, such ridiculous ideas! The English governess, who often hears the conversation of the lovers, has related to me these sentimental scenes. It is a Platonic love taken from some old romance, and not from the romances of to-day,--a mystical and unintelligible love. What fools they are to refuse their own happiness! Mathilde has even told me of her theories. I adroitly led the conversation to the subject. Poor woman! I could scarcely keep from laughing in her face. Henri seeks his own desires and mine. He dreads only the explanation with his father-in-law." "If you have gone so far with Henri, I must hesitate no longer," said the mother. "We cannot wait in this suspense until the judgment day." "These Russians, Bavorof and Sofronof, have played me a villanous trick in forcing Jacob's flight. He would have been of great use to us. Henri counted on his presence when he put the question of divorce before his father-in-law, for Samuel would be disposed to consent on condition that Mathilde would marry Jacob immediately after the rupture. No Jacob, no divorce. We counted on him, and now he is gone." "What a misadventure," cried Madame Wtorkowska, wringing her hands. "Bah! We can arrange it. I will have Henri. The others? I am disgusted with them." Her mother said in a low voice:-- "To marry Henri will be the same as to marry a widower, for a divorce is almost the same thing." "What has that to do with it? I wonder how many times most men have been widowers before marriage." "That is true. Then that is no objection; but you must hasten things, my child. Be quick about it." "Ah! I understand that there is no money in the house. I will borrow some of Henri." Madame Wtorkowska thanked Heaven that had given her so practical a daughter. CHAPTER XXX. THE INSURGENTS. "H----, July, 1863. "The Russians had scarcely vacated the village when the insurgents arrived. They marched through the streets, bearing a banner on which the national colours were surmounted by a white eagle painted on wood. They were a small band of men, armed for the most part with scythes and pike-staffs, while some had only heavy sticks with pointed iron ends. There were no uniforms. Each one was equipped and clad as circumstances had permitted at the time of his enrolment. Their forms were strong, and their faces expressed energy already clouded by dark despair. All knew that they were marching to certain death, and knew not what torture or misery awaited them. "The body of Ivas had been cut down after the execution, but the gibbet still presented its gloomy front to the market-place. The chief of the insurgents saluted it, and inclined his head, and all his troop followed his example. It was a mute and solemn homage rendered to a martyr. "I could not help feeling for these men a sentiment in which was mingled compassion, sympathy, and respect. "The young commander recognized me, for he had seen me with Ivas at Warsaw. He was much affected to hear from me that the condemned man had been our mutual friend. 'One of our bravest,' murmured he; 'but our country demands such sacrifices. Oh, if only we were better armed!' "Our conversation was not of long duration. The detachment had entered the village only to recruit, and succeeded in gaining a dozen volunteers. They also found some guns and swords, dating from 1831, covered with rust. "This heroism in poverty transported me back several centuries to the times when the Israelites rose against Roman oppression. Here was the same self-sacrificing spirit, the same love of liberty. My eyes filled with tears, and thoughts came into my head that I had not before entertained. "Let us go with them, thought I. Let us die in the ranks of these heroes. It is glorious to shed one's blood for his brothers. "Yesterday I would have hesitated. To-day I felt around me such an empty void that the future appeared aimless, and the thought of action inspired me. I, who had refused money for the revolution, I would offer my life. This seems strange, does it not? But do not condemn me without reflection. It is necessary to seal the act of alliance, contracted between the Israelites and Poles. My example will prove that this alliance is accomplished. "This letter, friend of my youth, is like my last testament. "I recommend to you my mother. Let my brother Israelites know why I have taken this step. I owe to the mission that we have received from God to return again to the past of an elect people. This mission is, to be more noble, more devout, and more loving than other men. "Farewell! You already know all I wish to say, for you have always been the confidante of my inmost thoughts. It is you who have inspired me with the resolution I have taken. If you had left me the shadow of a hope, I would, perhaps, have valued my life more; but you said one evening that a woman ought to be the wife of one man only, and as at the same time my brother Israelites have refused to listen to my voice, I am convinced that I am useless here below. "Do not regret me. God will give me grace to meet death joyfully. "To-morrow we leave here. I am well equipped. I have bought a horse and arms; I shall serve as a private soldier, for there are already too many leaders. "God is great; the soul is immortal, and pure spirits may, perhaps, meet again in another world." The reader has already divined that this was a letter addressed by Jacob to Mathilde. We have suppressed the commencement, which related to events spoken of in the preceding pages. Henri Segel received it in his mail, and hastened to take it to his wife. "What can it be?" asked he. "A letter from Jacob," she replied, without hesitation, recognizing his writing. She read it hastily. "What has become of him," asked Henri again. "He has joined the insurrection." "Ah, it wanted only that! He has done us a great injury. The government will imagine that we are all more or less implicated in his folly. But is the thing certain?" "There is no doubt whatever," and Mathilde read with a trembling voice a passage from the letter. The husband seeing her so agitated left her, and himself became thoughtful and gloomy. The news spread from mouth to mouth over the city. Some refused to believe it, while others rejoiced at it. Jacob had no warm friends, and few were sorry for him. The same evening Sofronof went in triumph to Muse. "Well! He has joined the insurgents, this man that you accused me of suspecting without motive!" "You jest. Was he not the enemy of the revolution?" "Yet he has enlisted under their banner. The Poles are all the same. The sight of their eaglet always has an irresistible attraction for them." "It is nothing to me," replied Muse; "but I will not believe it without more ample information." Just then Henri Segel arrived and confirmed the news. He had a dejected air, and was careful not to speak of the letter the colonel had had in his hand that morning. He well knew that all suspicious letters were read before the distribution of the post. Mathilde's father also was much chagrined on hearing the news. Without deep feeling, he had, nevertheless, a certain affection for his cousin. Perhaps, also, he counted on him for restoring to health his daughter, whom he saw daily fade before his eyes. Without saying anything, he hastened to Mathilde at the hour when he was sure to find her alone. The servant said to him that she was ill, and had given orders to admit no one; but the father, using his authority, went straight to her bedroom. He found her with disordered hair, eyes red with weeping, and cheeks burning with fever. Mathilde was no longer the marble statue, cold, resigned, impassable, inert. At the sight of an unexpected visitor she blushed with the timidity of a child. But her education had inculcated a respect, almost a veneration, for her father, who had repelled all familiarity, all confidence; she tried, with a forced smile, to conceal the violence of her grief. "I pity Jacob," said the father abruptly. "He courts his ruin; I wish to save him." "But how can you?" asked the daughter. Samuel did not reply immediately. He took several steps about the room. It cost him something to be, for the first time in his life, frank with his child. Suddenly he stopped before her, and, looking at her fixedly, said:-- "Your secret is known to me. Common sense has until now commanded me to close my eyes. But the time has come to treat the wound by severe cauterization. Now or never. You love Jacob, and he loves you. This love has not died out. I believed that your childish affection would disappear, but, contrary to my expectations, it has remained permanent, and surpasses all my ideas of love. You are unhappy with Henri; he was not made for you; his spirit is earthly, and yours is exalted in a high degree." "Nevertheless," said Mathilde, "I have nothing to say against Henri." "You mean that he observes the proprieties; and yet he has let himself be fascinated by Muse, who deceives and despoils him. Do you wish to save Jacob? You can do it; you alone. I will arrange a divorce with Henri. He is anxious for it. Give your consent, and the thing is done; then I will marry you to Jacob, who will make you happy. You can live in Italy, and in a few years, when the country is again peaceful, you can return to Poland. I will obtain Jacob's amnesty; I have influence enough for that." Mathilde kissed her father's hand, and said:-- "Dear father, I have never seen you as you are today, so sympathetic toward your child, so thoughtful for Jacob. Do not be angry, do not tell me that I am foolish, but it is impossible." "Why? Why?" Mathilde replied with timidity:-- "I love him too well to throw myself in his arms. I, a poor faded creature, broken and soiled by another. Do you understand me?" "No! Truly! This is refinement which is beyond my comprehension, a morbid sentimentality. You say you love him? The devil! What more do you want?" Mathilde, sighing, replied:-- "I have dreamed of a different kind of happiness." "Give up these reveries, and content yourself with the reality. Do you accept my proposition? Yes or no?" "Read his letter," said she, drawing near to the lamp. "Here it is; I will reply afterward." Samuel took the letter, and commenced to read it attentively. Mathilde retired to the next room, which was not lighted. She sank into meditation. She was torn by two conflicting feelings: her unworthiness of becoming Jacob's wife, and the desire to belong to the man she loved. In her perplexity she seemed to hear an inner voice which said, "Let your father decide." At the same time she accused herself of weakness, and her heart beat violently. "The letter," said her father, "confirms me in my opinion. You alone can save him. A strange dreamer is your Jacob; but, after all, he possesses that which most of us lack,--firm principles and profound convictions. One esteems him in spite of one's self." Not caring to appear in the full light, the young woman murmured in an agitated voice:-- "I am proud of you, my father. Dispose of your child as you please." Then she threw herself at his knees, and Samuel felt awaken in his heart feelings which he had not believed himself capable of indulging. Lifting her up tenderly, he said, smiling:-- "I will attend to the affair. Sit down and write to Jacob that you are free. He has only to equip fifty or a hundred soldiers to replace him, and excuse his retirement." He spoke with a rapidity and warmth that surprised himself, and he experienced a sensation of happiness altogether novel to him. When his daughter had finished the letter, he kissed her tenderly, and whispered in her ear:-- "Not a word of this to Henri. I will manage everything, and spare you needless annoyance." Soon after Samuel appeared at the _salon_ of the Wtorkowskas. The siren was at the piano, surrounded by her Muscovite gallants, who, listening, forgot their administrative cares. Under cover of a general movement, he quietly drew near Madame Wtorkowska. "I have something to say to you, madame," whispered he. "It is about an important matter that concerns you." "Very good!" replied she, rising and taking his arm. "Come to my room." When they were alone, Samuel asked:-- "No one can hear us, I hope? I wish to speak to you with entire frankness." "Do as you would in your own house," replied she. "To play a part is disagreeable to me, and so to open the matter I will tell you, without reserve, that I know that you are ruined, dear madame." "Softly, softly!" "Softly, softly! I am aware that your only fortune is your debts. Your only hope is your daughter. To find a rich husband is not so easy. I am sure that these are your opinions." "We have several persons in view, monsieur." "Who are they?" "Count Bavorof." "Bah! A Russian who has no fortune but his position. Beside, he is married. His wife lives in Paris, and has no wish to be free, and in Russia divorce can be obtained only by special influence. I do not think you would be willing to give Muse to the count." "What nonsense you are talking." "Who next?" "Colonel Sofronof is madly in love." "In the Russian fashion. Sofronof lives by his appointments and thefts. He possesses some land, mortgaged to its full value. Let him pass. Next?" "The counsellor of state, Pikulinski." "What! that old fool?" "For a husband it does not matter." "That is true. In marriage, foolishness is at times a good quality; but his little property is pledged to the Crédit Foncier. Your counsellor is a nobody. His emoluments are too slender. Another?" Madame Wtorkowska sighed deeply. She was at the end of her list, for it was hardly worth while to mention, after the counsellor, two petty officials who possessed only their titles and their brilliant uniforms. Naturally she dared not suggest Henri Segel to his father-in-law. "Why, madame," replied Samuel, "are you lacking in sincerity, when I come to chat with you in the most confidential manner?" "And whence comes, monsieur, this suddenly friendly guardianship for my daughter and myself?" "Your question is logical. It may be possible that I am myself interested in the affair, and that may be the cause of my solicitude to serve you. Confess, then, with an open heart. Do not hesitate to mention the name of my son-in-law, whom you have so entangled." "What do you mean? I cannot shut my door on Monsieur Segel." "I know your plans, dear lady," replied Samuel laughing. "Let us show our cards and be friends. You have speculated--own it--on Mathilde's phthisis. You have even wished that her physician would confirm your hopes. Bitter deception! And during this time you have endeavoured to ensnare Henri, and you have made an easy conquest. Now, listen to me, madame. My daughter cannot be happy with him. I cede him to you. Take him. Try and persuade him to demand a divorce; the initiative will never come from Mathilde. You will have me for an accomplice. I give him up freely. Do what you wish, provided you rid me of him. Do you now understand the cause of my solicitude for you?" Madame Wtorkowska was stupefied. She stood still a moment. Then her joy overcame her. She threw her arms around Samuel's neck, and kissed him several times; but, as he did not enjoy the caresses of elderly matrons, he freed himself from her embraces, and said:-- "Twenty or twenty-five years ago this exuberance of affection on your part would have charmed me. To-day it is too late. I am too old. What do you think of my proposition?" "Dear benefactor," replied she, wiping the perspiration from her face with her handkerchief, "I cannot reply without consulting Emusia. In a few moments my rooms will be empty; she will see you herself. Wait here." "With pleasure, madame; but I will light a cigar if you will permit it." "Ten if you wish," replied the mother, closing the door on Samuel. There were still some visitors in the _salon_. She made a secret sign to her daughter, and a few moments afterward Muse complained of a headache. Her admirers regretfully took their hats and left the house. The particulars of the interview were soon learned, and her delight was equal to that of her mother. Nevertheless, before going to meet Samuel, she assumed a calm and dignified mien. "Your mother has no doubt spoken of my proposition. Let us discuss, then, without restraint," said Mathilde's father. "But, monsieur, the subject is so delicate, so embarrassing, so painful." "Painful, mademoiselle, in what way? Not for you; nor for me, I think. Delicate. Yes! Let us treat it with delicacy." "I like Mathilde so much," said Muse. "Then you will give her a real proof of your friendship by delivering her of a husband who does not suit her, who will suit you, and who loves you." Muse tried to appear very much embarrassed. "Dear mademoiselle," said Samuel, "we can dispense with acting; you can gain nothing by it. I ask of you entire frankness. If you wish to succeed, you must act. Make Henri believe that Sofronof is a dangerous rival. I will tell everywhere that the colonel wishes to marry you at any price. Henri will be in despair; then push him to the end of the wall; exact a divorce, and advise him to take Mann for an intermediary between him and me." "That is admirably planned," cried Madame Wtorkowska. "Yes, the plan is excellent," added Muse, putting aside all embarrassment. "I am sure I shall play my part to the satisfaction of its author." "Well, I will be obliged to you if you do not make the play long. I am anxious for the end." "I will do my best." "I do not doubt that you will accomplish wonders," said Samuel, gallantly kissing her hand. "And now, mademoiselle, do not fail to tell me if I can be in any way useful to you at any time." He then took his leave. Madame Wtorkowska conducted him to the antechamber, and then returned to throw herself in her daughter's arms. She laughed and wept by turns for very joy. Muse was more quiet, but no less delighted, and she passed part of the night making plans for the morrow. The news soon spread through their circle of acquaintances that Mademoiselle Wtorkowska was soon to marry Colonel Sofronof. At first Henri shrugged his shoulders; but he heard it from so many different sources, with details added by this one and that one, that he grew uneasy, and, wishing to hear the rumour denied, hastened to Muse. She received him coldly, and was so reticent on the subject that it seemed as if she were on her guard, and afraid of committing some indiscretion. Segel thought that there must be some truth in the rumour. He became furiously angry, and the ingenious coquette soon brought about a quarrel. He took his hat, and she did not detain him; but at the door he paused, then returned, threw his hat on the floor, and seated himself again, filled with wrath. A violent scene ensued. Her mother appeared as the _deus ex machina_. She reproached Henri with compromising her daughter, and called him selfish and heartless. The comedy waxed pathetic. Finally, Henri had to choose between a dismissal or a divorce. Vanquished and subdued, he promised to take at once the steps required by them. Muse then feigned to shed tears, and he tried to console her. Her mother disappeared, leaving the lovers alone. Segel obtained some kisses, and advice to take Monsieur Mann as an intermediary, and he promised to see Mann at once. Mann, well instructed, at first resisted, moralized, and deplored the situation, but ended by consenting. And yet, when Henri returned home, he experienced a strange feeling of repentance for his haste. Mathilde presented herself to his mind as calm, sweet, and pure; Muse, on the contrary, under a menacing aspect. The one he did not love, but esteemed; the other he loved, but did not esteem. He loved her, if a passion which was entirely sensual merits that name. He saw himself in the future bound to a new companion, full of coquetry and schemes, and endowed with an unendurable mother-in-law. He saw the luxury with which he would have to surround them, and the slavery to which he would be doomed. He shivered with dread at the very idea. Unhappily for him, it was now too late to draw back. Mathilde looked for an outburst the next morning at breakfast; but none came. Henri was unusually reserved, almost timid; he looked at his watch often, and under pretext of important business soon left the house. Mann came to dinner, and informed Segel of the happy result of his negotiations. At table the couple, already morally divorced, seemed ill at ease. Mathilde taciturn, Henri almost mute, let Mann and two other guests do the talking. At dessert came Samuel, who amused the company for some time with his witty sayings. On leaving the table he took his daughter by the hand to lead her to the garden. He insisted on her putting on her hat, saying the sun was yet warm; then he conducted her to the street, where a carriage awaited them. "My dear child," said the father, "we will take a short ride. It will do you good, for the air is fresh and agreeable this evening." A half-hour after, the carriage stopped at the door of her father's house. "Here," said he, embracing Mathilde, "is your home. You will not return to Segel's. I have had your old room prepared for you." The gordian knot was thus severed with the greatest simplicity. The young woman saw no more of her former husband. Aided by the English governess, she occupied herself with household cares. With what secret satisfaction she renewed her former life! Her springtime revived. But she was at times a prey to deep anxiety, for Jacob had not written since his letter of farewell, and all traces of him were lost. The revolution, contrary to all expectations, took on larger proportions daily. Owing to the assumed names which the chiefs and soldiers of the insurrection bore, all steps to ascertain Jacob's whereabouts proved fruitless. Mathilde was almost in despair, yet she seemed to hear a voice say to her:-- "God will give him back to you." From that time she believed in God. Each day she questioned her father, who, without giving her great hopes, encouraged her not to despair. Weeks and months passed. At last, early one morning, he entered her chamber, and, in spite of his endeavours to conceal his feelings, appeared much agitated. "Prepare to leave to-day," said he. "Jacob is at Cracow, wounded, but not dangerously." Mathilde gave a great cry, and fainted, but soon came to herself, and on the morrow was with her father at the bedside of her beloved. EPILOGUE. In the year eighteen hundred and sixty-five a numerous company were reunited at the Albergo della Grotta, where we will finish, as we have begun, our veracious history. To-day the company assumed a more cheerful aspect than at the first meeting. It was composed only of persons whose appearance denoted wealth or competence. Here were no unfortunates who fainted from want, like poor Ivas, and on whose faces could be seen traces of misery and care. In the privileged corner of the grotto, near the murmuring fountain, a sumptuous table was set for the most distinguished travellers. Instinctively Firpo, the host, gave their titles in advance to Monsieur le Comte and Madame la Comtesse. The choicest wines, the freshest fruits, and a tablecloth whose snowy whiteness was only excelled by the brilliancy of the polished silver knives, forks, and spoons, were for them. The other tables were already occupied by the guests, here singly, there in groups. All belonged to the class usually called aristocratic, who lead an easy and luxurious life. The day was warm; the blue Italian sky shone in all its splendour. The sea sang its immortal symphony. The trees rustled harmoniously, the laurels exhaled their perfumes, the golden oranges contrasted with the dark green leaves, and the fresh sea-breeze sweetly refreshed the limpid air. Alone at a table a man was seated. He was the same who, some years before, travelled this way in company with the sprightly dancer, Gigante. But he was no longer in joyous humour. He was Henri Segel; but how changed! Equally isolated and bored we find our Tsigane, Stamlo Gako, whom the reader has not forgotten. He is more yellow and blacker than ever, and he has grown stout, heavy, and somnolent. There is another solitary traveller. It is Gromof, who is not now accompanied by the charming Lucie Coloni. He carries his head high, as if to brave destiny. But his irritation betrays itself in every movement. He amuses himself by making little balls of bread crumbs, and throws out of the window the fruit that he has scarcely tasted. These three do not converse. The Russian and the gypsy have met before, as we have seen, but they do not care to renew the acquaintance. As for Segel, he has never spoken with either Gromof or Gako. A sumptuous equipage entered the court of the inn. The host and the servants hastened to meet it. A lady filled the whole interior of the vehicle with her white robe, and one scarcely perceived in one corner hidden under the immense crinoline, which was then so fashionable, a little, thin, withered-looking man. They were no doubt husband and wife. She was in all the splendour of her youth, charming, elegant, confident of her beauty, proud and victorious. He, as one soon perceived, was the most humble servant of her who bore his name and disposed of his fortune. He jumped out of the carriage, and with all the manner and gallantry of a young man, despite his fifty and odd years, presented his hand to his queen to aid her to descend. She raised herself with indifference, and gathered together the train of her rustling robe. At sight of this beauty, whom he immediately recognized through the window near which he dined, Henri rose as if he wished to avoid a disagreeable meeting, but a retreat was impossible. To go out he must necessarily pass them. He made an ironical grimace and reseated himself. The reader has recognized Muse, now actually Baroness Von Kreig, the wife of a wealthy speculator, whose nationality was a mystery to all, for he carefully concealed his Jewish origin. He did not give himself out as a Pole, although living in Poland, but passed sometimes for a Russian, oftener for a German. Where and how did he steal the title of baron? No one knew. It might have been, said some, the recompense of a great financial operation. He wore on his travelling coat several ribbons and decorations. The reader doubtless expected to hear of the marriage of Muse and Henri, who were supposed to be so much attached to each other; but in consequence of the fickleness and calculation of the lady, the marriage had not come to pass. Henri, for her sake, had divorced his wife, had proposed, been accepted, and passed for her future husband everywhere. Muse introduced him to all her friends, and he was proud of his betrothed. It was then that the Baron Von Kreig met the enchantress on the street. He had known the mother of old, but avoided her because she had the bad habit of borrowing money which she always forgot to return. The baron had just lost his second wife, and he required for his third, above all, good health. He was struck with the blooming beauty of Muse, and fell in love at first sight. The next day he went to pay her a visit. Muse immediately coolly sat down, when she was alone, and compared him with Henri. Von Kreig was ten times richer, a baron, and could introduce her into the most brilliant circles of society. He was well educated, and, although old and dried up, was an excellent match. Muse put forth all her powers of fascination, and soon succeeded in bringing the baron to her feet. The marriage with Henri was delayed under pretext that the lace had not arrived from Paris. In the meanwhile the baron gained over the mother by consenting without demur to the most advantageous settlements for the daughter, imposed by Madame Wtorkowska. The engagement was accomplished quietly. Then there remained the rather unpleasant task of breaking with Henri, who believed himself master of the situation, and laughed at the attentions of the baron. It puzzled even the genius of these two women to find a plausible or decent excuse for the rupture. In the intervals of his life, as a betrothed between the acts, as it were, Segel sought distraction at the theatre. He was tied to the gauzy apron-strings of a sylph, or, in plain words, a danseuse. This connection had lasted for more than two years, and the evenings away from Muse were passed with the beautiful danseuse. He made no secret of it, and his carriage was often seen at the door of the ballet-girl's dwelling. It was with this, as a pretext, that Madame Wtorkowska sought to break the engagement. In vain Segel asked for pardon. He was dismissed, and received back the ring he had given Muse. For this engagement ring he had paid ten thousand francs, in Paris. It was a superb solitaire surrounded with smaller diamonds, each half a carat in weight. It was shown, as if by accident, to the baron; he felt the sacrifice, and with noble emulation Von Kreig replaced it by another which cost thirty thousand francs. Segel stormed, but the baron solemnly conducted Muse to the altar. The newly married couple started on a wedding trip, which was to be the grand tour of Europe, including all the large cities, baths, and fashionable resorts. The blackest ingratitude awaited Madame Wtorkowska. Her son-in-law paid her debts, and settled on her a beggarly pension; then took his leave courteously, and forbade more than rare communications with her daughter. The poor woman, who had calculated on managing everything, travelling with them, and spending money lavishly, prayed, begged, and threatened. The baron was inexorable, and replied by silence only. The daughter sacrificed her mother with Roman stoicism, playing the part of a humble and obedient wife. Madame was at first disheartened and fell ill; then, as one must live, she rented an apartment in the faubourg, and, to augment her income, set up an _écarté_, taking care always to have around her many pleasing young women to add to the attractions of the place. The house soon became well known, although no one cared to avow openly that they visited it. Sofronof, Bavorof, and others remained faithful to the unfortunate. As may be supposed, this meeting between Muse and Henri at the inn was equally distasteful to both. The moment the baroness entered the grotto her eyes fell on her old lover. Notwithstanding her usual presence of mind, she was confused. More master of the situation, Segel saluted her respectfully, and smiled bitterly. At the same time there arrived another couple. They were quietly dressed, yet with a certain distinction which is not always, as some think, an exclusive possession of birth. They were the distinguished guests expected by the host, Jacob and Mathilde. They came in, thinking themselves unknown. The husband was relating his first visit to this fairy grotto; the wife replied laughing. The sound of her voice came to Henri's ears; he believed it at first a hallucination; he listened attentively, and could not doubt the reality of his first impression. There seemed to him a strange fatality in this simultaneous meeting of the two persons, one of whom recalled his lost peace, the other his vanished hopes. He could not see Mathilde, and the sound of her well-known voice seemed to descend from the clouds. Curious to know if it were she, he went to the end of the grotto, where, in an isolated corner, Jacob dined with her. She seemed rejuvenated, and her face shone with happiness. Her husband kissed her hands, believing himself unobserved. Segel experienced a feeling of wrath; his lips curled under a sardonic smile. "All happy!" said he. "And I"-- Then he returned to his place. The silvery voice of Madame Jacob attracted the attention of the baroness also, and she, likewise, drew near under pretext of examining the grotto. She gave a cry of surprise. The couple turned and recognized Muse, who tenderly greeted the old friend whom she had so often wished dead. "Ah, my dear Mathilde," cried she, "what a happy and unexpected meeting!" Truly it was a romantic encounter, rarely met with in real life. Chance, however, often plays us tricks altogether unforeseen. Mathilde did not share the apparent joy of Muse, for whom she had no great affection. But their acquaintance dated back to the time when they both wore short dresses, and the remembrances of childhood are always pleasant. The proprieties required observance, and Jacob had his table carried to the grand _salon_, where their friends were dining; he certainly did not expect to see Henri Segel, and Mathilde saw him first. She drew back, for all her involuntary unhappy experience with Henri appeared before her. Her husband, although much annoyed, encouraged her to shake off her distress. Segel understood that his presence was disagreeable to all; therefore it pleased him to impose it. It delighted him to see all countenances grow pale and abstracted at sight of him. He affected a cynical gayety, drank a glass of wine, lighted a cigar, then turned toward Jacob and Mathilde. With well-simulated indifference Muse watched the meeting. Her husband, playing the young man, had risen quickly and received his wife's friends with much courtesy. He was very polite to Jacob, and entirely ignored the revolutionary rôle that he had played. Von Kreig detested Henri, but he deemed it proper for a baron to disguise his sentiments, and he was very courteous to his vanquished rival. The scene was highly dramatic. There was no outward appearance of excitement, however, for men of the world do not show their feelings in public. Gromof, roused from his meditations, looked around and perceived Jacob. "How strange," said he, "to meet you again at Sestri." "Yes," replied the latter, "a real accident. I am the same as ever, you see, but not so gay as then." The baron asked in a low voice:-- "Who is this person?" "A Russian," replied Jacob. Von Kreig, taking Gromof for a prominent official of the imperial court, was going to ask for an introduction, when Jacob whispered in his ear:-- "An outlaw." The baron drew back and, as he was a strict conservative, thought:-- "What kind of company have we fallen in with, anyway?" Then he said to Jacob:-- "Madame and yourself are travelling for pleasure, are you not?" "We are obliged to leave Poland," replied Jacob. "I joined the revolutionists, was wounded and was taken to Austria, whence orders came for me to leave the country. My wife and I seek a retreat where we may dwell peacefully. It is not so easy to find. Nowhere in Europe, except in Switzerland or England, is there much security for exiles. In Saxony they are given leave to remain only temporarily. In Bavaria they are not given leave to remain at all. In France an arbitrary expulsion, authorized by the law, always like the sword of Damocles, is suspended over their heads; and in Belgium they are also unwelcome." "But I think, monsieur, that you can better your position. The Russian government is magnanimous; it has proclaimed a general amnesty." "Yes, I could have obtained that amnesty by solicitation. Unfortunately the pardon granted to-day does not always do for to-morrow. In Russia the despotism of caprice is the only law." Von Kreig frowned. "The state of siege exists now," said he, "but will not last always." "To ask permission to return is to avow a fault," said Jacob, "and to return to Poland now would be to act against my conscience." The baron knew not how to reply. Gromof relieved him of this embarrassment by joining in the conversation. "I told you," said he to Jacob, "what would be the result of your insurrection." "Yes, but it could not be avoided. It was written that Poland should be bathed in blood. It was a trial or a chastisement of Providence; it is not for me to say which." "You still believe in Providence? What an incorrigible child! All Europe suffers from your folly. You have revealed to the world the weakness of England, the nullity of the imperial government of Napoleon III., and the abasement of the moral level of all society. Formerly other countries at least sympathized with nations that were so oppressed, and looked with disfavour upon the cruel tyrants who caused such suffering. Under Louis Philippe France did nothing for Poland, but the two chambers at least protested against her being utterly crushed. To-day policy reigns, and they bow before superior force. Formerly many hearts beat at the words 'liberty' and 'fraternity.' To-day these words provoke only a smile. Lord Byron, when he risked his life for the independence of Greece, passed for a Don Quixote. And the country of these heroes has legislators who pretend that humanity is not a family, that there is no union among the people. Every one for himself! Every one for himself! Behold a summary of the actual moral situation! Neither you nor I will ever see the sun of liberty!" Von Kreig, terrified, whispered in his wife's ear:-- "This Russian is a red revolutionist." Henri interposed. He changed the subject of the conversation, and from Poland passed to the Jews. Segel maintained that the Israelites ought to profit by the situation of things, without caring what became of Poland. Jacob held to his opinion that it was better to be with the oppressed against the oppressors. Segel, laughing heartily, replied:-- "This is romantic, poetic, heroic, magnificent; but it is not practical." "Whatever you may think," replied Jacob, "it is our duty to convince the Christians that our morals are not inferior to theirs, that love of one's neighbour is taught in our books as in their Gospels, and that between the Mosaic law and the Christian law there is accord and not contradiction." "Words, empty words," said Henri, "nothing but words! Material interest should be the motive of nations as well as individuals. Liberty, equality, fraternity are a triple aberration of mind! Behold their result: fields strewn with dead men and bones!" "Yes; but the dead will rise, the bones will be reanimated as in the vision of Ezekiel." Jacob commenced to recite the passage, then, remarking that no one listened to him, turned gayly to his wife and asked:-- "Is not Italy beautiful?" "It never seemed so lovely before," replied Mathilde tenderly. "And what do you think of it, madame?" asked he of the baroness. "Bah!" replied she. "I suppose one must conform to the fashion and admire Italy. It is a picturesque country; but, all things considered, this land filled with tombs and ruins has nothing agreeable for me. Prosaic as it is, I prefer Paris." "Now, I do not like Paris," said Jacob. "Is it permitted not to like Paris?" cried Von Kreig. "You are joking, monsieur." "Not at all. The same places do not suit all characters or all dispositions. To dreamy and poetic temperaments I recommend Italy; Germany, to those who are positive and prosaic; England, to men of enterprise and activity; and Paris, to high livers, and to ladies who love the excitements and gayeties of society." "And Poland?" asked Henri. "To those who thirst for martyrdom," replied Jacob sadly. "But now-a-days every one laughs at these Polish theories of suffering and of sacrifice!" "Oh, dear and charming Paris!" cried the baroness. "One vegetates elsewhere, one lives only in Paris," added her husband, "and perhaps a little in London." "Do not compare London with its fogs to my dear Paris," replied his wife. In the midst of this desultory chatting Henri remained obstinately near, until the veturino which he had ordered was announced. He could not deny himself the bitter pleasure of seeing side by side her who had been his wife, and her who was to have been. He seemed unable to leave the place. Meanwhile the dinner drew to a close. The dessert was brought in, consisting of figs, spoiled pears, green grapes, and musty peaches. "No comparison is possible," said the baron, "between these wretched fruits and the delicious fruits we get at Paris." "These are horrible!" added his wife, biting into the bad part of a peach. Then she turned to Mathilde and asked her if she should return to Genoa. "Yes; but not until evening," she replied. "Well, we must make haste, for we are going to the theatre," said Muse. They all arose from the table. The baron offered cigars to Jacob and Henri Segel, but he hastened to quit their society. One appeared to be compromising, the other altogether odious. Gromof and the Tsigane chatted together. Muse drew Mathilde into an obscure corner of the grotto to ask her this question:-- "Are you happy?" "Above all expression," replied she. "I have only one sorrow,--to see our native land in such an unhappy condition." "And Jacob?" "He is the best of men; he is my ideal." "What do you think of that horrid Henri?" "I had to summon all my courage when he looked at me so fixedly, a cold sweat came on my forehead. He is capable of killing both of us." "No! He is not susceptible of so violent an emotion. We ought to pardon him, for he suffers keenly." "Oh, no! I know better than that. He will easily console himself." The baron was impatient to depart, and coughed to bring back his wife from the grotto. At last the two friends separated, saying farewell, and Muse bowed to Henri from the distance, with a grave dignity. The brilliant star entered her carriage and disappeared in a cloud of dust on the highway. Jacob conducted his wife to her room in the inn and descended to the grotto. Gromof and the Tsigane came to talk with him. The Russian saw the future outlook dark and gloomy. Jacob was rather optimistic. "Man," said he, "ought never to abandon himself to despair. If he object to his own individual lot, it is narrow-minded and weak. If he complain of the lot of humanity, it is blindness or error. In the annals of the world human events are submitted to a normal development, an intelligent fatality which is not arrested by the stupidity and malevolence of men. The law of destiny, whatever we may do, will prevail. Patience, and the storm will disappear." "And we,--we cannot expect to live to see the sun appear!" "Our children will see it, perhaps. In the collective existence of humanity there is a cohesion of facts which do not exist in the same individual existences. Individuals are only the stones of a vast edifice." "You are a happy man from all points of view," declared Henri. "You have faith in the aim of life, you possess serenity of soul; nothing is lacking." "And you? Can you not acquire the same happiness?" "No. I have squeezed life like a lemon. There remains to me only the bitter peel. I exist aimlessly; I believe in nothing; everything seems to me senseless or ridiculous. It is the malady of the age. Your dreams are worth more than the reality." "They are not dreams. For me it is the living reality. Your materialism is what is false. You will soon return to Poland; there is much to do there. Do your duty there, and life will have a new meaning for you." Henri laughed ironically and said:-- "In the meanwhile I have another work on hand. I am going to attach myself to Muse. I shall follow her everywhere. She will see continuously my mocking face. I will be the skeleton at the feast, and I will enjoy this revenge to satiety. Every one to his taste! I really believe that Satan cradled me, and that this nurse has injected into my blood some of his own character." He gave an infernal laugh, took his hat, and left them, saying:-- "I will join Muse at the theatre." THE END. 
8378	----	SELECTED POLISH TALES TRANSLATED BY ELSE C. M. BENECKE AND MARIE BUSCH _This selection of Tales by Polish authors was first published in 'The World's Classics' in 1921 and reprinted in 1928, 1942, and 1944._ CONTENTS PREFACE THE OUTPOST. By BOLESLAW PRUS A PINCH of SALT. By ADAM SZYMANSKI KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER. By ADAM SZYMANSKI FOREBODINGS. By STEFAN ZERKOMSKI A POLISH SCENE. By WLADYSLAW ST. REYMONT DEATH. By WLADYSLAW ST. REYMONT THE SENTENCE. By J. KADEN-BANDROWSKI 'P.P.C.' By MME KYCIER-NALKOWSKA PREFACE My friend the late Miss Else C. M. Benecke left a number of Polish stories in rough translation, and I am carrying out her wishes in editing them and handing them over to English readers. In spite of failing health during the last years of her life, she worked hard at translations from this beautiful but difficult language, and the two volumes, _Tales by Polish Authors_ and _More Tales by Polish Authors_, published by Mr. Basil Blackwell at Oxford, were among the first attempts to make modern Polish fiction known in this country. In both these volumes I collaborated with her. England is fortunate in counting Joseph Conrad among her own novelists; although a Pole by birth he is one of the greatest masters of English style. The Polish authors who have written in their own language have perhaps been most successful in the short story. Often it is so slight that it can hardly be called a story, but each of these sketches conveys a distinct atmosphere of the country and the people, and shows the individuality of each writer. The unhappy state of Poland for more than 150 years has placed political and social problems in the foreground of Polish literature. Writers are therefore judged and appraised by their fellow-countrymen as much by their patriotism as by their literary and artistic merits. Of the authors whose work is presented in this volume _Prus_ (Aleksander Glowacki), the veteran of modern Polish novelists, is the one most loved by his own countrymen. His books are written partly with a moral object, as each deals with a social evil. But while he exposes the evil, his warm heart and strong sense of justice--combined with a sense of humour--make him fair and even generous to all. The poignant appeal of _Szymánski's_ stories lies in the fact that they are based on personal experiences. He was banished to Yakutsk in Siberia for six years when he was quite a young man and had barely finished his studies at the University of Warsaw, at a time when every profession of radicalism, however moderate, was punished severely by the Russian authorities. He died, a middle-aged man, during the War, after many years of literary and journalistic activity in the interest of his country. Neither he nor Prus lived to see Poland free and republican, an ideal for which they had striven. _Zeromski_ is a writer of intense feeling. If Prus's kindly and simple tales are the most beloved, Zeromski's more subtle psychological treatment of his subjects is the most admired, and he is said to mark an epoch in Polish fiction. In the two short sketches contained in this volume, as well as in most of his short stories and longer novels, the dominant note is human suffering. _Reymont_, who is a more impersonal writer and more detached from his subject, is perhaps the most artistic among the authors of short stories. His volume entitled _Peasants_, from which the two sketches in this collection are taken, gives very powerful and realistic pictures of life in the villages. _Kaden-Bandrowski_ is a very favourite author in his own country, as many of his short stories deal with Polish life during the Great War. In the early part of the War he joined the Polish Legions which formed the nucleus of Pilsudski's army, and shared their varying fortunes. During the greater part of this time he edited a radical newspaper for his soldiers, in whom he took a great interest. The story, _The Sentence_, was translated by me from a French translation kindly made by the author. Mme _Rygier-Nalkowska_, who, with Kaden-Bandrowski, belongs to the youngest group of Polish writers, is a strong feminist of courageous views, and a keen satirist of certain national and social conventions. The present volume only contains a short sketch--a personal experience of hers during the early part of the War. It would be considered a very daring thing for a Polish lady to venture voluntarily into the zone of the Russian army, but her little sketch shows the individual Russian to be as human as any other soldier. This sketch and the first of Reymont's have been translated by Mr. Joseph Solomon, whose knowledge of Slavonic languages makes him a most valuable co-operator. My share in the work has been to put Miss Benecke's literal translation into a form suitable for publication, and to get into touch with the authors or their representatives, to whom I would now tender my grateful thanks for their courteous permission to issue this volume, viz. to Mme Glowacka, widow of 'Prus', to the sons of the late Mr. Szymánski, to MM. Zeromski, Reymont, Kaden-Bandrowski, and to Mme Rygier-Nalkowska, all of Warsaw. MARIE BUSCH. THE OUTPOST BY BOLESLAW PRUS (ALEKSANDER GLOWACKI) CHAPTER I The river Bialka springs from under a hill no bigger than a cottage; the water murmurs in its little hollow like a swarm of bees getting ready for their flight. For the distance of fifteen miles the Bialka flows on level ground. Woods, villages, trees in the fields, crucifixes by the roadside show up clearly and become smaller and smaller as they recede into the distance. It is a bit of country like a round table on which human beings live like a butterfly covered by a blue flower. What man finds and what another leaves him he may eat, but he must not go too far or fly too high. Fifteen to twenty miles farther to the south the country begins to change. The shallow banks of the Bialka rise and retreat from each other, the flat fields become undulating, the path leads ever more frequently and steeply up and down hill. The plain has disappeared and given place to a ravine; you are surrounded by hills of the height of a many-storied house; all are covered with bushes; sometimes the ascent is steep, sometimes gradual. The first ravine leads into a second, wilder and narrower, thence into a succession of nine or ten. Cold and dampness cling to you when you walk through them; you climb one of the hills and find yourself surrounded by a network of forking and winding ravines. A short distance from the river-banks the landscape is again quite different. The hills grow smaller and stand separate like great ant-hills. You have emerged from the country of ravines into the broad valley of the Bialka, and the bright sun shines full into your eyes. If the earth is a table on which Providence has spread a banquet for creation, then the valley of the Bialka is a gigantic, long-shaped dish with upturned rim. In the winter this dish is white, but at other seasons it is like majolica, with forms severe and irregular, but beautiful. The Divine Potter has placed a field at the bottom of the dish and cut it through from north to south with the ribbon of the Bialka sparkling with waves of sapphire blue in the morning, crimson in the evening, golden at midday, and silver in moonlit nights. When He had formed the bottom, the Great Potter shaped the rim, taking care that each side should possess an individual physiognomy. The west bank is wild; the field touches the steep gravel hills, where a few scattered hawthorn bushes and dwarf birches grow. Patches of earth show here and there, as though the turf had been peeled. Even the hardiest plants eschew these patches, where instead of vegetation the surface presents clay and strata of sand, or else rock showing its teeth to the green field. The east bank has a totally different character; it forms an amphitheatre with three tiers. The first tier above the field is of mould and contains a row of cottages surrounded by trees: this is the village. On the second tier, where the ground is clay, stands the manor-house, almost on top of the village, with which an avenue of old lime-trees connects it. To the right and left extend the manor-fields, large and rectangular, sown with wheat, rye, and peas, or else lying fallow. The sandy soil of the third tier is sown with rye or oats and fringed by the pine-forest, its contours showing black against the sky. The northern ridge contains little hills standing singly. One of them is the highest in the neighbourhood and is crowned by a solitary pine. This hill, together with two others, is the property of the gospodarz[1] The gospodarstwo is like a hermitage; it is a long way from the village and still farther from the manor-house. [Footnote 1: _Gospodarz_: the owner of a small holding, as distinct from the villager, who owns no land and is simply an agricultural labourer. The word, which means host, master of the house, will be used throughout the book. _Gospodyni_: hostess, mistress of the holding. _Gospodarstwo_: the property.] Josef Slimak. Slimak's cottage is by the roadside, the front door opening on to the road, the back door into the yard; the cowhouse and pigsty are under one roof, the barn, stable, and cart-shed forming the other three sides of the square courtyard. The peasants chaff Slimak for living in exile like a Sibiriak.[1] It is true, they say, that he lives nearer to the church, but on the other hand he has no one to open his mouth to. [Footnote 1: Sibiriak: a person of European birth or extraction living in Siberia.] However, his solitude is not complete. On a warm autumn day, when the white-coated gospodarz is ploughing on the hill with a pair of horses, you can see his wife and a girl, both in red petticoats, digging up potatoes. Between the hills the thirteen-year-old Jendrek[1] minds the cows and performs strange antics meanwhile to amuse himself. If you look more closely you will also find the eight-year-old Stasiek[2] with hair as white as flax, who roams through the ravines or sits under the lonely pine on the hill and looks thoughtfully into the valley. [Footnote 1: Polish spelling, _Jedrek_ (pronounced as given, Jendrek, with the French sound of _en_): Andrew.] [Footnote 2: _Stasiek_: diminutive of Stanislas.] That gospodarstwo--a drop in the sea of human interest--was a small world in itself which had gone through various phases and had a history of its own. For instance, there was the time when Josef Slimak had scarcely seven acres of land and only his wife in the cottage. Then there came two surprises, his wife bore him a son--Jendrek,--and as the result of the servituty[1] his holding was increased by three acres. [Footnote 1: _Servituty_ are pieces of land which, on the abolition of serfdom, the landowners had to cede to the peasants formerly their serfs. The settlement was left to the discretion of the owners, and much bargaining and discontent on both sides resulted therefrom; the peasants had to pay percentage either in labour or in produce to the landowner.] Both these circumstances created a great change in the gospodarz's life; he bought another cow and pig and occasionally hired a labourer. Some years later his second son, Stasiek, was born. Then Slimakowa[1] hired a woman by way of an experiment for half a year to help her with the work. [Footnote 1: Slimakowa: Polish form for Mrs. Slimak.] Sobieska stayed for nine months, then one night she escaped to the village, her longing for the public-house having become too strong. Her place was taken by 'Silly Zoska'[1] for another six months. Slimakowa was always hoping that the work would grow less, and she would be able to dispense with a servant. However, 'Silly Zoska' stayed for six years, and when she went into service at the manor the work at the cottage had not grown less. So the gospodyni engaged a fifteen-year-old orphan, Magda, who preferred to go into service, although she had a cow, a bit of land, and half a cottage of her own. She said that her uncle beat her too much, and that her other relations only offered her the cold comfort that the more he applied the stick the better it would be for her. [Footnote: Zoska: diminutive of Sophia.] Up till then Slimak had chiefly done his own farm work and rarely hired a labourer. This still left him time to go to work at the manor with his horses, or to carry goods from the town for the Jews. When, however, he was summoned more and more often to the manor, he found that the day-labourer was not sufficient, and began to look out for a permanent farm-hand. One autumn day, after his wife had been rating him severely for not yet having found a farmhand, it chanced that Maciek Owczarz,[1] whose foot had been crushed under a cart, came out of the hospital. The lame man's road led him past Slimak's cottage; tired and miserable he sat down on a stone by the gate and looked longingly into the entrance. The gospodyni was boiling potatoes for the pigs, and the smell was so good, as the little puffs of steam spread along the highroad, that it went into the very pit of Maciek's stomach. He sat there in fascination, unable to move. [Footnote 1: Pronunciation approximately: Ovcharge. _Maciek_ (pron. Machik): Matthew.] 'Is that you, Owczarz?' Slimakowa asked, hardly recognizing the poor wretch in his rags. 'Indeed, it is I,' the man answered miserably. 'They said in the village that you had been killed.' 'I have been worse off than that; I have been in the hospital. I wish I had been left under the cart, I shouldn't be so hungry now.' The gospodyni became thoughtful. 'If only one could be sure that you wouldn't die, you could stay here as our farm-hand.' The poor fellow jumped up from his seat and walked to the door, dragging his foot. 'Why should I die?' he cried, 'I am quite well, and when I have a bit to eat I can do the work of two. Give me barszcz[1] and I will chop up a cartload of wood for you. Try me for a week, and I will plough all those fields. I will serve you for old clothes and patched boots, so long as I have a shelter for the winter.' [Footnote 1: Pronunciation approximately: barsht. The national dish of the peasants; it is made with beetroot and bread, tastes slightly sour, and is said to be delicious.] Here Maciek paused, astonished at himself for having said so much, for he was silent by nature. Slimakowa looked him up and down, gave him a bowl of barszcz and another of potatoes, and told him to wash in the river. When her husband came home in the evening Maciek was introduced to him as the farm-hand who had already chopped wood and fed the cattle. Slimak listened in silence. As he was tenderhearted he said, after a pause: 'Well, stay with us, good man. It will be better for us and better for you. And if ever--God grant that may not happen--there should be no bread in the cottage at all, then you will be no worse off than you are to-day. Rest, and you will set about your work all right.' Thus it came about that this new inmate was received into the cottage. He was quiet as a mouse, faithful as a dog, and industrious as a pair of horses, in spite of his lameness. After that, with the exception of the yellow dog Burek, no additions were made to Slimak's household, neither children nor servants nor property. Life at the gospodarstwo went with perfect regularity. All the labour, anxiety, and hopes of these human beings centred in the one aim: daily bread. For this the girl carried in the firewood, or, singing and jumping, ran to the pit for potatoes. For this the gospodyni milked the cows at daybreak, baked bread, and moved her saucepans on and off the fire. For this Maciek, perspiring, dragged his lame leg after the plough and harrow, and Slimak, murmuring his morning-prayers, went at dawn to the manor-barn or drove into the town to deliver the corn which he had sold to the Jews. For the same reason they worried when there was not enough snow on the rye in winter, or when they could not get enough fodder for the cattle; or prayed for rain in May and for fine weather at the end of June. On this account they would calculate after the harvest how much corn they would get out of a korzec,[1] and what prices it would fetch. Like bees round a hive their thoughts swarmed round the question of daily bread. They never moved far from this subject, and to leave it aside altogether was impossible. They even said with pride that, as gentlemen were in the world to enjoy themselves and to order people about, so peasants existed for the purpose of feeding themselves and others. [Footnote 1: A _korzec_ is twelve hundred sheaves.] CHAPTER II It was April. After their dinner Slimak's household dispersed to their different occupations. The gospodyni, tying a red handkerchief round her head and a white linen one round her neck, ran down to the river. Stasiek followed her, looking at the clouds and observing to himself that they were different every day. Magda busied herself washing up the dinner things, singing 'Oh, da, da', louder and louder in proportion as the mistress went farther away. Jendrek began pushing Magda about, pulling the dog's tail and whistling penetratingly; finally he ran out with a spade into the orchard. Slimak sat by the stove. He was a man of medium height with a broad chest and powerful shoulders. He had a calm face, short moustache, and thick straight hair falling abundantly over his forehead and on to his neck. A red-glass stud set in brass shone in his sacking shirt. He rested the elbow of his left arm on his right fist and smoked a pipe, but when his eyes closed and his head fell too far forward, he righted himself and rested his right elbow on his left fist. He puffed out the grey smoke and dozed alternately, spitting now and then into the middle of the room or shifting his hands. When the pipestem began to twitter like a young sparrow, he knocked the bowl a few times against the bench, emptied the ashes, and poked his finger down. Yawning, he got up and laid the pipe on the shelf. He glanced under his brows at Magda and shrugged his shoulders. The liveliness of the girl who skipped about while she was washing her dishes, roused a contemptuous compassion in him. He knew well what it felt like to have no desire for skipping about, and how great the weight of a man's head, hands, and feet can be when he has been hard at work. He put on his thick hobnailed boots and a stiff sukmana,[1] fastened a hard strap round his waist, and put on his high sheepskin cap. The heaviness in his limbs increased, and it came into his mind that it would be more suitable to be buried in a bundle of straw after a huge bowl of peeled barley-soup and another of cheese dumplings, than to go to work. But he put this thought aside, and went out slowly into the yard. In his snuff-coloured sukmana and black cap he looked like the stem of a pine, burnt at the top. [Footnote 1: _Sukmana_, a long linen coat, often elaborately embroidered.] The barn door was open, and by sheer perversity some bundles of straw were peeping out, luring Slimak to a doze. But he turned away his head and looked at one of the hills where he had sown oats that morning. He fancied the yellow grain in the furrows was looking frightened, as if trying in vain to hide from the sparrows that were picking it up. 'You will eat me up altogether,' Slimak muttered. With heavy steps he approached the shed, took out the two harrows, and led the chestnuts out of the stable; one was yawning and the other moved his lips, looking at Slimak and blinking his eyes, as if he thought: 'Would you not prefer to doze and not to drag us up the hill? Didn't we do enough work for you yesterday?' Slimak nodded, as if in answer, and drove off. Seen from below, the thick-set man and the horses with heads hanging down, seemed to harrow the blue sky, moving a few hundred paces backward and forward. As often as they reached the edge of the sown field, a flight of sparrows rose up, twittering angrily, and flew over them like a cloud, then settled at the other end, shrieking continually in astonishment that earth should be poured on to such lovely grain. 'Silly fool! Silly fool! What a silly fool!' they cried. 'Bah!' murmured Slimak, cracking his whip at them, 'if I listened to you idlers, you and I would both starve under the fence. The beggars are playing the deuce here!' Certainly Slimak got little encouragement in his labour. Not only that the sparrows noisily criticized his work, and the chestnuts scornfully whisked their tails under his nose, but the harrows also objected, and resisted at every little stone or clod of earth. The tired horses continually stumbled, and when Slimak cried 'Woa, my lads!' and they went on, the harrows again resisted and pulled them back. When the worried harrows moved on for a bit, stones got into the horses' feet or under his own shoes, or choked up, and even broke the teeth of the harrows. Even the ungrateful earth offered resistance. 'You are worse than a pig!' the man said angrily. 'If I took to scratching a pig's back with a horsecomb, it would lie down quietly and grunt with gratitude. But you are always bristling, as if I did you an injury!' The sun took up the affronted earth's cause, and threw a great sheaf of light across the ashen-coloured field, where dark and yellow patches were visible. 'Look at that black patch,' said the sun, 'the hill was all black like that when your father sowed wheat on it. And now look at the yellow patch where the stony ground comes out from under the mould and will soon possess all your land.' 'But that is not my fault,' said Slimak. 'Not your fault?' whispered the earth; 'you yourself eat three times a day, but how often do you feed me? It is much if it is once in eight years. And then you think you give me a great deal, but a dog would starve on such fare. You know that you always grudge me the manure, shame on you!' The penitent peasant hung his head. 'And you sleep twice in twenty-four hours unless your wife drives you to work, but how much rest do you give me? Once in ten years, and then your cattle trample upon me. So I am to be content with being harrowed? Just try giving no hay or litter to your cows, only scratch them and see whether they will give you milk. They will get ill, the slaughterer will have to be sent for, and even the Jew will give you nothing for their hides.' 'Oh dear, oh dear!' sighed the peasant, acknowledging that the earth was right. But no one pitied or comforted him--on the contrary! The west wind rose, and twining itself among the dry stalks on the field-paths, whistled: 'Look sharp, you'll catch it! I will bring such a deluge of rain that the remainder of the mould will be spurted on to the highroad or into the manor-fields. And though you should harrow with your own teeth, you shall get less and less comfort every year! I will make everything sterile!' The wind was not threatening in vain. In Slimak's father's time ten korzy of sheaves an acre had been harvested here. Now he had to be thankful for seven, and what was going to happen in the future? 'That's a peasant's lot,' murmured Slimak, 'work, work, work, and from one difficulty you get into another. If only it could be otherwise, if only I could manage to have another cow and perhaps get that little meadow....' His whip was pointed at the green field by the Bialka. But the sparrows only twittered 'You fool!' and the earth groaned: 'You are starving me!' He stopped the horses and looked around him to divert his thoughts. Jendrek was digging between the cottage and the highroad, throwing stones at the birds now and then or singing out of tune: 'God grant you, God grant you That I may not find you. For else, my fair maid, You should open your gate.' And Magda answered from within: 'Although I am poor And my mother was poor, I'll not at the gate Kiss you early or late.' Slimak turned towards the river where his wife could be plainly seen in her white chemise and red skirt, bending over the water and beating the linen with a stick until the valley rang. Stasiek had already strayed farther towards the ravines. Sometimes he knelt down on the bank and gazed into the river, supported on his elbows. Slimak smiled. 'Peering again! What does he see down there?' he whispered. Stasiek was his favourite, and struck him as an unusual child, who could see things that others did not see. While Slimak cracked his whip and the horses went on, his thoughts were travelling in the direction of the desired field. 'How much land have I got?' he meditated, 'ten acres; if I had only sown six or seven every year and let the rest lie fallow, how could I have fed my hungry family? And the man, he eats as much as I do, though he is lame; and he has fifteen roubles wages besides. Magda eats less, but then she is lazy enough to make a dog howl. I'm lucky when they want me for work at the manor, or if a Jewess hires my horses to go for a drive, or my wife sells butter and eggs. And what is there saved when all is said and done? Perhaps fifty roubles in the whole year. When we were first married, a hundred did not astonish me. Manure the ground indeed! Let the squire take it into his head not to employ me, or not to sell me fodder, what then? I should have to drive the cattle to market and die of hunger. 'I am not as well off as Gryb or Lukasiak or Sarnecki. They live like gentlemen. One drives to church with his wife, the other wears a cap like a burgher, and the third would like to turn out the Wojt[1] and wear the chain himself. But I have to say to myself, 'Be poor on ten acres and go and bow and scrape to the bailiff at the manor that he may remember you. Well, let it be as it is! Better be master on a square yard of your own than a beggar on another's large estate.' A cloud of dust was rising on the high-road beyond the river. Some one was coming towards the bridge from the manor-house, riding in a peculiar fashion. The wind blew from behind, but the dust was so thick that sometimes it travelled backwards. Occasionally horse and rider showed above it, but the next moment it whirled round and round them again, as if the road was raising a storm. Slimak shaded his eyes with his hand. [Footnote 1: The designations Wojt and Soltys are derived from the German Vogt and Sdiultheiss. Their functions in the townships or villages are of a different kind; in small villages there may be only one of these functionaries, the Soltys. He is the representative of the Government, collects rates and taxes and requisitions horses for the army. The Wojt is head of the village, and magistrate. All legal matters would be referred to him.] 'What an odd way of riding? who can it be? not the squire, nor his coachman. He can't be a Catholic, not even a Jew; for although a Jew would bob up and down on the horse as he does, he would never make a horse go in that reckless way. It must be some crazy stranger.' The rider had now come near enough for Slimak to see what he was like. He was slim and dressed in gentleman's clothes, consisting of a light suit and velvet jockey cap. He had eyeglasses on his nose and a cigar in his mouth, and he was carrying his riding whip under his arm, holding the reins in both hands between the horse's neck and his own beard, while he was shaking violently up and down; he hugged the saddle so tightly with his bow legs that his trousers were rucked up, showing his calves. Anyone in the very least acquainted with equestrian matters could guess that this was the first time the rider had sat upon a horse, or that the horse had carried such a rider. At moments they seemed to be ambling along harmoniously, until the bobbing cavalier would lose his balance and tug at the reins; then the horse, which had a soft mouth, would turn sideways or stand still; the rider would then smack his lips, and if this had no effect he would fumble for the whip. The horse, guessing what was required, would start again, shaking him up and down until he looked like a rag doll badly sewn together. All this did not upset his temper, for indeed, this was the first time the rider had realized the dearest wish of a lifetime, and he was enjoying himself to the full. Sometimes the quiet but desperate horse would break into a gallop. Then the rider, keeping his balance by a miracle, would drop his bridle-fantasias and imagine himself a cavalry captain riding to the attack at the head of his squadron, until, unaccustomed to his rank of officer, he would perform some unexpected movement which made the horse suddenly stand still again, and would cause the gallant captain to hit his nose or his cigar against the neck of his steed. He was, moreover, a democratic gentleman. When the horse took a fancy to trot towards the village instead of towards the bridge, a crowd of dogs and children ran after him with every sign of pleasure. Instead of annoyance a benevolent enjoyment would then take possession of him, for next to riding exercise he passionately loved the people, because they could manage horses. After a while, however, his role of cavalry captain would please him more, and after further performances with the reins, he succeeded in turning back towards the bridge. He evidently intended to ride through the length and breadth of the valley. Slimak was still watching him. 'Eh, that must be the squire's brother-in-law, who was expected from Warsaw,' he said to himself, much amused; 'our squire chose a gracious little wife, and was not even very long about it; but he might have searched the length of the world for a brother-in-law like that! A bear would be a commoner sight in these parts than a man sitting a horse as he does! He looks as stupid as a cowherd--still, he is the squire's brother-in-law.' While Slirnak was thus taking the measure of this friend of the people, the latter had reached the bridge; the noise of Slimakowa's stick had attracted his attention. He turned the horse towards the bridge-rail and craned his neck over the water; indeed, his slim figure and peaked jockey cap made him look uncommonly like a crane. 'What does he want now?' thought Slimak. The horseman was evidently asking Slimakowa a question, for she got up and raised her head. Slimak noticed for the first time that she was in the habit of tucking up her skirts very high, showing her bare knees. 'What the deuce does he want?' he repeated, objecting to the short skirt. The cavalier rode off the bridge with no little difficulty and reined up beside the woman. Slimak was now watching breathlessly. Suddenly the young man stretched out his hand towards Slimakowa's neck, but she raised her stick so threateningly that the scared horse started away at a gallop, and the rider was left clinging to his neck. 'Jagna! what are you doing?' shouted Slimak; 'that's the squire's brother-in-law, you fool!' But the shout did not reach her, and the young man did not seem at all offended. He kissed his hand to Slimakowa and dug his heels into the horse, which threw up its head and started in the direction of the cottage at a sharp trot. But this time success did not attend the rider, his feet slipped out of the stirrups, and clutching his charger by the mane, he shouted: 'Stop, you devil!' Jendrek heard the cry, clambered on to the gate, and seeing the strange performance, burst out laughing. The rider's jockey cap fell off. 'Pick up the cap, my boy,' the horseman called out in passing. 'Pick it up yourself,' laughed Jendrek, clapping his hands to excite the horse still more. The father listened to the boy's answer speechless with astonishment, but he soon recovered himself. 'Jendrek, you young dog, give the gentleman his cap when he tells you!' he cried. Jendrek took the jockey cap between two fingers, holding it in front of him and offering it to the rider when he had succeeded in stopping his horse. 'Thank you, thank you very much,' he said, no less amused than Jendrek himself. 'Jendrek, take off your cap to the gentleman at once,' called Slimak. 'Why should I take off my cap to everybody?' asked the lad saucily. 'Excellent, that's right!...' The young man seemed pleased. 'Wait, you shall have twenty kopeks for that; a free citizen should never humble himself before anybody.' Slimak, by no means sharing the gentleman's democratic theories, advanced towards Jendrek with his cap in one hand and the whip in the other. 'Citizen!' cried the cavalier, 'I beg you not to beat the boy...do not crush his independent soul...do not...' he would have liked to have continued, but the horse, getting bored, started off again in the direction of the bridge. When he saw Slimakowa coming towards the cottage, he took off his dusty cap and called out: 'Madam, do not let him beat the boy!' Jendrek had disappeared. Slimak stood rooted to the spot, pondering upon this queer fish, who first was impertinent to his wife, then called her 'Madam', and himself 'Citizen', and praised Jendrek for his cheek. He returned angrily to his horses. 'Woa, lads! what's the world coming to? A peasant's son won't take off his cap to a gentleman, and the gentleman praises him for it! He is the squire's brother-in-law--all the same, he must be a little wrong in his head. Soon there will be no gentlemen left, and then the peasants will have to die. Maybe when Jendrek grows up he will look after himself; he won't be a peasant, that's clear. Woa, lads!' He imagined Jendrek in button-boots and a jockey cap, and he spat. 'Bah! so long as I am about, you won't dress like that, young dog! All the same I shall have to warm his latter end for him, or else he won't take his cap off to the squire next, and then I can go begging. It's the wife's fault, she is always spoiling him. There's nothing for it, I must give him a hiding.' Again dust was rising on the road, this time in the direction of the plain. Slimak saw two forms, one tall, the other oblong; the oblong was walking behind the tall one and nodding its head. 'Who's sending a cow to market?' he thought, '... well, the boy must be thrashed...if only I could have another cow and that bit of field.' He drove the horses down the hill towards the Bialka, where he caught sight of Stasiek, but could see nothing more of his farm or of the road. He was beginning to feel very tired; his feet seemed a heavy weight, but the weight of uncertainty was still greater, and he never got enough sleep. When his work was finished, he often had to drive off to the town. 'If I had another cow and that field,' he thought, 'I could sleep more.' He had been meditating on this while harrowing over a fresh bit for half an hour, when he heard his wife calling from the hill: 'Josef, Josef!' 'What's up?' 'Do you know what has happened?' 'How should I know?' 'Is it a new tax?' anxiously crossed his mind. 'Magda's uncle has come, you know, that Grochowski....' 'If he wants to take the girl back--let him.' 'He has brought a cow and wants to sell her to Gryb for thirty-five paper roubles and a silver rouble for the halter. She is a lovely cow.' 'Let him sell her; what's that to do with me?' 'This much: that you are going to buy her,' said the woman firmly. Slimak dropped his hand with the whip, bent his head forward, and looked at his wife. The proposal seemed monstrous. 'What's wrong with you?' he asked. 'Wrong with me?' She raised her voice. 'Can't I afford the cow? Gryb has bought his wife a new cart, and you grudge me the beasts? There are two cows in the shed; do you ever trouble about them? You wouldn't have a shirt to your back if it weren't for them.' 'Good Lord,' groaned the man, who was getting muddled by his wife's eloquence,' how am I to feed her? they won't sell me fodder from the manor.' 'Rent that field, and you will have fodder.' 'Fear God, Jagna! what are you saying? How am I to rent that field?' 'Go to the manor and ask the square; say you will pay up the rent in a year's time.' 'As God lives, the woman is mad! our beasts pull a little from that field now for nothing; I should be worse off, because I should have to pay both for the cow and for the field. I won't go to the squire.' His wife came close up to him and looked into his eyes. 'You won't go?' 'I won't go.' 'Very well, then I will take what fodder there is and your horses may go to the devil; but I won't let that cow go, _I_ will buy her!' 'Then buy her.' 'Yes, I will buy her, but you have got to do the bargaining with Grochowski; I haven't the time, and I won't drink vodka with him.' 'Drink! bargain with him! you are mad about that cow!' The quick-tempered woman shook her fist in his face. 'Josef, don't upset me when you yourself have nothing at all to propose. Listen! you are worrying every day that you haven't enough manure; you are always telling me that you want three beasts, and when the time comes, you won't buy them. The two cows you have cost you nothing and bring you in produce, the third would be clear gain. Listen.... I tell you, listen! Finish your work, then come indoors and bargain for the cow; if not, I'll have nothing more to do with you.' She turned her back and went off. The man put his hands to his head. 'God bless me, what a woman!' he groaned, 'how can I, poor devil, rent that field? She persists in having the cow, and makes a fuss, and it doesn't matter what you say, you may as well talk to a wall. Why was I ever born? everything is against me. Woa, lads!' He fancied that the earth and the wind were laughing at him again: 'You'll pay the thirty-five paper roubles and the silver rouble for the halter! Week after week, month after month you have been putting by your money, and to-day you'll spend it all as if you were cracking a nut. You will swell Grochowski's pockets and your own pouch will be empty. You will wait in fear and uncertainty at the manor and bow to the bailiff when it pleases him to give you the receipt for your rent!... 'Perhaps the squire won't even let me have the field.' 'Don't talk nonsense!' twittered the sparrows; 'you know quite well that he'll let you have it.' 'Oh yes, he'll let me have it,' he retorted hotly, 'for my good money. I would rather bear a severe pain than waste money on such a foolish thing.' The sun was low by the time Slimak had finished his last bit of harrowing near the highroad. At the moment when he stopped he heard the new cow low. Her voice pleased him and softened his heart a little. 'Three cows is more than two,' he thought, 'people will respect me more. But the money... ah well, it's all my own fault!' He remembered how many times he had said that he must have another cow and that field, and had boasted to his wife that people had encouraged him to carve his own farm implements, because he was so clever at it. She had listened patiently for two or three years; now at last she took things into her own hands and told him to buy the cow and rent the field at once. Merciful Jesu! what a hard woman! What would she drive him to next? He would really have to put up sheds and make farm carts! Intelligent and even ingenious as Slimak was, he never dared to do anything fresh unless driven to it. He understood his farm work thoroughly, he could even mend the thrashing-machine at the manor-house, and he kept everything in his head, beginning with the rotation of crops on his land. Yet his mind lacked that fine thread which joins the project to the accomplishment. Instead of this the sense of obedience was very strongly developed in him. The squire, the priest, the Wojt, his wife were all sent from God. He used to say: 'A peasant is in the world to carry out orders.' The sun was sinking behind the hill crest when he drove his horses on to the highroad, and he was pondering on how he would begin his bargaining with Grochowski when he heard a guttural voice behind him, 'Heh! heh!' Two men were standing on the highroad, one was grey-headed and clean-shaven, and wore a German peaked cap, the other young and tall, with a beard and a Polish cap. A two-horse vehicle was drawn up a little farther back. 'Is that your field?' the bearded man asked in an unpleasant voice. 'Stop, Fritz,' the elder interrupted him. 'What am I to stop for?' the other said angrily. 'Stop! Is this your land, gospodarz?' the grey-haired man asked very politely. 'Of course it's mine, who else should it belong to?' Stasiek came running up from the field at that moment and looked at the strangers with a mixture of distrust and admiration. 'And is that your field?' the bearded one repeated. 'Stop, Fritz! Is it your field, gospodarz?' the old man corrected him. 'It's not mine; it belongs to the manor.' 'And whose is the hill with the pine?' 'Stop, Fritz...' 'Oh well, if you are going to interrupt all the time, father....' 'Stop... is the hill yours, gospodarz?' 'It's mine; no one else's.' 'There you are, Fritz,' the old man said in German; 'that's the very place for Wilhelm's windmill.' 'The reason why Wilhelm has not yet put up a windmill is not that there are no hills, but that he is a lazy fellow.' 'Don't be disagreeable, Fritz! Then those fields beyond the highroad and the ravines are not yours, gospodarz?' 'How should they be, when they belong to the manor?' 'Oh yes,' the bearded one interrupted impatiently; 'everyone knows that he sits here in the manor-fields like a hole in a bridge. The devil take the whole business.' 'Wait, Fritz! Do the manor-fields surround you on all sides, gospodarz?' 'Of course.' 'Well, that will do,' said the younger man, drawing his father towards the carriage. 'God bless you, gospodarz,' said the elder, touching his cap. 'What a gossip you are, father! Wilhelm will never do anything; you may find him ever so many hills.' 'What do they want, daddy?' Stasiek asked suddenly. 'Ah, yes! true!' Slimak was roused: 'Heh, sir!' The older man looked round. 'What are you asking me all those questions for?' 'Because it pleases us to do so,' the younger man answered, pushing his father into the carriage. 'Farewell! we shall meet again!' cried the old man. The carriage rolled away. 'What a crew they are on the highroad to-day, it's like a fair!' said Slimak. 'But who are those people, daddy?' 'Those? They must be Germans from Wolka, twelve miles from here.' 'Why did they ask so many questions about your land?' 'They are not the only ones to do that, child. This country pleases people so much that they come over here from a long way off; they come as far as the pine hill and then they go away again. That is all I know about them.' He turned the horses homeward and was already forgetting the Germans. The cow and the field were engaging all his thoughts. Supposing he bought her! he would be able to manure the ground better, and he might even pay an old man to come to the cottage for the winter and teach his boys to read and write. What would the other peasants say to that? It would greatly improve his position; he would have a better place in church and at the inn, and with greater prosperity he would be able to take more rest. Oh, for more rest! Slimak had never known hunger or cold, he had a good home and human affection, and he would have been quite happy if only his bones had not ached so much, and if he could have lain down or sat still to his heart's content. CHAPTER III Returning to the courtyard, Slimak let Maciek take the horses. He looked at the cow, which was tied to the fence. Despite the falling darkness he could see that she was a beautiful creature; she was white with black patches, had a small head, short horns and a large udder. He examined her and admitted that neither of his cows were as fine as this one. He thought of leading her round the yard, but he suddenly felt as if he could not move another step, his arms seemed to be dropping from their joints and his legs were sinking. Until sunset a man can go on harrowing, but after sunset it is no good trying to do anything more. So he patted the cow instead of leading her about. She seemed to understand the situation, for she turned her head towards him and touched his hand with her wet mouth. Slimak was so overcome with emotion that he very nearly kissed her, as if she were a human being. 'I must buy her,' he muttered, forgetting even his tiredness. The gospodyni stood in the door with a pail of dishwater for the cattle. 'Maciek,' she called, 'when the cow has had a drink, lead her to the cowshed. The Soltys will stay the night; the cow can't be left out of doors.' 'Well, what next?' asked Slimak. 'What has to be, has to be,' she replied. 'He wants the thirty-five roubles and the silver rouble for the halter--but,' she continued after a pause, 'truth is truth, she is worth it. I milked her, and though she had been on the road, she gave more milk than Lysa.' 'Have you asked him whether he won't come down a bit?' The peasant again felt the weariness in all his limbs. Good God! how many hours of sleep would have to be sacrificed, before he could make another thirty-five roubles! 'Not likely! It's something that he will sell her to us at all; he keeps on saying he promised her to Gryb.' Slimak scratched his head. 'Come, Josef, be friendly and drink vodka with him, then perhaps the Lord Jesus will give him reflection. But keep looking at me, and don't talk too much; you will see, it will turn out all right.' Maciek led the cow to the shed; she looked about and whisked her tail so heartily that Slimak could not take his eyes off her. 'It's God's will,' he murmured. 'I'll bargain for her.' He crossed himself at the door, but his heart was trembling in anticipation of all the difficulties. His guest was sitting by the fire and admonishing Magda in fatherly fashion to be faithful and obedient to her master and mistress. 'If they order you into the water--jump into the water; if they order you into the fire--go into the fire; and if the mistress gives you a good hiding, kiss her hand and thank her, for I tell you: sacred is the hand that strikes....' As he said this the red light of the fire fell upon him; he had raised his hand and looked like a preacher. Magda fancied that the trembling shadow on the wall was repeating: 'Sacred is the hand that strikes!' She wept copiously; she felt she was listening to a beautiful sermon, but at the same time blue stripes seemed to be swelling on her back at his words. Yet she listened without fear or regret, only with dim gratitude, mingled with recollections of her childhood. The door opened and Slimak said: 'The Lord be praised.' 'In all eternity,' answered Grochowski. When he stood up, his head nearly touched the ceiling. 'May God repay you, Soltys, for coming to us,' said Slimak, shaking his hand. 'May God repay you for your kindness in receiving me.' 'And say at once, should you be uncomfortable.' 'Eh! I'm not half so comfortable at home, and it's not only to me but also to the cow that you are giving hospitality.' 'Praise God that you are satisfied.' 'I am doubly satisfied, because I see how well you are treating Magda. Magda! fall at your master's feet at once, for your father could not treat you better. And you, neighbour, don't spare the strap.' 'She's not a bad girl,' said Slimak. Sobbing heartily the girl fell first at her uncle's feet, then at the gospodarz's, and then escaped into the passage. She hugged herself and still emitted great sobs; but her eyes were dry. She began calling softly in a mournful voice: 'Pig! pig! pig!' But the pigs had turned in for the night. Instead Jendrek and Stasiek with the dog Burek emerged from the twilight. Jendrek wanted to push her over, but she gave him a punch in the eye. The boys seized her by the arms, Burek followed, and shrieking and barking and inextricably entwined so that one could not tell which was child and which was dog, all four melted into the mists that were hanging over the meadows. Sitting by the stove, the two gospodarze were talking. 'How is it you are getting rid of the cow?' 'You see, it's like this. That cow is not mine, it belongs to Magda, but my wife says she doesn't care about looking after somebody else's cow, and the shed is too small for ours as it is. I don't pay much attention to her usually, but it happens that there is a bit of land to be sold adjoining Magda's. Komara, to whom it belonged, has drunk himself to death. So I am thinking: I will sell the cow and buy the girl another acre--land is land.' 'That's true!' sighed Slimak. 'And as there will be new servituty, the girl will get even more.' 'How is that?' Slimak became interested. 'They will give you twice as much as you possess; I possess twenty-five acres, so I shall have fifty. How many have you got?' 'Ten.' 'Then you will have twenty, and Magda will get another two and a half with her own.' 'Is it certain about the servituty?' 'Who can tell? some say it is, others laugh about it. But I am thinking I will buy this land while there is the chance, especially as my wife does not wish it.' 'Then what is the good of buying the land if you will shortly get it for nothing?' 'The truth is, as it's not my money I don't care how I spend it. If I were you I shouldn't be in a hurry to rent from the manor either; there is no harm in waiting. The wise man is never in a hurry.' 'No, the wise man goes slowly,' Slimak deliberated. The gospodyni appeared at that moment with Maciek. They went into the alcove, drew two chairs and the cherrywood table into the middle of it, covered it with a cloth and placed a petroleum lamp without a chimney on it. 'Come, Soltys,' called the gospodyni,' you will have supper more comfortably in here.' Maciek, with a broad smile, retired awkwardly behind the stove as the two gospodarze went into the alcove. 'What a beautiful room,' said Grochowski, looking round, 'plenty of holy pictures on the walls, a painted bed, a wooden floor and flowers in the windows. That must be your doing, gospodyni?' 'Why, yes,' said the woman, pleased, 'he is always at the manor or in the town and doesn't care about his home; it was all I could do to make him lay the floor. Be so kind as to sit near the stove, neighbour, I'll get supper.' She poured out a large bowl of peeled barley soup and put it on the table, and a small one for Maciek. 'Eat in God's name, and if you want anything, say so.' 'But are not you going to sit down?' 'I always eat last with the children. Maciek, you may take your bowl.' Maciek, grinning, took his portion and sat down on a bench opposite the alcove, so that he could see the Soltys and listen to human intercourse, for which he was longing. He looked contentedly from behind his steaming bowl at the table; the smoking lamp seemed to him the most brilliant illumination, and the wooden chairs the height of comfort. The sight of the Soltys, who was lolling back, filled him with reverence. Was it not he who had driven him to the recruiting-office when it was the time for the drawing of lots? who had ordered him to be taken to the hospital and told him he would come out completely cured? who collected the taxes and carried the largest banner at the processions and intoned 'Let us praise the Holy Virgin'? And now he, Maciek Owczarz, was sitting under one roof with this same Grochowski. How comfortable he made himself! Maciek tried to lean back in the same fashion, but the scandalized wall pushed him forward, reminding him that he was not the Soltys. So although his back ached, he bent still lower and hid his feet in their torn boots under the bench. Why should he be comfortable? It was enough if the master and the Soltys were. He ate his soup and listened with both ears. 'What makes you take the cow to Gryb?' asked the gospodyni. 'Because he wants to buy her.' 'We might buy her ourselves.' 'Yes, that might be so,' put in Slimak; 'the girl is here, the cow should be here too.' 'That's right, isn't it, Maciek?' asked the woman. 'Oho, ho!' laughed Maciek, till the soup ran out of his spoon. 'What's true is true,' said Grochowski; 'even Gryb ought to understand that the cow ought to be where the girl is.' 'Then sell her to us,' Slimak said quickly. Grochowski dropped his spoon on the table and his head on his chest. He reflected for a while, then he said in a tone of resignation: 'There's no help for it; as you are quite, decided I must sell you the cow.' 'But you'll take off something for us, won't you?' hastily added the woman in an ingratiating tone. The Soltys reflected once more. 'You see, it's like this; if it were my cow I would come down. But she belongs to a poor orphan. How could I harm her? Give me thirty-five paper roubles and a silver rouble and the cow will be yours.' 'That's too much,' sighed Slimak. 'But she is worth it!' said the Soltys. 'Still, money sits in the chest and doesn't eat.' 'Neither will it give milk.' 'I should have to rent the field.' 'That will be cheaper than buying fodder.' A long silence ensued, then Slimak said: 'Well, neighbour, say your last word.' 'I tell you, thirty-five paper roubles and a silver rouble. Gryb will be angry, but I'll do this for you.' The gospodyni now cleared the bowl off the table and returned with a bottle of vodka, two glasses, and a smoked sausage on a plate. 'To your health, neighbour,' said Slimak, pouring out the vodka. 'Drink in God's name!' They emptied the glasses and began to chew the dry sausage in silence. Maciek was so affected by the sight of the vodka that he folded his hands on his stomach. It struck him that those two must be feeling very happy, so he felt happy too. 'I really don't know whether to buy the cow or not,' said Slimak; 'your price has taken the wish from me.' Grochowski moved uneasily on his chair. 'My dear friend,' he said, 'what am I to do? this is the orphan's affair. I have got to buy her land, if for no other reason but because it annoys my wife.' 'You won't give thirty-five roubles for an acre.' 'Land is getting dearer, because the Germans want to buy it.' 'The Germans?' 'Those who bought Wolka. They want other Germans to settle near here.' 'There were two Germans near my field asking me a lot of questions. I didn't know what they wanted.' 'There you are! they creep in. Directly one has settled, others come like ants after honey, and then the land gets dearer.' 'Do they know anything about peasants' work?' 'Rather! They make more profits than we who are born here. The Germans are clever; they have a lot of cattle, sow clover and carry on a trade in the winter. We can't compete with them.' 'I wonder what their religion is like? They talk to each other like Jews.' 'Their religion is better than the Jews',' the Soltys said, after reflecting; 'but what is not Catholic is nothing. They have churches with benches and an organ; but their priests are married and go about in overcoats, and where the blessed Host ought to be on the altar they have a crucifix, like ours in the porch.' 'That's not as good as our religion.' 'Why!' said Grochowski, 'they don't even pray to the Blessed Mother.' The gospodyni crossed herself. 'It's odd that the Merciful God should bless such people with prosperity. Drink, neighbour!' 'To your health! Why should God not bless them, when they have a lot of cattle? That's at the bottom of all prosperity.' Slimak became pensive and suddenly struck his fist on the table. 'Neighbour,' he cried, raising his voice, 'sell me the cow!' 'I will sell her to you,' cried Grochowski, also striking the table. 'I'll give you...thirty-one roubles...as I love you.' Grochowski embraced him. 'Brother...give me...thirty...and four paper roubles and a silver rouble for the halter.' The tired children cautiously stole into the room; the gospodyni poured out some soup for them and told them to sit in the corner and be quiet. And quiet they were, except at one moment when Stasiek fell off the bench and his mother slapped Jendrek for it. Maciek dozed, dreaming that he was drinking vodka. He felt the liquor going to his head and fancied himself sitting by the Soltys and embracing him. The fumes of the vodka and the lamp were filling the room. Slimak and Grochowski moved closer together. 'Neighbour...Soltys,' said Slimak, striking the table again. 'I'll give you whatever you wish, your word is worth more than money to me, for you are the cleverest man in the parish. The Wojt is a pig...you are more to me than the Wojt or even the Government Inspector, for you are cleverer than they are...devil take me!' They fell on each other's shoulders and Grochowski wept. 'Josef, brother,...don't call me Soltys but brother...for we are brothers!' 'Wojciek...Soltys...say how much you want for the cow. I'll give it you, I'll rip myself open to give it you...thirty-five paper roubles and a silver rouble.' 'Oh dear, oh dear!' wailed the gospodyni. 'Weren't you letting the cow go for thirty-three roubles just now, Soltys?' Grochowski raised his tearful eyes first to her, then to Slimak. 'Was I?... Josef...brother...I'll give you the cow for thirty-three roubles. Take her! let the orphan starve, so long as you, my brother, get a prime cow.' Slimate beat a tattoo on the table. 'Am I to cheat the orphan? I won't; I'll give you thirty-five....' 'What are you doing, you fool?' his wife interrupted him. 'Yes, don't be foolish,' Grochowski supported her. 'You have entertained me so finely that I'll give you the cow for thirty-three roubles. Amen! that's my last word.' 'I won't!' shouted Slimak. 'Am I a Jew that I should be paid for hospitality?' 'Josef!' his wife said warningly. 'Go away, woman!' he cried, getting up with difficulty; 'I'll teach you to mix yourself up in my affairs.' He suddenly fell into the embrace of the weeping Grochowski. 'Thirty-five....' 'Thirty-three...' sobbed the Soltys; 'may I not burn in hell!' 'Josef,' his wife said, 'you must respect your guest; he is older than you, and he is Soltys. Maciek, help me to get them into the barn.' 'I'll go by myself,' roared Slimak. 'Thirty-three roubles...' groaned Grochowski, 'chop me to bits, but I won't take a grosz more.... I am a Judas.... I wanted to cheat you. I said I was taking the cow to Gryb...but I was bringing her to you...for you are my brother....' They linked arms and made for the window. Maciek opened the door into the passage, and after several false starts they reached the courtyard. The gospodyni took a lantern, rug and pillow, and followed them. When she reached the yard she saw Grochowski kneeling and rubbing his eyes with his sukmana and Slimak lying on the manure heap. Maciek was standing over them. 'We must do something with them,' he said to the gospodyni; 'they've drunk a whole bottle of vodka.' 'Get up, you drunkard,' she cried, 'or I'll pour water over your head.' 'I'll pour it over you, I'll give you a whipping presently!' her husband shouted back at her. Grochowski fell on his neck. 'Don't make a hell of your house, brother, or grief will come to us both.' Maciek could not wonder enough at the changes wrought in men by vodka. Here was the Soltys, known in the whole parish as a hard man, crying like a child, and Slimak shouting like the bailiff and disobeying his wife. 'Come to the barn, Soltys,' said Slimakowa, taking him by one arm while Maciek took the other. He followed like a lamb, but while she was preparing his bed on the straw, he fell upon the threshing-floor and could not be moved by any manner of means. 'Go to bed, Maciek,' said the gospodyni; 'let that drunkard lie on the manure-heap, because he has been so disagreeable.' Maciek obeyed and went to the stable. When all was quiet, he began for his amusement to pretend that he was drunk, and acted the part of Slimak or the Soltys in turns. He talked in a tearful voice like Grochowski: 'Don't make a hell of your house, brother...' and in order to make it more real he tried to make himself cry. At first he did not succeed, but when he remembered his foot, and that he was the most miserable creature, and the gospodyni hadn't even given him a glass of vodka, the tears ran freely from his eyes, until he too went to sleep. About midnight Slimak awoke, cold and wet, for it had begun to rain. Gradually his aching head remembered the Soltys, the cow, the barley soup and the large bottle of vodka. What had become of the vodka? He was not quite certain on this point, but he was quite sure that the soup had disagreed with him. 'I always say you should not eat hot barley soup at night,' he groaned. He was no longer in doubt whether or no he was lying on the manure-heap. Slowly he walked up to the cottage and hesitated on the doorstep; but the rain began to fall more heavily. He stood still in the passage and listened to Magda's snoring; then he cautiously opened the door of the room. Stasiek lay on the bench under the window, breathing deeply. There was no sound from the alcove, and he realized that his wife was not asleep. 'Jagna, make room...' he tried to steady his voice, but he was seized with fear. There was no answer. 'Come...move up....' 'Be off with you, you tippler, and don't come near me.' 'Where am I to go?' 'To the manure-heap or the pigsty, that's your proper place. You threatened me with the whip! I'll take it out of you!' 'What's the use of talking like that, when nothing is wrong?' said Slimak, holding his aching head. 'Nothing wrong? You insisted on paying thirty-five paper roubles and a silver rouble when Grochowski was letting the cow go for thirty-three roubles. Nothing wrong, indeed! do three roubles mean nothing to you?' Slimak crept to the bench where Stasiek lay and touched his feet. 'Is that you, daddy?' the boy asked, waking up. 'Yes, it's I.' 'What are you doing here?' 'I'm just sitting down; something is worrying me inside.' The boy put his arms round his neck. 'I'm so glad you have come,' he said; 'those two Germans keep coming after me.' 'What Germans?' 'Those two by our field, the old one and the man with the beard. They don't say what they want, but they are walking on me.' 'Go to sleep, child; there are no Germans here.' Stasiek pressed closer to him and began to chatter again: 'Isn't it true, daddy, that the water can see?' 'What should it see?' 'Everything--everything--the sky, the hills; it sees us when we follow the harrows.' 'Go to sleep. Don't talk nonsense.' 'It does, it does, daddy, I've watched it myself,' he whispered, going to sleep. The room was too hot for Slimak; he dragged himself up and staggered to the barn, where he fell into a bundle of straw. 'But what I gave for the cow I gave for her,' he muttered in the direction of the sleeping Grochowski. CHAPTER IV Slimakowa came to the barn early the next morning and called her husband. 'Are you going to be long idling there?' 'What's the matter?' 'It's time to go to the manor-house.' 'Have they sent for me?' 'Why should they send for you? You have got to go to them and see about the field.' Slimak groaned, but came out on to the threshing-floor. His face was bloated, he looked ashamed of himself, and his hair was full of straw. 'Just look at him,' jeered his wife: 'his sukmana is dirty and wet, he hasn't taken off his boots all night, and he scowls like a brigand. You are more fit for a scarecrow in a flaxfield than for talking to the squire. Change your clothes and go.' She returned to the cowshed, and a weight fell off Slimak's mind that the matter had ended there. He had expected to be jeered at till the afternoon. He came out into the yard and looked round. The sun was high, the ground had dried after the rain; the wind from the ravines brought the song of birds and a damp, cheerful smell; the fields had become green during the night. The sky looked as if it had been freshened up, and the cottage seemed whiter. 'A nice day,' he murmured, gaining courage, and went indoors to dress. He pulled the straw out of his hair and put on a clean shirt and new boots. He thought they did not look polished enough, so he took a piece of tallow and rubbed it well first over his hair, then over his boots. Then he stood in front of the glass and smiled contentedly at the brilliance he rejected from head to foot. His wife came in at that moment and looked disdainfully at him. 'What have you been doing to your head? You stink of tallow miles off. You'd better comb your hair.' Slimak, silently acknowledging the justice of the remark, took a thick comb from behind the looking-glass and smoothed his hair till it looked like polished glass, then he applied the soap to his neck so energetically that his fingers left large, dark streaks. 'Where is Grochowski?' he asked in a more cheerful voice, for the cold water had added to his good temper. 'He has gone.' 'What about the money?' 'I paid him, but he wouldn't take the thirty-three roubles; he said that Jesus Christ had lived in this world for thirty-three years, so it would not be right for him to take as much as that for the cow.' 'Very proper,' Slimak agreed, wishing to impress her with his theological knowledge, but she turned to the stove and took off a pot of hot barley soup. Offering it to him with an air of indifference: 'Don't talk so much,' she said. 'Put something hot inside you and go to the manor-house. But just try and bargain as you did with the Soltys and I shall have something to say to you.' He sat humbly, eating his soup, and his wife took some money from the chest. 'Take these ten roubles,' she said, 'give them to the squire himself and promise to bring the rest to-morrow. But mind what he asks for the field, and kiss his hands, and embrace his and the lady's feet so that he may let you off at least three roubles. Will you remember?' 'Why shouldn't I remember?' He was obviously repeating his wife's admonitions, for he suddenly stopped eating and tapped the table rhythmically with the spoon. 'Well, then, don't sit there and think, but put on your sukmana and go. And take the boys with you.' 'What for?' 'What for? They are to support you when you ask the squire, and Jendrek will tell me how you have bargained. Now do you know what for?' 'Women are a pest!' growled Slimak, when she had unfolded her carefully laid plans. 'Curse her, how she lords it over me! You can see that her father was a bailiff.' He struggled into his sukmana, which was brand new and beautifully embroidered at the collar and pockets with coloured thread; put on a broad leather belt, tied the ten roubles up in a rag and slipped them into his sukmana. The children had long been ready, and at last they started. They had no sooner gone than loneliness began to fill Slimakowa's heart. She went outside the gate and watched them; her husband, with his hands in his pockets, was strolling along the road, Jendrek on his right and Stasiek on his left. Presently Jendrek boxed Stasiek's ears and as a result he was walking on the left and Stasiek on the right. Then Slimak boxed both their ears, after which they were both walking on the left, Jendrek in the ditch, so that he could threaten his brother with his fist. 'Bless them, they always find some nice amusement for themselves,' she whispered, smiling, and went back to put on the dinner. Having settled the misunderstanding between his sons, Slimak sang softly to himself: 'Your love is no courtier, my own heart's desire, He's riding a pony on his way to the squire.' Then in a more melancholy strain: 'Oh dearie, dearie me This is great misery, What shall I do?...' He sighed, and felt that no song could adequately express his anxiety. Would the squire let him have the field? They were just passing it; he was almost afraid to look at it, so beautiful and unattainable did it seem. All the fines he had had to pay for his cattle, all the squire's threats and admonitions came into his mind. It struck him that if the field lay farther off and produced sand instead of good grass, he would have a better chance. 'Eh, I don't care!' he cried, throwing up his head with an air of indifference; 'they've often asked me to take it.' That was so, but it had been at times when he had not wanted it; now that he did, they would bargain hard, or not let him have it at all. Who could tell why that should be so? It was a law of nature that landlords and peasants were always at cross purposes. He remembered how often he had charged too much for work done, or how often the gospodarze had refused to come to terms with the squire about rights of grazing or wood-gathering in the forests, and he felt contrite. Good Lord! how beautifully the squire had spoken to them: 'Let us help each other and live peaceably like good neighbours.' And they had answered: 'What's the good of being neighbours? A nobleman is a nobleman and a peasant is a peasant. We should prefer peasants for neighbours and you would prefer noblemen.' Then the squire had cited: 'Remember, the runaway goat came back to the cart and said, "Put me in." But I shall say you nay.' And Gryb, in the name of them all, had answered: 'The goat will come, your honour, when you throw your forests open.' The squire had said nothing, but his trembling moustaches had warned them that he would not forget that answer. 'I always told Gryb not to talk with a long tongue,' Slimak sighed. 'Now it is I who will have to suffer for his impudence.' A new idea came into his head. Why should he not pay for the field in work instead of cash? The Squire might accept it, for he wasn't half a bad gentleman. It was true, the other gospodarze looked down upon him, because he was the only one who hired himself out for work; but whatever happened, the squire would always be the squire, and they the gospodarze. He hummed again, but under his breath, so that the boys should not hear him: 'The cuckoo cuckooed in the forest, Say the neighbours, I am the dullest.' Suddenly he turned upon Stasiek, and wanted to know why he was dragging along as if he were being taken to jail, and didn't talk. 'I...I am wondering why we are going to the manor?' 'Don't you want to go?' 'No; I am afraid.' 'What is there to be afraid of?' snapped Slimak, but he himself was shivering. 'You see, my boy,' he continued, more kindly, 'we have bought the new cow from the Soltys and we shall want more hay, so I am going to ask the squire to let me rent the field.' 'I see....But, daddy, I am always wondering what the grass thinks when the cows chew it up.' 'What should it think? It doesn't think at all.' 'But, daddy, why shouldn't it think? When people are standing round the church in a crowd, they look like grass from a distance, all red and yellow, like flowers in a field. If some horrible cow came and lapped them up with her tongue, wouldn't they be able to think?' 'People would scream, but the grass says nothing.' 'It does say something! A dry stick cracks when you tread on it, and a fresh branch cries and clings to the tree when you tear it off, and the grass squeaks and holds on with its feet,...and...' 'Oh! you are always saying queer things,' interrupted his father; 'and you, Jendrek, are you glad that we are going to the manor-house?' 'Is it I who is going or you?' said Jendrek, shrugging his shoulders. 'I shouldn't go.' 'Well, what would you do?' 'I should take the hay and stack it in the yard; then let them come!' 'You would dare to cut the squire's hay?' 'How is it his? Has he sown the grass? or is the field near his house?' 'Don't you see, silly, that the meadow is his just as well as his other fields?' 'They are his, so long as no one takes them. Our land and our house were his once, now they are yours. Why should he be better off than we are? He does nothing, yet he has enough land for a hundred peasants.' 'He has it because he has it, because he is a gentleman.' 'Pooh! If you wore a coat, and your trousers outside your boots, you would be a gentleman; but for all that you wouldn't have the land.' 'You are stupid,' said Slimak, getting angry. 'I know I am stupid, that is because I can't read or write, but Jasiek Gryb can, and therefore he is clever, and he says there must be equality, and there will be when the peasants have taken the land from the nobility.' 'Jasiek had better leave off taking money from his father's chest before he disposes of other people's property! He might give mine to Maciek and take the squire's for himself, but he would never give his own away. Let it be as God has ordered.' 'Did God give the land to the squire?' 'God has ordered that there should not be equality in the world. A pine is tall, a hazel is low, the grass is still lower. Look at sensible dogs. When a pail of dish-water is brought out to them, the strongest drinks first, and the others stand by and lick their lips, although they know that he will take the best part; then they all take their turn. If they start quarrelling, they upset the pail and the strong get the better of the weak. If people were to say to each other: Disgorge what you have swallowed, the strong would drive off the weak and leave them to starve.' 'But if God has given the land to the squire, how can they begin to distribute it to the people now?' 'They distribute it so that every one should get what is right for him, not that he should take what he likes.' His son's amazing views added a new worry to Slimak's mind. 'The rascal! listening to people of that sort! he'll never make a peasant; it's a mercy he hasn't stolen yet.' They were nearing the drive to the manor-house, and Slimak was walking more and more slowly; Stasiek looked more and more frightened, Jendrek alone kept his saucy air. Through the dark branches of old lime-trees the roof and chimneys of the manor became visible. Suddenly two shots rang out. 'They are shooting!' cried Jendrek excitedly, and ran forward. Stasiek caught hold of his father's pocket. Slimak called Jendrek, who returned sulkily. They were now on the terrace, where the manor-fields stretched on either side. Lower down lay the village, still lower the field by the river, in front of them was the manor, with the outbuildings, enclosed by a railing. 'There! that's the manor-house,' said Slimak to Stasiek. 'Isn't it beautiful?' 'Which one is it?' 'Why! the one with pillars in front.' Another shot rang out, and they saw a man in fanciful sportsman's dress. 'The horseman of yesterday,' cried Jendrek. 'Ah, that freak!' said Slimak, scrutinizing him with his head on one side; 'he'll bring me bad luck about the field.' 'He has a splendid gun,' cried Jendrek; 'but what is he shooting? There's nothing but sparrows here.' 'Perhaps he is shooting at us?' suggested Stasiek timidly. 'Why should he be shooting at us?' his father reassured him; 'shooting at people isn't allowed. It's true there is no knowing what a lunatic might do.' The sportsman approached, loading his gun; the tattered remains of some sparrows hung from his bag. 'The Lord be praised,' said Slimak, taking off his cap. 'How do you do, citizen?' replied the sportsman, touching his jockey cap. 'What a lovely gun!' sighed Jendrek. 'Do you like it? Eh, wasn't it you who picked up my cap the other day? I am in your debt; here you are.' He handed Jendrek a twenty-kopek piece. 'Is that your father? Citizen, if you want to be friends with me, do not bow so low, and cover your head. It is time that these survivals of servitude should be forgotten; they can only do us both harm. Cover yourself, I beg you.' Slimak tried to do as he was told, but his hand refused obedience. 'I feel awkward, sir, standing before you with my cap on,' he said. 'Oh, hang hereditary social differences!' exclaimed the young man, snatching the cap from Slimak's hands and putting it on his head. 'Hang it all!' thought the peasant, unable to follow the democrat's intentions. 'What are you going to the manor for?' asked the latter. 'Have you come on business with my brother-in-law?' 'We want to beg a favour of the squire'--Slimak refrained with difficulty from bowing again--'that he should let us rent the field close to my property.' 'What for?' 'We've bought a new cow.' 'How much cattle have you?' 'The Lord Jesus possesses five tails in my gospodarstwo, two horses and three cows, not counting the pigs.' 'And have you much land?' 'I wish to God I had, but I have only ten acres, and those are growing more sterile every year.' 'That's because you don't understand agriculture. Ten acres is a large property; in other countries several families live comfortably on that; here it is not enough for one. But what can you expect if you sow nothing but rye?' 'What else should I sow, sir? Wheat doesn't do very well.' 'Vegetables, my friend, that does the trick! The market gardeners near Warsaw pay thirty or forty roubles an acre rent and do excellently well.' Slimak hung his head. He was much perturbed, for he had arrived at the conclusion that the squire would not let him have the field, because he had so much land already, or that he would ask him thirty or forty roubles' rent. What other object could the young gentleman possibly have for saying, such strange things? They were approaching the entrance to the garden. 'I see my sister is in the garden; my brother-in-law is sure to be about too. I will go and tell him of your business.' Slimak bowed low, but inwardly he thought: 'May the pestilence take him! He is impertinent to my wife, stirs up the boy, and puts my cap on my head; but he wants to squeeze money out of me, all the same. I knew he would bring me bad luck.' Sounds of an American organ which the squire was playing came from the house. 'Daddy, daddy, they are playing!' cried Stasiek in great excitement; he was flushed, and trembled with emotion, even Jendrek was affected. Slimak took off his cap and said a prayer for deliverance from the evil spell of the young gentleman. When the organ stopped, they watched this same young gentleman talking to his sister in the garden. 'Look at the lady, dad,' said Jendrek; 'she is just like a horsefly, yellow with black spots, and thin in the waist and fat at the end.' The democrat was putting Slimak's case before his sister, and complained of the signs of servility with which he met at every turn. He said they spoilt his temper. 'But what can I do?' said the lady. 'Go up to them and give them courage.' 'I like that!' she said. 'I arranged a treat for our farm-labourers' children to encourage them, and next day they plundered my peach trees. Go to them? I've done that too. I once went into a cottage where a child was ill, and my clothes smelt so strongly that I had to give them to my maid. No, thank you!' 'All the same, I beg you to do something for these people.' Their conversation had been in French while they were approaching the railings. 'Oh, it's Slimak.' The lady raised her glasses. 'Well, my good man, my brother wants me to do something for you. Have you got a daughter?' 'I haven't, my lady,' said Slimak, kissing the hem of her dress. 'That's a pity, I might have taught her to do beadwork. Perhaps I could teach the boys to read?' 'They are wanted at home, my lady; the elder one is useful already, and the younger one looks after the pigs in the fields.' 'Do something for them yourself,' she said to her brother in French. 'What are they plotting against me?' thought Slimak. The squire now came out and joined the group. Slimak began bowing again, Stasiek's eyes filled with tears, even Jendrek lost his self-assurance. The conversation reverted into French, and the democrat warmly supported Slimak's cause. 'All right, I'll let him have the field,' said the squire; 'then there will be an end to the trespassing; besides, he is the most honest man in the village.' When Slimak's suspense had become so acute that he had thoughts of returning home without having settled the business, the squire said: 'So you want me to let you have the field by the river?' 'If you will be so kind, sir.' 'And if you will kindly take off three roubles,' Jendrek added quickly. Slimak's blood ran cold; the squire exchanged glances with his wife. 'What does that mean?' he asked. 'From what am I to take off three roubles?' Involuntarily Slimak's hand reached for his belt, but he recollected himself; he made up his mind in despair to tell the truth. 'If you please, sir, don't take any notice of that puppy; my wife has been at me for not bargaining well, and she told me to get you to take three roubles off the rent, and now this young scoundrel puts me to shame.' 'Mother told me to look after you.' Slimak became absolutely tongue-tied, and the party on the other side of the railing were convulsed with laughter. 'Look,' said the squire in French, 'that is the peasant all over. He won't allow you to speak a word to his wife, but he can't do anything without her, and doesn't understand any business whatsoever without her explanations.' 'Lovely!' laughed his wife, 'now, if you did as I tell you, we should have left this dull place long ago and gone to Warsaw.' 'Don't make the peasant out to be an idiot,' remonstrated his brother-in-law. 'No need for me to do that; he _is_ an idiot. Our peasants are all muscle and stomach; they leave reason and energy to their wives. Slimak is one of the most intelligent, yet I will bet you anything that I can immediately give you a proof of his being a donkey. Josef,' he said, turning to Slimak, 'your wife told you to drive a good bargain?' 'Certainly, sir, what is true is true.' 'Do you know what Lukasiak pays me yearly?' 'They say ten roubles.' 'Then you ought to pay twenty roubles for the two acres.' 'If you will be lenient, sir,' began Slimak. '... and let me off three roubles,' completed the squire. Slimak looked confused. 'Very good, I will let you off three roubles; you shall pay me seventeen roubles yearly. Are you satisfied!' Slimak bowed to the ground and thought: 'What is he up to? He is not bargaining!' 'Now, Slimak,' continued the squire, 'I will make you another proposal. Do you know what Gryb paid me for the two acres he bought?' 'Seventy roubles.' 'Just so, and he paid for the surveyor and the lawyer. I will sell you those two acres for sixty roubles and let you off all expenses, so you would gain a clear twenty roubles against Gryb's bargain, But I make one condition, you must decide at once and without consulting your wife; to-morrow my conditions wouldn't be the same.' Slimak's eyes blazed; he fancied he saw quite clearly now that there was a conspiracy against him. 'That's not a handsome thing to offer, sir,' he said, with a forced smile; 'you yourself consult with the lady and the young gentleman.' 'There you are! Isn't he a finished idiot?' His brother-in-law tapped Slimak on the shoulder. 'Agree to it, my friend; you'll have the best of the bargain. Of course he agrees,' he said, turning to the squire. 'Well, Josef, will you buy it? Do you agree to my conditions?' 'I'm not such a fool,' thought Slimak, and aloud: 'It wouldn't be fair to buy it without my wife.' 'Very well, I'll let it to you. Give me your earnest-money and come for the receipt to-morrow. There you have the peasant, my democrat!' Slimak paid the ten roubles and glared at the retreating party. 'Ah! you'd like to cheat a peasant, but he has got too much sense! It's true, then, what Grochowski said about the land-distribution. Sixty roubles for a field worth seventy, indeed!' All the same he could not quite get rid of the thought that it might have been a straightforward offer. He felt hot all over and wanted to shout or run after the squire. At that moment the young man hastily turned back. 'Buy that field,' he said, quite out of breath; 'my brother-in-law would still consent if you asked him.' In an instant Slimak's distrust returned. 'No, sir; it wouldn't be fair.' 'Cattle!' murmured the democrat, and turned his back. The bargain had disappeared. 'Let's go home, boys,' and under his breath: 'Damn the aristocracy!' When they were nearing their home, the boys ran on ahead, for they were hungry. 'What is this Jendrek tells me? They wanted to sell you the land for sixty roubles?' 'That is so,' he replied, rather frightened; 'they are afraid of the new land-distributions. They are clever too! They knew all about my business beforehand, and the squire had set his brother-in-law on to me.' 'What! that fellow who spoke to me by the river?' 'That same fool. He gave Jendrek twenty kopeks and put my cap on my head, and he told me ten acres was a fortune.' 'A fortune? His brother-in-law has a thousand and says he hasn't enough! You did quite right not to buy the field; there is something shady about that business.' But his wife's satisfaction did not completely reassure Slimak; he was wretchedly in doubt. His dinner gave him no pleasure, and he strolled about the house without knowing what to do. When his irritation had reached its climax, a happy thought struck him. 'Come here, Jendrek,' he said, unbuckling his belt. 'Oh, daddy, don't,' wailed the boy, although he had been prepared for the last two hours. 'You won't escape it this time; lie down on the bench. You've been laughing at the young gentleman and even making fun of the squire.' Stasiek, in tears, embraced his father's knees, Magda ran out of the room, Jendrek howled. 'I tell you, lie down! I'll teach you to run about with that scoundrel of a Jasiek!' At that moment Slimakowa tapped at the window. 'Josef, come quick, something has happened to the new cow, she's staggering.' Slimak let go of Jendrek and ran to the cowshed. The three cows were standing quietly chewing the cud. 'It has passed off,' said the woman; 'but I tell you a minute ago she was staggering worse than you did yesterday.' He examined the cow carefully, but could find nothing wrong with her. Jendrek had meanwhile slipped away, his father's temper had cooled, and the matter ended as usual on these occasions. CHAPTER V It was the height of summer. The squire and his wife had gone away, and the villagers had forgotten all about them. New wool had begun to grow on the shorn sheep. The sun was so hot that the clouds fled from the sky into the woods, and the ground protected itself with what it could find; with dust on the highroads, grass in the meadows, and heavy crops in the fields. But human beings had to toil their hardest at this time. At the manor they were cutting clover and hoeing turnips; in the cottages the women were piling up the potatoes, while the old women were gathering mallows for cooling drinks and lime-blossoms against the ague. The priest spent all his days tracking and taking swarms of bees; Josel, the innkeeper, was making vinegar. The woods resounded with the voices of children picking berries. The corn was getting ripe, and Slimak began to cut the rye the day after the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. He was in a hurry to get the work done in two or three days, lest the corn should drop out in the great heat, and also because he wanted to help with the harvesting at the manor. Usually he, Maciek, and Jendrek worked together, alternately cutting and binding the sheaves. Slimakowa and Magda helped in the early morning and in the afternoon. On the first day, while the five were working together, and had reached the top of the hill, Magda noticed some men showing against the dark background of the wood, and drew Slimakowa's attention to them. They all stopped work and looked. 'They must be peasants,' Maciek said; 'they are wearing white smocks.' 'They do not walk like peasants,' said Slimakowa. 'But they are wearing boots up to their knees,' said Slimak. 'Look! they are carrying poles,' Jendrek cried; 'and they are dragging a rope after them.' 'Ah, they must be surveyors. What can they be after?' reflected Slimak. 'Surely, they are taking a fresh survey; now, Josef, aren't you glad you did not buy that land?' asked his wife. They took up their work again, but did not get on very fast, for they could not resist throwing sidelong glances at the approaching men. It was now quite plain that they were not peasants, for they wore white coats and had black ribbons on their hats. Slimak's attention became so absorbed that he lagged behind, in the place which Magda usually occupied, instead of being at the head of the party. At last he cried: 'Jendrek, stop cutting; run and find out what they are doing, and if they are really measuring for a new land-distribution.' Jendrek was off in a moment, and had soon reached the men. He forgot to come back. The little party watched him talk to the men for a few moments, and then becoming busy with the poles. 'I say!' cried Slimakowa, 'he is quite one of the party! Just look, how he is running along with the line, as if he had never done anything else in his life. He has never seen a book except in the Jew's shop window, and yet he can run better than any of them. I wish I had told him to put on his boots; they will never take him for the son of a gospodarz.' She watched Jendrek with great pride until the party disappeared behind the line of the hill. 'Something will come of this,' said Slimak, 'either good or bad.' 'Why should it be bad?' asked his wife; 'they may add to our land; what do you think, Maciek?' The farm labourer looked embarrassed when he was asked for his opinion, and pondered until the perspiration flowed from his head. 'Why should it be good?' he said at last. 'When I was working for the squire at Krzeszowie, and he went bankrupt, just such men as these came and measured the land, and soon afterwards we had to pay a new tax. No good ever comes of anything new.' Jendrek returned towards sunset, quite out of breath. He called out to his mother that the gentlemen wanted some milk, and had given him twenty kopeks. 'Give them to your mother at once,' said Slimak; 'they are not for you, but for the milk.' Jendrek was almost in tears. 'Why should I give up my money? They say they will pay for everything they have, and even want to buy butter and fowls.' 'Are they traders?' 'Oh no, they are great gentlemen, and live in a tent and keep a cook.' 'Gipsies, I dare say!' Slimakowa had run off at top speed, and now the men appeared, perspiring, sunburnt, and dusty; nevertheless, they impressed Slimak and Maciek so much with their grand manner that they took off their caps. 'Which of you is the gospodarz?' 'I am.' 'How long have you lived here?' 'From my childhood.' 'And have you ever seen the river in flood?' 'I should think I had!' 'Do you remember how high the water rises?' 'Sometimes it overflows on to that meadow deep enough to drown a man.' 'Are you quite sure of that?' 'Everybody knows that. Those gaps in the hill have been scooped out by the water.' 'The bridge will have to be sixty feet high.' 'Certainly,' said the elder of the two men. 'Can you let us have some milk, gospodarz?' 'My wife is getting it ready, if it pleases the gentlemen to come.' The whole party turned towards the cottage, for the drinking of milk by such distinguished gentlemen was an important event; it was decided to stop harvesting for the day. Chairs and the cherrywood table had been placed in front of the cottage. A rye loaf, butter, white cheese with caraway seeds, and a bowl of buttermilk were in readiness. 'Well,' said the men, looking at each other in surprise, 'a nobleman could not have received us better.' They ate heartily, praised everything, and finally asked Slimakowa what they owed her. 'May it be to the gentlemen's health!' 'But we cannot fleece you like this, gospodyni.' 'We don't take money for hospitality. Besides, you have already given my boy as much as if he had been harvesting a whole day.' 'There!' whispered the younger man to the elder, 'isn't that like Polish peasants?' To Slimak they said: 'After such a reception we will promise to build the station quite near to you.' 'I don't know what you mean?' 'We are going to build a railway.' Slimak scratched his head. 'What makes you so doubtful?' asked the men. 'I'm thinking that this will turn out badly for us,' Slimak replied; 'I shan't earn anything by driving.' The men laughed. 'Don't be afraid, my friend, it will be a very good thing for everybody, especially for you, as you will be near the station. And first of all you will sell us your produce and drive us. Let us begin at once, what do you want for your fowls?' 'I leave it to you, sir.' 'Twenty-five kopeks, then.' Slimakowa looked at her husband. This was double the amount they had usually taken. 'You can have them, sir,' she cried. 'That scoundrel of a Jew charged us fifty,' murmured the younger man. They agreed to buy butter, cheese, crayfish, cucumber, and bread; the younger man expressing surprise at the cheapness of everything, and the elder boasting that he always knew how to drive a good bargain. When they left, they paid Slimakowa sixteen paper roubles and half a silver rouble, asking her if she was sure that she was not cheating herself. 'God forbid,' she replied. 'I wish I could sell every day at that price.' 'You will, when we have built the railway.' 'May God bless you!' She made the sign of the cross over them, the farm labourer knelt down, and Slimak took off his cap. They all accompanied their guests as far as the ravines. When they returned, Slimak set everyone to work in feverish haste. 'Jagna, get the butter ready; Maciek and Jendrek, go to the river for the crayfish; Magda, take three score of the finest cucumbers, and throw in an extra ten. Jesus Mary! Have we ever done business like this! You will have to buy yourself a new silk kerchief, and a new shirt for Jendrek.' 'Our luck has come,' said Slimakowa, 'and I must certainly buy a silk kerchief, or else no one in the village will believe that we have made so much money.' 'I don't quite like it that the new carriages will go without horses,' said Slimak; 'but that can't be helped.' When they took their produce to the engineers' encampment, they received fresh orders, for there were more than a dozen men, who made him their general purveyor. Slimak went round to the neighbouring cottages and bought what he needed, making a penny profit on every penny he spent, while his customers praised the cheapness of the produce. After a week the party moved further off, and Slimak found himself in possession of twenty-five roubles that seemed to have fallen from the sky, not counting what he had earned for the hire of his horses and cart, and payment for the days of labour he had lost. But somehow the money made him feel ashamed. 'Do you know, Jagna,' he said, 'perhaps we ought to go after the gentlemen and give them back their money.' 'Oh nonsense!' cried the woman, 'trading is always like that. What did the Jew charge for the chickens? just double your price.' 'But it is the Jew's trade, and besides, he isn't a Christian.' 'Therefore he makes the greater profits. Come, Josef, the gentlemen did not pay for the things only, but for the trouble you took.' This, and the thought that everybody who came from Warsaw obviously had much money to spend, reassured the peasant. As he and the rest of the family were so much occupied with their new duties, all the harvesting fell to Maciek's share. He had to go to the hill from early dawn till late at night, and cut, bind, and shock the sheaves single-handed. But in spite of his industry the work took longer than usual, and Slimak hired old Sobieska to help him. She came at six o'clock, armed with a bottle of 'remedy' for a wound in the leg, did the work of two while she sang songs which made even Maciek blush, until the afternoon, and then took her 'remedy'. The cure then pulled her down so much that the scythe fell from her hand. 'Hey, gospodarz!' she would shout. 'You are raking in the money and buying your wife silk handkerchiefs, but the poor farm labourers have to creep on all fours. It's "Cut the corn, Sobieska and Maciek, and I will brag about like a gentleman!" You will see, he will soon call himself "Pan Slimaczinski."[1] He is the devil's own son, for ever and ever. Amen.' [Footnote 1: The ending _ski_ denotes nobility.] She would fall into a furrow and sleep until sundown, though she was paid for a full day's work. As she had a sharp tongue, Slimak had no wish to offend her. When he haggled about the money, she would kiss his hand and say: 'Why should you fall out with me, sir? Sell one chicken more and you'll be all right.' 'Cheek always pays!' thought Maciek. On the following Sunday, when everyone was ready to go to church, Maciek sat down and sighed heavily. 'Why, Maciek, aren't you going to church?' asked Slimak, seeing that something was amiss. 'How can I go to church? You would be ashamed of me.' 'What's the matter with you?' 'Nothing is the matter with me, but my feet keep coming through my boots.' 'That's your own fault, why didn't you speak before? Your wages are due, and I will give you six roubles.' Maciek embraced his feet.... 'But mind you buy the boots, and don't drink away the money.' They all started; Slimak walked with his wife, Magda with the boys, and Maciek by himself at a little distance. He dreamt that Slimak would become a gentleman when the railway was finished, and that he, Maciek, would then wait at table, and perhaps get married. Then he crossed himself for having such reckless ideas. How could a poor fellow like him think of marrying? Who would have him? Probably not even Zoska, although she was wrong in the head and had a child. This was a memorable Sunday for Slimak and his wife. She had bought a silk kerchief at a stall, given twenty kopeks to the beggars, and sat down in the front pew, where Grybina and Lukasiakowa had at once made room for her. As for Slimak, everyone had something to say to him. The publican reproached him for spoiling the prices for the Jews, the organist reminded him that it would be well to pay for an extra Mass for the souls of the departed, even the policeman saluted him, and the priest urged him to keep bees: 'You might come round to the Vicarage, now that you have money and spare time, and perhaps buy a few hives. It does no harm to remember God in one's prosperity and keep bees and give wax to the Church.' Gryb came up with an unpleasant smile. 'Surely, Slimak, you will treat everybody all round to-day, since you've been so successful?' 'You don't treat the village when you have made a good bargain, neither shall I,' Slimak snubbed him. 'That's not surprising, since I don't make as much profit on a cow as you make on a chicken.' 'All the same, you're richer than other people.' 'There you're right,' Wisniewski supported Slimak, asking him for the loan of a couple of roubles at the same time. But when Slimak refused, he complained of his arrogance. Maciek did not get much comfort out of the money given him for boots. He stood humbly at the back of the church, so that the Lord should not see his torn sukmana. Then the beggars reminded him that he never gave them anything. He went to the public-house to get change. 'How about my money, Pan Maciek?' said the publican. 'What money?' 'Have you forgotten? You owe me two roubles since Christmas' Maciek swore at him. 'Everybody knows that one can only get a drink from you for cash.' 'That's true on the whole. But when you were tipsy at Christmas, you embraced and kissed me so many times, I couldn't help myself and gave you credit.' 'Have you got witnesses?' Maciek said sharply. 'I tell you, old Jew, you won't take me in.' The publican reflected for a moment. 'I have no witnesses,' he said, 'therefore I will never mention the matter to you again. Since you swear to me here in the presence of other people, that you did not kiss me and beg for credit, I make you a present of your debt, but it's a shame,' the publican added, spitting, 'that a man working for such a respectable gospodarz as Slimak, should cheat a poor Jew. Don't ever set foot in my inn again!' The labourer hesitated. Did he really owe that money? 'Well,' he said, 'since you say I owe you the money, I will give it you. But take care God does not punish you if you are wronging me.' In his heart, however, he doubted whether God would ever punish any one on account of such a low creature as he was. He was just leaving the inn sadly, when a band of Galician harvesters came in. They sat down at the table, discussing the profits that would be made from the building of the new railway. Maciek went up to them, and seeing that their appearance was not much less ragged than his own, he asked if it was true that there were railroads[1] in the world? 'No one,' he said,'would have iron enough to cover roads, not even the government.' The labourers laughed, but one, a huge fellow with a soldier's cap, said: 'What is there to laugh at? Of course a clodhopper does not know what a railway is. Sit down, brother, and I'll tell you all about it, but let's have a bottle of vodka.' [Footnote 1: The Polish word for 'railway' is 'iron road'.] Before Maciek had decided, the publican had brought the vodka. 'Why shouldn't he have vodka?' he said, 'he is a good-natured fellow, he has stood treat before.' What happened afterwards, Maciek did not clearly remember. He thought that some one told him how fast an engine goes, and that some one else shouted, he ought to buy boots. Later on he was seized by his arms and legs and carried to the stable. One thing was certain, he returned without a penny. Slimakowa would not look at him, and Slimak said: 'You are hopeless, Maciek, you'll never get on, for the devil always leads you into bad company.' So it happened that Maciek went without new boots, but a few weeks later he acquired a possession he had never dreamt of. It was a rainy September evening; the more the day declined, the heavier became the layers of clouds. Lower and lower they descended, torn and gloomy. Forest, hill, and valley, even the fence dissolved gradually into the grey veil. The heavy, persistent rain penetrated everything; the ground was full of it, soaked through like kneaded dough; the road was full of it, running with yellow streams; the yard, where it stood in large puddles, was full of it. Roofs and walls were dripping, the animals' skins and even human souls were saturated with it. Everybody in the gospodarstwo was thinking vaguely of supper, but no one was in the mood for it. The gospodarz yawned, the gospodyni was cross, the boys were sleepy, Magda did even less than usual. They looked at the fire, where the potatoes were slowly boiling, at the door, to watch Maciek come in, or at the window, where the raindrops splashed, falling from the higher, the lower, and the lowest clouds, from the thatch, from the fading leaves of the trees, and from the window frames. When all these splashes mingled into one, they sounded like approaching footfalls. Then the cottage door creaked. 'Maciek,' muttered the gospodarz. But Maciek did not appear. A hand was groping along the passage wall. 'What's the matter with him, has he gone blind?' impatiently exclaimed the gospodyni, and opened the door. Something which was not Maciek was standing in the passage, a shapeless figure, not tall, but bulky. It was wrapped in a soaking wet shawl. Slimakowa stepped back for a moment, but when the firelight fell into the passage, she discerned a human face in the opening of the shawl, copper-coloured, with a broad nose and slanting eyes that were hardly visible under the swollen eyelids. 'The Lord be praised,' said a hoarse voice. 'You, Zoska?' asked the astonished gospodyni. 'It is I.' 'Come in quickly, you are letting all the damp into the room.' The new-comer stepped forward, but stood still, irresolutely. She held a child in her arms whose face was as white as chalk, with blue lips; she drew out one of its arms; it looked like a stick. 'What are you doing out in weather like this?' asked Slimak. 'I'm going after a place.' She looked round, and decided to crouch down on the floor, near the wall. 'They say in the village that you have a lot of money now; I thought you might want a girl.' 'We don't want a girl, there is not even enough for Magda to do. Why are you out of a place?' 'I've been harvesting in the summer, but now no one will take me in with the child. If I were alone I could get along.' Maciek came in, and not being aware of Zoska's presence, started on seeing a crouching form on the floor. 'What do you want?' he asked. 'I thought Slimak might take me on, but he doesn't want me with the child.' 'Oh Lord!' sighed the man, moved by the sight of poverty greater than his own. 'Why, Maciek, that sounds as if you had a bad conscience,' said the gospodyni disagreeably. 'It makes one feel bad, to see such wretchedness,' he murmured. 'The man whose fault it is would feel it most!' 'It isn't my fault, but I'm sorry for them all the same.' 'Why don't you take the child, then, if you are so sorry?' sneered Slimakowa, 'you'll give him the child, Zoska, won't you? Is it a boy?' 'A girl,' whispered Zoska, with her eyes fixed on Maciek, 'she is two years old... yes, he can have her, if he likes.' 'She'd be a deal of trouble to me,' muttered the labourer, 'all the same, it's a pity.' 'Take her,' repeated Zoska, 'Slimak is rich, you are rich....' 'Oh yes, Maciek is rich,' laughed Slimakowa, 'he drinks through six roubles in one Sunday.' 'If you can drink through six roubles, you can take her,' Zoska cried vehemently, pulling the child out of the shawl and laying it on the floor. It looked frightened, but did not utter a sound. 'Shut up, Jagna, and don't talk nonsense,' said Slimak. Zoska stood up and stretched herself. 'Now I shall be easy for once,' she said, 'I've often thought I'd like to throw her away into a ditch, but you may as well have her. Mind you look after her properly! If I come back and don't find her, I'll scratch out your eyes.' 'You are crazy,' said Slimak, 'cross yourself.' 'I won't cross myself, I'll go away....' 'Don't be a fool, and sit down to supper,' angrily cried the gospodyni. She took the saucepan off so impetuously, that the hot ashes flew all over the stove, and one touched Zoska's bare feet. 'Fire!... fire!' she shouted, and escaped from the room, 'the cottage is on fire, everything is on fire!' She staggered out like a drunken person, and they could hear her voice farther and farther off, shouting 'Fire!' until the rain drowned it. 'Run, Maciek, and bring her back,' cried Slimakowa. But Maciek did not stir. 'You can't send a man after a mad woman on a night like this,' said Slimak. 'Well, what am I to do with this dog's child? Do you think I shall feed her?' 'I dare say you won't throw her over the fence. You needn't worry, Zoska will come back for her.' 'I don't want her here for the night.' 'Then what are you going to do with her?' said Slimak, getting angry. 'I'll take her to the stable,' Maciek said in a low voice, lifting the child up awkwardly. He sat down on the bench with it and rocked it gently on his knees. There was silence in the room. Presently Magda, Jendrek, and Stasiek emerged from their corner and stood by Maciek, looking at the little creature. 'She is as thin as a lath,' whispered Magda. 'She doesn't move or look at us,' remarked Jendrek. 'You must feed her from a rag,' advised Magda, 'I will find you a clean one.' 'Sit down to supper,' ordered Slimakowa, but her voice sounded less angry. She looked at the child, first from a distance, then she bent over it and touched its drawn yellow skin. 'That bitch of a mother!' she murmured, 'Magda, put a little milk in a saucer, and you, Maciek, sit down to supper.' 'Let Magda sit down, I'll feed her myself.' 'Feed her!' cried Magda, 'he doesn't even know how to hold her.' She tried to take the child from him. 'Don't pull her to pieces,' said the gospodyni, 'pour out the milk and let Maciek feed her, if he is so keen on it.' The way in which Maciek performed his task elicited much advice from Magda. 'He has poured the milk all over her mouth...it's running on to the floor...why do you stick the rag into her nose?' Although he felt that he was making a bad nurse, Maciek would not let the child out of his hands. He hastily ate a little soup, left the rest, and went to his night-quarters in the stable, sheltering the child under his sukmana. When he entered, one of the horses neighed, and the other turned his head and sniffed at the child in the darkness. 'That's right, greet the new stable-boy who can't even hold a whip,' laughed Maciek. The rain continued to fall. When Slimak looked out later on, the stable door was shut, and he fancied he could hear Maciek snoring. He returned into the room. 'Are they all right in there?' asked his wife. 'They are asleep,' he replied, and bolted the door. The cocks had crowed midnight, the dog had barked his answer and squeezed under the cart for shelter, everybody was asleep. Then the stable door creaked, and a shadow stole out, moved along the walls and disappeared into the cowshed. It was Maciek. He drew the whimpering child from under his sukmana and put its mouth to the cow's udder. 'Suck, little one,' he whispered, 'suck the cow, because your mother has left you.' A few moments later smacking sounds were heard. And the rain continued to drip...drip...drip, monotonously. CHAPTER VI The announcement that the railway was to be built in the spring caused a great stir in the village. The strangers who went about buying land from the peasants were the sole topic of conversation at the spinning-wheels on winter evenings. One poor peasant had sold his barren gravel hill, and had been able to purchase ten acres of the best land with the proceeds. The squire and his wife had returned in December, and it was rumoured that they were going to sell the property. The squire was playing the American organ all day long, as usual, and only laughed when the people timidly asked him whether there was any truth in the report. It was the lady who had told her maid in the evening how gay the life in Warsaw would be; an hour later the bailiff's clerk, who was the maid's sweetheart, knew of it; early the next morning the clerk repeated it to the bailiff and to the foreman as a great secret, and by the afternoon all the employees and labourers were discussing the great secret. In the evening it had reached the inn, and then rapidly spread into the cottages and to the small town. The power of the little word 'Sale' was truly marvellous. It made the farm labourers careless in their work and the bailiff give notice at New Year; it made the mute hard-working animals grow lean, the sheaves disappear from the barn and the corn from the granary; it made off with the reserve cart-wheels and harnesses, pulled the padlocks off the buildings, took planks out of the fences, and on dark nights it swallowed up now a chicken, now even a sheep or a small pig, and sent the servants to the public-house every night. A great, a sonorous word! It sounded far and wide, and from the little town came the trades people, presenting their bills. It was written on the face of every man, in the sad eyes of the neglected beasts, on all the doors and on the broken window-panes, plastered up with paper. There were only two people who pretended not to hear it, the gentleman who played the American organ and the lady who dreamt of going to Warsaw. When the neighbours asked them, he shrugged his shoulders, and she sighed and said: 'We should like to sell, it's dull living in the country, but my father in Warsaw has not yet had an offer.' Slimak, who often went to work at the manor, had also heard the rumour, but he did not believe it. When he met the squire he would look at him and think: 'He can't help being as he is, but if such a misfortune should befall him, I should be grieved for him. They have been settled at the manor from father to son; half the churchyard is full of them, they have all grown up here. Even a stone would fret if it were moved from such a place, let alone a man. Surely, he can't be bankrupt like other noblemen? It's well known that he has money.' The peasant judged his squire by himself. He did not know what it meant to have a young wife who was bored in the country. While Slimak put his trust in the squire's unruffled manner, cogitations were going on at the inn under the guidance of Josel, the publican. One morning, half-way through January, old Sobieska burst into the cottage. Although the winter sun had not yet begun to look round the world, the old woman was flushed, and her eyes looked bloodshot. Her lean chest was insufficiently covered by a sheepskin as old as herself and a torn chemise. 'Here!...give me some vodka and I'll give you a little bit of news,' she called out. Slimak was just going off to thresh, but he sat down again and asked his wife to bring the vodka, for he knew that the old woman usually knew what she was talking about. She drank a large glassful, stamped her foot, gurgled 'Oo-ah!', wiped her mouth and said: 'I say! the squire is going to sell everything.' The thought of his field crossed Slimak's mind and made his blood run cold, but he answered calmly: 'Gossip!' 'Gossip?' the old woman hiccoughed, 'I tell you, it's gospel truth, and I'll tell you more: the richer gospodarze are settling with Josel and Gryb to buy the whole estate and the whole village from the squire, so help me God!' 'How can they settle that without me?' 'Because they want to keep you out. They say you will be better off as it is, because you will be nearer to the station, and that you have already made a lot of money by spoiling other people's business.' She drained another glass and would have said more, but was suddenly overcome, and had to be carried out of the room by Slimak. He and his wife consulted for the rest of the day what would be the best thing to do under the circumstances. Towards evening he put on his new sukmana lined with sheepskin and went to the inn. Gryb and Lukasiak were sitting at the table. By the light of the two tallow candles they looked like two huge boundary-stones in their grey clothes. Josel stood behind the bar in a dirty jersey with black stripes. He had a sharp nose, pointed beard, pointed curls, and wore a peaked cap; there was something pointed also in his look. 'The Lord be praised,' said Slimak. 'In Eternity,' Josel answered indifferently. 'What are the gospodarze drinking?' 'Tea,' the innkeeper replied. 'Then I will have tea too, but let it be as black as pitch, and with plenty of arrac.' 'Have you come to drink tea with us?' Josel taunted him. 'No,' said Slimak, slowly sitting down, 'I've come to find out....' 'What old Sobieska meant,' finished the innkeeper in an undertone. 'How about this business? is it true that you are buying land from the squire?' asked Slimak. The two gospodarze exchanged glances with Josel, who smiled. After a pause Lukasiak replied: 'Oh, we are talking of it for want of something better to do, but who would have the money for such a big undertaking?' 'You two between you could buy it!' 'Perhaps we may, but it would be for ourselves and those living in the village.' 'What about me?' 'You don't take us into your confidence about your business affairs, so mind you keep out of ours.' 'It's not only your affair, but concerns the whole village.' 'No, it's nobody's but mine,' snapped Gryb. 'It's mine just as much.' 'That is not so!' Gryb struck the table with his fist: if I don't like a man, he shan't buy, and there's an end of it.' The publican smiled. Seeing that Slimak was getting pale with anger, Lukasiak took Gryb by the arm. 'Let us go home, neighbour,' he said. 'What is the good of talking about things that may never come off? Come along.' Gryb looked at Josel and got up. 'So you are going to buy without me?' asked Slimak. 'You bought without us last summer.' They shook hands with the innkeeper and took no notice of Slimak. Josel looked after them until their footsteps could no longer be heard, then, still smiling, he turned to Slimak. 'Do you see now, gospodarz, that it is a bad thing to take the bread out of a Jew's mouth? I have lost fifty roubles through you and you have made twenty-five, but you have bought a hundred roubles' worth of trouble, for the whole village is against you.' 'They really mean to buy the squire's land without me?' 'Why shouldn't they? What do they care about your loss if they can gain?' 'Well...well,' muttered the peasant sadly. 'I,' said Josel, 'might perhaps be able to arrange the affair for you, but what should I gain by it? You have never been well disposed towards me, and you have already done me harm.' 'So you won't arrange it?' 'I might, but on my own terms.' 'What are they?' 'First of all you will give me back the fifty roubles. Secondly, you will build a cottage on your land for my brother-in-law.' 'What for?' 'He will keep horses and drive people to and from the station.' 'And what am I to do with my horses?' 'You have your land.' The gospodarz got up. 'Aren't you going to give me any tea?' 'I haven't any in the house.' 'Very well; I won't pay you fifty roubles, and I won't build a cottage for your brother-in-law.' 'Do as you please.' Slimak left the inn, banging the door. Josel turned his pointed nose and beard in his direction and smiled. In the darkness Slimak collided with a labourer from the manor who carried a sack of corn on his back; presently he saw one of the servant girls hiding a goose under her sheepskin. When she recognized him she ran behind the fence. But Josel continued to smile. He smiled, when he paid the labourer a rouble for the corn, including the sack; he smiled, when the girl handed over the goose and got a bottle of sour beer in return; he smiled, when he listened to the gospodarze discussing the purchase of the land, and he smiled when he paid old Gryb two roubles per cent., and took two roubles from young Gryb for every ten he lent him. His smile no more came off his face than his dirty jersey came off his back. The fire was out and the children were asleep when Slimak returned home. 'Well?' asked his wife, while he was undressing in the dark. 'This is a trick of Josel's. He drives the others like a team of oxen.' 'They won't let you in?' 'They won't, but I shall go to the squire about the field.' 'When are you going?' 'To-morrow, else it may be too late.' To-morrow came; the day after came and went; a week passed, but Slimak had not yet done anything. One day he said he must thresh for a corn dealer, the other day that he had a pain inside. As a matter of fact, he neither threshed nor had a pain inside; but something held him back which peasants call being afraid, gentlemen slackness, and scholars inertia. He ate little, wandered round aimlessly, and often stood still in the snow-covered field by the river, struggling with himself. Reason told him that he ought to go to the manor and settle the matter, but another power held him fast and whispered: 'Don't hurry, wait another day, it will all come right somehow.' 'Josef, why don't you go to the squire?' his wife asked day after day. One evening old Sobieska turned up again. She was suffering from rheumatism, and required treatment with a 'thimbleful' of vodka which loosened her tongue. 'It was like this,' she began: 'Gryb and Lukasiak went with Grochowski, all three dressed as for a Corpus Christi procession. The squire received them in the bailiff's office, and Gryb cleared his throat and went for it. "We have heard, sir, that you are going to sell your family estate. Every man has a right to sell, and the other to buy. But it would be a pity to allow the land which your forefathers possessed, and which we peasants have cultivated, to fall into the hands of strangers who have no associations with old times. Therefore, sir, sell the land to us." I tell you,'Sobieska continued, 'he talked for an hour, like the priest in the pulpit; at last Lukasiak got stiff in the back,[1] and they all burst out crying. Then they embraced the squire's feet, and he took their heads between his hands[2] and...' [Footnote 1: The peasants would stand bent all the time.] [Footnote 2: A nobleman, in order to show goodwill to his subordinates, slightly presses their heads between his hands.] 'Well, and are they buying?' Slimak interrupted impatiently. 'Why shouldn't they buy? Certainly they are buying. They are not yet quite agreed as to the price, for the squire wants a hundred roubles an acre, and the peasants are offering fifty; but they cried so much, and talked so long about good feeling between peasants and landowners that the gospodarze will add another ten, and the squire will let them off the rest. Josel has told them to give that much and no more, and not to be in a hurry, then they'll be sure to drive a good bargain. He's a damned clever Jew! Since he has taken the matter in hand, people have flocked to the inn as if the Holy Mother were working miracles there.' 'Is he still setting the others against me?' 'He is not actually setting them against you, but he puts in a word now and then that you can no longer count as a gospodarz, since you have taken to trading. The others are even more angry with you than he is; they can't forget that you sold chickens at just double the price you bought them for.' The result of this news was that Slimak set out for the manor-house early the next day, and returned depressed in the afternoon. A large bowl of sauerkraut presently made him willing to discourse. 'It was like this: I arrive at the manor, and when I look up I see that all the windows of the large room on the ground floor are wide open. God forbid! has some one died? I think to myself. I peep in and see Mateus, the footman, in a white apron with brushes on his feet, skating up and down like the boys on the ice. "The Lord be praised, Mateus, what are you doing?" I say. "In Eternity, I am polishing the floor," says he; "we are going to have a big dance here to-night." "Is the squire up yet?" "He is up, but the tailor is with him; he is trying on a Crakovian costume. My lady is going to be a gipsy." "I want him to sell me that field," I say. Mateus says: "Don't be a fool! how can the squire think of your field, when he is amusing himself making up as a Crakovian." So I go away from the window and stand about near the kitchen for a bit. They are bustling like anything, the fire is burning like a forge, and the butter is hissing. Presently Ignaz, the kitchen boy, comes out, covered with blood, as if he had been stuck. "Ignaz, for God's sake, what have you been doing?" I ask. "I haven't been doing anything; it's the cook, he's been boxing my ears with a dead duck." "The Lord be praised it is not your blood. Tell me where I can find the squire." "Wait here," he says, "they'll bring in the boar, and the squire is sure to come and have a look at it." Ignaz runs off, and I wait and wait, until the shivers run down my back. But still I wait.' 'Well, and did you see the squire?' Slimakowa asked impatiently. 'Of course I saw him.' 'Did you speak to him?' 'Rather!' 'What did you settle?' 'Well...ah...I told him I wanted to beg a favour of him about the field, but he said, "Oh, leave me alone, I have no head for business to-day."' 'And when will you go again?' Slimak held up his hands: 'Perhaps to-morrow, or the day after, when they have slept off their dance.' That same day Maciek drove a sledge to the forest, taking with him an axe, a bite of food, and 'Silly Zoska's' daughter. The mother had never asked after her, and Maciek had mothered the child; he fed her, took her to the stable with him at night and to his work in the day-time. The child was so weak that it hardly ever uttered a sound. Every one, especially Sobieska, had predicted her early death. 'She won't last a week.'...'She'll die tomorrow.'...'She's as good as gone already.' But she had lived through the week and longer, and even when she had been taken for dead once, she opened her tired eyes to the world again. Maciek paid no attention to these prognostications. 'Never fear,' he said, 'nothing will happen to her.' He continued to feed her in the cowshed after dark. 'What makes you take trouble about that wretched child, Maciek?' Slimakowa would say; 'if you talked to her about the Blessed Bible itself she would take no notice; she's dreadfully stupid, I never saw such a noodle in all my life.' 'She doesn't talk, because she has sense,' said Maciek; 'when she begins to talk she will be as wise as an old man.' That was because Maciek was in the habit of talking to her about his work, whatever he might be doing, manuring, threshing, or patching his clothes. To-day he was taking her with him to the forest, tied to the sledge, and wrapt in the remnants of his old sheepskin and a shawl. Uphill and downhill over the hummocks bumped the sledge, until they arrived on level ground, where the slanting rays of the sun, endlessly reflected from the snow-crystals, fell into their eyes. The child began to cry. Maciek turned her sideways, scolding: 'Now then, I told you to shut your eyes! No man, and if he were the bishop himself, can look at the sun; it's God's lantern. At daybreak the Lord Jesus takes it into his hand and has a look round his gospodarstwo. In the winter, when the frost is hard, he takes a short cut and sleeps longer. But he makes up for it in the summer, and looks all over the world till eight o'clock at night. That's why one should be astir from daybreak till sunset. But you may sleep longer, little one, for you aren't much use yet. Woa!' They entered the forest. 'Here we are! this is the forest, and it belongs to the squire. Slimak has bought a cartload of wood, and we must get it home before the roads are too bad. Steady, lads!' They stopped by a square pile of wood. Maciek untied the child and put her in a sheltered place, took out a bottle of milk and put it to her lips. 'Drink it and get strong, there will be some work for you. The logs are heavy, and you must lift them into the sledge. You don't want the milk? Naughty girl! Call out when you want it.... A little child like that makes things cheerful for a man,' he reflected. 'Formerly there never was any one to open one's mouth to, now one can talk all the time. Now watch how the work should be done. Jendrek would pull the logs about, and get tired in no time and stop. But mind you take them from the top, carefully, and lift them into the sledge, one by one like this. Never be in a hurry, little one, or else the damned wood will tire you out. It doesn't want to go on to the sledge, for it has sense, and knows what to expect. We all prefer our own corner of the world, even if it is a bad one. But to you and me it's all the same, we have no corner of our own; die here or die there, it makes no difference.' Now and then he rested, or tucked the child up more closely. Meanwhile, the sky had reddened, and a strong north-west wind sprang up, saturated with moisture. The forest, held in its winter sleep, slowly began to move and to talk. The green pine needles trembled, then the branches and boughs began to sway and beckon to each other. The tops, and finally the stems rocked forward and backward, as if they contemplated starting on a march. It was as if their eternal fixedness grieved them, and they were setting out in a tumultuous crowd to the ends of the world. Sometimes they became motionless near the sledge, as though they did not wish to betray their secret to a human being. Then the tramp of countless feet, the march past of whole columns of the right wing, could be heard distinctly; they approached, and passed at a distance. The left wing followed; the snow creaked under their footsteps, they were already in a line with the sledge. The middle column, emboldened, began to call in mighty whispers. Then they halted angrily, stood still in their places and seemed to roar: 'Go away! go away, and do not hinder us!' But Maciek was only a poor labourer, and though he was afraid of the giants, and would gladly have made room for them, he could not leave until he had loaded up his sledge. He did not rest now or rub his frozen hands; he worked as fast as he could, so that the night and the winter storms should not overtake him. The sky grew darker and darker with clouds; mists rose in the forests and froze into fine crystals which instantly covered Maciek's sukmana, the child's shawl, and the horses' manes with a crackling crust. The logs became so slippery that his hands could scarcely hold them; the ground was like glass. He looked anxiously towards the setting sun: it was dangerous to return with a heavy load when the roads were in that condition. He crossed himself, put the child into the sledge, and whipped up the horses. Maciek stood in fear of many things, but most of all he feared the overturning of a sledge or cart, and being crushed underneath. When they were out of the wood the track became worse and worse. The rough-hewn runners constantly sank into snow-drifts and the sledge canted over, so that the poor man, trembling with fear and cold, had to prop it up with all his strength. If his twisted foot gave way, there was an end to him and the child. From time to time the horses stopped dead, and Maciek ceased shouting. Then a great silence spread round him, only the distant roar of the forest, the whistling of the wind, and the whimpering of the child could be heard. 'Woa!' he began again, and the horses tugged and slipped where they stood, moved on a few steps, and stopped again. 'To Thy protection we flee, Holy Mother of God!' he whispered, took his axe and cut into the smooth road in front of the horses. It took him a long time to cover the short distance to the high road, but when they got there, the horses refused to go on at all. The hill in front of them was impassable. He sat down on the sledge, pondering whether Slimak would come to his assistance, or leave him to his fate. 'He'll come for the horses; don't cry, little one, God won't forsake us.' While he listened, it seemed to him as if the whistling of the wind changed into the sound of bells. Was it his fancy? But the bells never ceased; some were deep-toned and some high-toned; voices were intermixed with them. They approached from behind like a swarm of bees in the summer. 'What can it be?' said Maciek, and stood up. Small flames shone in the distance. They disappeared among the juniper bushes, and then flickered up again, now high, now low, coming nearer and nearer, until a number of objects, running at full speed, could be seen in the uncertain light of the flames. The tumult of voices increased; Maciek heard the clattering of hoofs, the cracking of whips. 'Heh! stop...there's a hill there!' 'Look out! don't be crazy!' 'Stop the sledge, I shall get out!' 'No, go on!' 'Jesus Mary!' 'Have the musicians been spilt yet?' 'Not yet, but they will be.' 'Oh...la la!' Maciek now understood that this was a sleigh race. The teams of two-and four-horsed sleighs approached at a gallop, accompanied by riders on horseback carrying torches. In the thick mist it looked as if the procession appeared out of an abyss through a circular gate of fire. They bore straight down upon the spot where Maciek and his sledge had come to a standstill. Suddenly the first one stopped. 'Hey...what's that?' 'Something is in the way.' 'What is it?' 'A peasant with a cartload of wood.' 'Out of the way, dog. Throw him into the ditch!' 'Shut up! We'd better move him on.' 'That we will! We are going to move the peasant on. Out of your sledges, gentlemen!' Before Maciek had recovered from his astonishment, he was surrounded by masked men in rich costumes with plumed hats, swords, guitars, or brooms. They seized his sledge and himself, pushed them to the top of the hill and down the other side on to level ground. 'Thank God!' thought the dazed man. 'If the devil hadn't led them this way, I might have been here till the morning. They are fine fellows!' 'The ladies are afraid to drive down the hill,' some one shouted from the distance. 'Then let them get out and walk!' 'The sledges had better not go down.' 'Why not? Go on, Antoni!' 'I don't advise it, sir.' 'Then get off and be hanged! I'll drive myself!' Bells jingled violently, and a one-horse sledge passed Maciek like a whirlwind. He crossed himself. 'Drive on, Andrei!' 'Stop, Count! It's too risky!' 'Go on!' Another sledge flew past. 'Bravo! Sporting fellow!' 'Drive on, Jacent!' Two sledges were racing each other, a driver and a mask in each. The mad race had made the road sufficiently safe for the other empty sledges to pass with greater caution. 'Now give your arm to the ladies! A polonaise! Musicians!' The outriders with torches posted themselves along the road, the musicians tuned up, and couple after couple detached itself from the darkness like an iridescent apparition. They hovered past to the melancholy strains of the Oginski polonaise. Maciek took off his cap, drew the child from under the sheepskin and stood beside his sledge. 'Now look, you'll never see anything so beautiful again. Don't be afraid!' An armoured and visored man passed. 'Do you see that knight? Formerly people like that conquered half the world, now there are none of them left.' A grey-bearded senator passed. 'Look at him! People used to fear his judgment, but there are none like him left! That one, as gaudy as a woodpecker, was a great nobleman once; he did nothing but drink and dance; he could drain a barrel at a bout, and he spent so much money that he had to sell his family estate, poor wretch! There's a Uhlan; they used to fight for Napoleon and conquer all the nations, but there are no fighters left in the world. There's a chimney sweep and a peasant...but in reality they are all gentlemen amusing themselves.' The procession passed; fainter and fainter grew the strains of the Oginski polonaise; with shouts and laughter the masks got back into the sleighs, hoofs clattered and whips cracked. Maciek started cautiously homeward in the wake of the jingling sleighs. Distant flames were still twinkling ahead, and the wind carried faint sounds of merriment back to him. Then all was silent. 'Are they doing right?' he murmured, perturbed. For he recalled the portrait of the grey-headed senator in the choir of the church; he had even prayed to it sometimes.... The bald-headed nobleman was there too, whom the peasants called 'the cursed man', and the knight in armour who was lying on his tomb beside the altar of the Holy Martyr Apollonius. Then he remembered the friar who walked through the Vistula, and Queen Jadwiga who had brought salt from Hungary. And by the side of all these he saw his own old wise grandfather, Roch Owczarz, who had been a soldier under Napoleon, and came home without a penny, and in his old age became sacristan at the church, and explained all the pictures to the gospodarze so beautifully that he earned more money than the organist. 'The Lord rest his soul eternally!' And now these noblemen were amusing themselves with sacred matters! What would they do next?... Slimak met him when he was about a verst from the cottage. 'We have been wondering if you had got stuck on the hill. Thank God you are safe. Did you see the sleigh race?' 'Oho!' said Maciek. 'I wonder they did not smash you to pieces.' 'Why should they? They even helped me up the hill.' 'Dear me! And they didn't pull you about?' 'They only pulled my cap over my ears.' 'That is just like them; either they will smash you up, or else be kindness itself, it just depends what temper they're in.' 'But the way they drove down those hills made one's flesh creep. No sober man would have come out of it alive.' Two sledges now overtook them; there was one traveller in the first and two in the second. 'Can you tell me where that sleigh party was driving to?' asked the occupant of the first. 'To the squire's.' 'Indeed!... Do you know if Josel, the innkeeper, is at home?' 'I dare say he is, unless he is off on some swindle or other.' 'Do you know if your squire has sold his estate yet?' asked a guttural voice from the second sledge. 'You shouldn't ask him such a question, Fritz,' remonstrated his companion. 'Oh! the devil take the whole business!' replied Fritz. 'Aha, here they are again!' said Slimak. 'What do all those Old Testament Jews want?' asked Maciek. 'There was only one Jew, the others are Germans from Wolka.' 'The gentlefolks never have any peace; no sooner do they want to enjoy themselves, than the Jews drive after them,' said Maciek. Indeed, the sledges conveying the travellers were now with difficulty driving towards the valley, and presently stopped at Josel's inn. Barrels of burning pitch in front of the manor house threw a rosy glare over the wintry landscape; distant sounds of music came floating on the air. Josel came out and directed the Jew's sledge to the manor. The Germans got out, and one of them shouted after the departing Jew: 'You will see nothing will come of it; they are amusing themselves.' 'Well, and what of that?' 'A nobleman does not give up a dance for a business interview.' 'Then he will sell without it.' 'Or put you off.' 'I have no time for that.' The facade of the manor-house glowed as in a bengal light; the sleigh-bells were still tinkling in the yard, where the coachmen were quarrelling over accommodation for their horses. Crowds of village people were leaning against the railings to watch the dancers flit past the windows, and to catch the strains of the music. Around all this noise, brightness, and merriment lay the darkness of the winter night, and from the winter night emerged slowly the sledge, carrying the silent, meditating Jew. His modest conveyance stopped at the gate, and he dragged himself to the kitchen entrance; his whole demeanour betrayed great mental and physical tiredness. He tried to attract the attention of the cook, but failed entirely; the kitchen-maid also turned her back on him. At last he got hold of a boy who was hurrying across to the pantry, seized him by the shoulders, and pressed a twenty kopek-piece into his hand. 'You shall have another twenty kopeks if you will bring the footman.' 'Does your honour know Mateus?' The boy scrutinized him sharply. 'I do, bring him here.' Mateus appeared without delay. 'Here is a rouble for you; ask your master if he will see me, and I will double it.' The footman shook his head. 'The master is sure to refuse.' 'Tell him, it is Pan Hirschgold, on urgent business from my lady's father. Here is another rouble, so that you do not forget the name.' Mateus quickly disappeared, but did not quickly return. The music stopped, yet he did not return; a polka followed, yet he did not return. At last he appeared: 'The master asks you to come to the bailiff's office.' He took Pan Hirschgold into a room where several camp-beds had been made up for the guests. The Jew took off his expensive fur, sat down in an armchair by the fire and meditated. The polka had been finished, and a vigorous mazurka began. The tumult and stamping increased from time to time; commands rang out, and were followed by a noise which shook the house from top to bottom. The Jew listened indifferently, and waited without impatience. Suddenly there was a great commotion in the passage; the door was opened impetuously, and the squire entered. He was dressed as a Crakovian peasant in a red coat covered with jingling ornaments, wide, pink-and-white-striped breeches, a red cap with a peacock's feather, and iron-shod shoes. 'How are you, Pan Hirschgold?' he cried good-humouredly, 'what is this urgent message from my father-in-law?' 'Read it, sir.' 'What, now? I'm dancing a mazurka.' 'And I am building a railway.' The squire bit his lip, and quickly ran his eye over the letter. The noise of the dancers increased. 'You want to buy my estate?' 'Yes, and at once, sir.' 'But you see that I am giving a dance.' 'The colonists are waiting to come in, sir. If you cannot settle with me before midnight, I shall settle with your neighbour. He gains, and you lose.' The squire was becoming feverish. 'My father-in-law recommends you highly...all the same,...on the spur of the moment....' 'You need only write a word or two.' The squire dashed his red cap down on the table. 'Really, Pan Hirschgold, this is unbearable!' 'It's not my fault; I should like to oblige you, but business is pressing.' There was another hubbub in the passage, and the Uhlan burst into the room, 'For heaven's sake, what are you doing, Wladek?' 'Urgent business.' 'But your lady is waiting for you!' 'Do arrange for some one to take my place; I tell you, it's urgent.' 'I don't know how the lady will take it!' cried the retreating Uhlan. The powerful bass voice of the leader of the mazurka rang out: 'Ladies' ronde!' 'How much will you give me?' hastily began the squire. 'Rather an original situation!' he unexpectedly added, with humour. 'Seventy-five roubles an acre. This is my highest offer. To-morrow I should only give sixty-seven.' 'En avant!' from the ball-room. 'Never!' cried the squire, 'I should prefer to sell to the peasants.' 'And get fifty, or at the outside sixty.' 'Or go on managing the estate myself.' 'You are doing that now...what is the result?' 'What do you mean?' said the squire irritably, 'it's excellent soil....' 'I know all about the property,' interrupted the Jew, 'from the bailiff who left at New Year.' The squire became angry. 'I can sell to the colonists myself.' 'They may give sixty-seven, but meanwhile my lady is dying of boredom.' 'Chàine to the left!' The squire became desperate. 'God, what am I to do?' 'Sign the agreement. Your father-in-law advises you to do so, and tells you that I shall pay the highest price.' 'Partagez!' Again the Uhlan violently burst into the room. 'Wladek, you really must come; the Count is mortally offended, and says he will take his fiancée away.' 'Oh, confound it! Pan Hirschgold, write the agreement at once, I will be back directly.' Unmindful of the gaiety of the dance, the Jew calmly took an inkpot, pen, and paper out of his bag, wrote a dozen lines, and sat down, waiting for the noise to subside. A quarter of an hour later the squire returned in the best of spirits. 'Ready?' he asked cheerfully. 'Ready.' The squire read the paper, signed, and said with a smile: 'What, do you think is the value of this agreement?' 'Perhaps the legal value is not great, but it has some value for your father-in-law, and he...well, he is a rich man!' He blew on the signature, folded up the paper, and asked with a shade of irony: 'Well, and the Count?' 'Oh, he is pacified.' 'He will want more pacifying presently, when his creditors become annoying. I wish you a pleasant night, sir.' No sooner had the squire left the room, than Mateus, the footman, appeared, as if the ground had produced him. He helped the Jew into his coat. 'Did you buy the estate, sir?' 'Why shouldn't I? It's not the first, nor will it be the last.' He gave the footman three roubles. Mateus bowed to the ground and offered to call his sledge. 'Oh no, thank you,' said the Jew, 'I have left my own sledge in Warsaw, and I am not anxious to parade this wretched conveyance.' Nevertheless, Mateus attended him deferentially into the yard. In the ballroom polkas, valses, and mazurkas followed each other endlessly until the pale dawn appeared, and the cottage fires were lit. Slimak rose with the winter sun, and whispering a prayer, walked out of the gate. He looked at the sky, then towards the manor-house, wondering how long the merrymaking was going to last. The sky was blue, the first sun rays were bathing the snow in rose colour, and the clouds in purple. Slimak drew a deep breath, and felt that it was better to be out in the fresh air than indoors, dancing. 'Making themselves tired without need,' he thought, 'when they might be sleeping to their hearts' content!' Then he resumed his prayer. His attention was attracted by voices, and he saw two men in navy blue overcoats. When they caught sight of him, one asked at once: 'That is your hill, gospodarz, isn't it?' Slimak looked at them in surprise. 'Why do you keep on asking me about my property? I told you last summer that the hill was mine.' 'Then sell it to us,' said the man with the beard. 'Wait, Fritz,' interrupted the older man. 'Oh bother! are you going to gossip again, father?' 'Look here, gospodarz,' said the father, 'we have bought the squire's estate. Now we want this; hill, because we want to build a windmill....' 'Gracious!' exclaimed the son disagreeably, 'have you lost your senses, father? Listen! we want that land!' 'My land?' the peasant repeated in amazement, looking about him, 'my land?' He hesitated for a moment, not knowing what to say. 'What right have you gentlemen to my land?' 'We have got money.' 'Money?...I!...Sell my land for money? We have been settled here from father to son; we were here at the time of the scourge of serfdom, and even then we used to call the land "ours". My father got it for his own by decree from the Emperor Alexander II; the Land Commission settled all that, and we have the proper documents with signatures attached. How can you say now that you want to buy my land?' The younger man had turned away indifferently during Slimak's long speech and whistled, the older man shook his fist impatiently. 'But we want to buy it...pay for it...cash! Sixty roubles an acre.' 'And I wouldn't sell it for a hundred,' said Slimak. 'Perhaps we could come to terms, gospodarz.' The peasant burst out laughing. 'Old man, have you lived so long in this world, and don't understand that I would not sell my land on any terms whatever?' 'You could buy thirty acres the other side of the Bug with what we should pay you.' 'If land is so cheap the other side of the Bug, why don't you buy it yourself instead of coming here?' The son laughed. 'He is no fool, father; he is telling you what I have been telling you from morning till night.' The old man took Slimak's hand. 'Gospodarz,' he said, pressing it, 'let us talk like Christians and not like heathens. We praise the same God, why should we not agree? You see, I have a son who is an expert miller, and I should like him to have a windmill on that hill. When he has a windmill he will grow steady and work and get married. Then I could be happy in my old age. That hill is nothing to you.' 'But it's my land, no one has a right to it.' 'No one has a right to it, but I want to buy it.' 'Well, and I won't sell it!' The old man made a wry face, as if he were ready to cry. He drew the peasant a few steps aside, and said in a voice trembling with emotion: 'Why are you so hard on me, gospodarz? You see, my sons don't hit it off with each other. The elder is a farmer, and I want to set up the younger as a miller and have him near me. I haven't long to live, I am eighty years old, don't quarrel with me.' 'Can't you buy land elsewhere?' 'Not very well. We are a whole community settling together; it would take a long time to make other arrangements. My son Wilhelm does not like farming, and unless I buy him a windmill he will starve or go away from me. I am an old man, sell me your land! Listen,' he whispered, 'I will give you seventy-five roubles an acre. God is my witness, I am offering you more than the land is worth. But you will let me have it, won't you? You are an honest man and a Christian.' Slimak looked with astonishment and pity at the old man, from whose inflamed eyes the tears were pouring down. 'You can't have much sense, sir, to ask me such a thing,' he said. 'Would you ask a man to cut off his hand? What could a peasant do without his land?' 'You could buy twice as much. I will help you to find it.' Slimak shook his head. 'You are talking as a man talks when he digs up a shrub in the woods. "Come," he says, "you shall be near my cottage!" The shrub comes because it must, but it soon dies.' The man with the beard approached and spoke to his father in German. 'So you won't sell me your land?' said the old man. 'I won't.' 'Not for seventy-five roubles?' 'No.' 'And I tell you, you will sell it,' cried the younger man, drawing his father away. They went towards the bridge, talking German loudly. The peasant rested his chin on his hand and looked after them; then his eyes fell on the manor-house, and he returned to the cottage at full speed. 'Jagna,' he cried, 'do you know that the squire has sold his estate?' The gospodyni crossed herself with a spoon. 'In the name of the Father...Are you mad, Josef? Who told you so?' 'Two Germans spoke to me just now; they told me. And, Jagna, they want to buy our land, our own land!' 'You are off your head altogether!' cried the woman. 'Jendrek, go and see if there are any Germans about; your father is talking nonsense.' Jendrek returned with the information that he had seen two men in blue overcoats the other side of the bridge. Slimak sat on the bench, his head drooping, his hands resting limply on his knees. The morning light had turned grey, and made men and objects look dull. The gospodyni suddenly looked attentively at her husband. 'Why are you so pale?' she asked. 'What is the matter?' 'What is the matter? A nice question for a clever woman to ask! Don't you understand that the Germans will take the field away from us if the squire has sold it to them?' 'Why should they? We could pay the rent to them.' The woman tried to talk confidently, but her voice was unsteady. 'You don't know what you're talking about! Germans keep cattle and are sharp after grazing land. Besides, they will want to get rid of me.' 'We shall see who gets rid of whom!' Slimakowa said sharply. She came and stood in front of her husband, with her arms akimbo, gradually raising her voice. 'Lord, what a man! He has only just looked at the Swabian[1] vermin, and he has lost heart already. They will take away the field? Well, what of that? we will drive the cattle into it all the same.' [Footnote 1: The Polish peasants call all Germans 'Swabians'.] 'They will shoot the cattle.' 'That isn't allowed.' 'Then they will go to law and worry the life out of me.' 'Very well, then we will buy fodder.' 'Where? The gospodarze won't sell us any, and we shan't get a blade from the Germans.' The breakfast was boiling over, but the housewife paid no attention to it. She shook her clenched fists at her husband. 'What do you mean, Josef! Pull yourself together! This is bad, and that is no good!...What will you do then? You are taking the courage away from me, a woman, instead of making up your mind what to do. Aren't you ashamed before the children and Magda to sit there like a dying man, rolling your eyes? Do you think I shall let the children starve for the sake of your Germans, or do you think I shall get rid of the cow? Don't imagine that I shall allow you to sell your land! No fear! If I fall down dead and they bury me, I shall dig myself out again and prevent you from doing the children harm! Why are you sitting there, looking at me like a sheep? Eat your breakfast and go to the manor. Find out if the squire has really sold his land, and if he hasn't, fall at his feet, and lie there till he lets you have the field, even if you have to pay sixty roubles.' 'And if he has sold it?' 'If he has sold it, may God punish him!' 'That won't give us the field.' 'You are a fool!' she cried. 'We and the children and the cattle have lived by God's grace and not by the squire's.' 'That's so,' said Slimak, suddenly getting up. 'Give me my breakfast. What are you crying for?' After her passionate outburst Slimakowa had actually broken down. 'How am I not to cry,' she sobbed, 'when the merciful God has punished me with such an idiot of a husband? He will do nothing himself and takes away my courage into the bargain.' 'Don't be a fool,' he said, with his face clouding. 'I'll go to the squire at once, even if I should have to give sixty roubles.' 'But if the field is sold?' 'Hang him, we have lived by the grace of God and not by his.' 'Then where will you get fodder?' 'Look after your pots and pans, and don't meddle with a man's affairs.' 'The Germans will drive you away.' 'The deuce they will!' He struck the table with his fist. 'If I were to fall down dead, if they chopped me into little pieces, I wouldn't let the dogs have my land. Give me my breakfast, or I'll ask you the reason why!...And you, Jendrek, be off with Maciek, or I shall get the strap!' The sun shone into the ballroom of the manorhouse through every chink and opening; streaks of white light lay on the floor, which was dented by the dancers' heels, and on the walls; the rays were reflected in the mirrors, rested on the gilt cornices and on the polished furniture. In comparison with them the light of the candles and lamps looked yellow and turbid. The ladies were pale and had blue circles round their eyes, the powder was falling from their dishevelled hair, their dresses were crumpled, and here and there in holes. The padding showed under the imitation gold of the braids and belts of notables; rich velvets had turned into cheap velveteens, beaver fur to rabbit skins, and silver armour to tin. The musicians' hands dropped, the dancers' legs had grown stiff. Intoxication had cooled and given place to heaviness; lips were breathing feverishly. Only three couples were now turning in the middle of the room, then two, then none. There was a lack of arm-chairs for the men; the ladies hid their yawns behind their fans. At last the music ceased, and as no one said anything, a dead silence spread through the room. Candles began to splutter and went out, lamps smoked. 'Shall we go in to tea?' asked the squire, in a hoarse voice. 'To bed...to bed,' whispered the guests. 'The bedrooms are ready,' he said, trying to sound cheerful, in spite of sleepiness and a cold. The ladies immediately got up, threw their wraps over their shoulders and left the room, turning their faces away from the windows. Soon the ballroom was empty, save for the old cellist, who had gone to sleep with his arms round his instrument. The bustle was transferred to distant rooms; there was much stamping upstairs and noise of men's voices in the courtyard. Then all became silent. The squire came clinking along the passages, looked dully round the ballroom, and said, yawning: 'Put out the lights, Mateus, and open the windows. Where is my lady?' 'My lady has gone to her room.' My lady, in her orange-velvet gipsy costume and a diamond hoop in her hair, was lying in an arm-chair, her head thrown back. The squire dropped into another arm-chair, yawning broadly. 'Well, it was a great success.' 'Splendid,' yawned my lady. 'Our guests ought to be satisfied.' After a while he spoke again. 'Do you know that I have sold the estate?' 'To whom?' 'To Hirschgold; he is giving me seventy-five roubles an acre.' 'Thank God we shall get away at last.' 'Well, you might come and give me a kiss!' 'I'm much too tired. Come here, if you want one.' 'I deserve that you should come here. I've done exceedingly well.' 'No, I won't. Hirschgold...Hirschgold...oh yes, some acquaintance of father's. The first mazurka was splendid, wasn't it?' The squire was snoring. CHAPTER VII The squire and his wife left for Warsaw a week after the ball. Their place was taken by Hirschgold's agent, a freckle-faced Jew, who installed himself in a small room in the bailiffs house, spent his days in looking through and sending out accounts, and bolted the door and slept with two revolvers under his pillow at night. The squire had taken part of the furniture with him, the rest of the suites and fixtures were sold to the neighbouring gentry; the Jews bought up the library by the pound, the priest acquired the American organ, the garden-seats passed into Gryb's ownership, and for three roubles the peasant Orzchewski became possessed of the large engraving of Leda and the Swan, to which the purchaser and his family said their prayers. The inlaid floors henceforward decorated the magisterial court, and the damask hangings were bought by the tailors and made into bodices for the village girls. When Slimak went a few weeks later to have a look at the manor-house he could not believe his eyes at the sight of the destruction that had taken place. There were no panes in the windows and not a single latch left on the wide-open doors; the walls had been stripped and the floors taken up. The drawing-room was a dungheap, Pani Joselawa, the innkeeper's wife, had put up hencoops there and in the adjoining rooms; axes and saws were lying about everywhere. The farmhands, who according to agreement were kept on till midsummer, strolled idly from corner to corner; one of the teamdrivers had taken desperately to drink; the housekeeper was ill with fever, and the pantryboy, as well as one of the farm-boys, were in prison for stealing latches off the doors. 'Good God!' said the peasant. He was seized with fear at the thought of the unknown power which had ruined the ancient manor-house in a moment. An invisible cloud seemed to be hanging over the valley and the village; the first flash of lightning had struck and completely shattered the seat of its owners. Some days later the neighbourhood began to swarm with strangers, woodcutters and sawyers, mostly Germans. They walked and drove in crowds along the road past Slimak's cottage; sometimes they marched in detachments like soldiers. They were quartered at the manor, where they turned out the servants and the remaining cattle: they occupied every corner. At night they lit great fires in the courtyard, and in the morning they all walked off to the woods. At first it was difficult to guess what they were doing. Soon, however, there was a distant echo as of someone drumming with his fingers on the table; at last the sound of the axe and the thud of falling trees was heard quite plainly. Fresh inroads on the wavy contour of the forest appeared continually; first crevices, then windows, then wide openings, and for the first time since the world was the world, the astonished sky looked into the valley from that side. The wood fell: only the sky remained and the earth with a few juniper bushes and countless rows of tree-trunks, hastily stripped of their branches. The rapacious axe had not spared one of the leafy tribe. Not one--not even the centenarian oak which had been touched by lightning more than once. Gazing upwards, this defier of storms had hardly noticed the worms turning round its feet, and the blows of their axes meant no more to it than the tapping of the woodpecker. It fell suddenly, convinced at the last that the world was insecure after all, and not worth living in. There was another oak, half withered, on the branches of which the unfortunate Simon Golamb[1] had hanged himself; the people passed it in fear. [Footnote 1: Polish spelling: _Gotab_.] 'Flee!' it murmured, when the woodcutters approached. 'I bring you death; only one man dared to touch my branches, and he died.' But the woodcutters paid no heed, deeper and deeper they sent the sharp axe into its heart, and with a roar it swayed and fell. The night-wind moaned over the corpses of the strong trees, and the birds and wild creatures, deprived of their native habitations, mourned. Older still than the oaks were the huge boulders thickly sown over the fields. The peasants had never touched them; they were too heavy to be removed; moreover, there was a superstition that the rebellious devils had in the first days of the creation thrown these stones at the angels, and that it was unlucky to touch them. Overgrown with moss they each lay in an island of green grass; the shepherds lit their fires beneath them on chilly nights, the ploughmen lay down in their shade on a hot afternoon, the hawker would sometimes hide his treasures underneath them. Now their last hour had struck too; men began to busy themselves about them. At first the village people thought that the 'Swabians' were looking for treasure; but Jendrek found out that they were boring holes in the venerable stones. 'What are the idiots doing that for?' asked Slimakowa. 'Blessed if I know what's the good of that to them!' 'I know, neighbour,' said old Sobieska, blinking her eyes; 'they are boring because they have heard that there are toads inside those big stones.' 'And what if there are?' 'You see, they want to know if it's true.' 'But what's that to them?' 'I'll be hanged if I know!' retorted Sobieska in such a decided tone that Slimakowa considered the matter as settled. The Germans, however, were not looking for toads. Before long such a cannonading began that the echoes reached the farthest ends of the valley, telling every one that not even the rocks were able to withstand the Germans. 'Those Swabians are a hard race,' muttered Slimak, as he gazed on the giants that had been dashed to pieces. He thought of the colonists for whom the property had been bought, and who now wanted his land as well. 'They are not anywhere about,' he thought; 'perhaps they won't come after all.' But they came. One morning, early in April, Slimak went out before sunrise as usual to say his prayers in the open. The east was flushed with pink, the stars were paling, only the morning star shone like a jewel, and was welcomed from below by the awakening birds. The peasant's lips moved in prayer, while he fixed his eyes on the white mist which covered the ground like snow. Then it was that he heard a distant sound from beyond the hills, a rumble of carts and the voices of many people. He quickly walked up the lonely pine hill and perceived a long procession of carts covered with awnings, filled with human beings and their domestic and agricultural implements. Men in navy-blue coats and straw hats were walking beside them, cows were tied behind, and small herds of pigs were scrambling in and out of the procession. A little cart, scarcely larger than a child's, brought up the rear; it was drawn by a dog and a woman, and conveyed a man whose feet were dangling down in front. 'The Swabians are coming!' flashed through Slimak's mind, but he put the thought away from him. 'Maybe they are gipsies,' he argued. But no--they were not dressed like gipsies, and woodcutters don't take cattle about with them--then who were they? He shrank from the thought that the colonists were actually coming. 'Maybe it's they, maybe not...' he whispered. For a moment a hill concealed them from his view, and he hoped that the vision had dissolved into the light of day. But there they were again, and each step of their lean horses brought them nearer. The sun was gilding the hill which they were ascending, and the larks were singing brightly to welcome them. Across the valley the church bell was ringing. Was it calling to prayers as usual, or did it warn the people of the invasion of a foreign power? Slimak looked towards the village. The cottage-doors were closed, no one was astir, and even if he had shouted aloud, 'Look, gospodarze, the Germans are here!' no one would have been alarmed. The string of noisy people now began to file past Slimak's cottage. The tired horses were walking slowly, the cows could scarcely lift their feet, the pigs squeaked and stumbled. But the people were happy, laughing and shouting from cart to cart. They turned round by the bridge on to the open ground. The small cart in the rear had now reached Slimak's gate; the big dog fell down panting, the man raised himself to a sitting position and the girl took the strap from her shoulder and wiped her perspiring forehead. Slimak was seized with pity for them; he came down from the hill and approached the travellers. 'Where do you all come from? Who are you?' he asked. 'We are colonists from beyond the Vistula,' the girl answered. 'Our people have bought land here, and we have come with them.' 'But have not you bought land also?' The woman shrugged her shoulders. 'Is it the custom with you for the women to drag the men about?' 'What can we do? we have no horses and my father cannot walk on his own feet.' 'Is your father lame?' 'Yes.' The peasant reflected for a moment. 'Then he is hanging on to the others, as it were?' 'Oh no,' replied the girl with much spirit, 'father teaches the children and I take in sewing, and when there is no sewing to do I work in the fields.' Slimak looked at her with surprise and said, after a pause: 'You can't be German, you talk our language very well.' 'We are from Germany.' 'Yes, we are Germans,' said the man in the cart, speaking for the first time. Slimakowa and Jendrek now came out of the cottage and joined the group at the gate. 'What a strong dog!' cried Jendrek. 'Look here,' said Slimak, 'this lady has dragged her lame father a long way in the cart; would you do that, you scamp?' 'Why should I? Haven't they any horses, dad?' 'We have had horses,' murmured the man in the cart, 'but we haven't any now.' He was pale and thin, with red hair and beard. 'Wouldn't you like to rest and have something to eat after your long journey?' inquired Slimak. 'I don't want anything to eat, but my father would like some milk.' 'Run and get some milk, Jendrek,' cried Slimak. 'Meaning no offence,' said Slimakowa, 'but you Germans can't have a country of your own, or else you wouldn't come here.' 'This is our home,' the girl replied. 'I was born in this country, the other side of the Vistula.' Her father made an impatient movement and said in a broken voice: 'We Germans have a country of our own, larger than yours, but it's not pleasant to live in: too many people, too little land; it's difficult to make a living, and we have to pay heavy taxes and do hard military service, and there are penalties for everything.' He coughed and continued after a pause: 'Everybody wants to be comfortable and live as he pleases, and not as others tell him. It's not pleasant to live in our country, so we've come here.' Jendrek brought the milk and offered it to the girl, who gave it to her father. 'God repay you!' sighed the invalid; 'the people in this country are kind.' 'I wish you would not do us harm,' said Slimakowa in a half-whisper. 'Why should we do you harm?' said the man. 'Do we take your land? do we steal? do we murder you? We are quiet people, we get in nobody's way so long as nobody gets...' 'You have bought the land here,' Slimak interrupted. 'But why did your squire sell it to us? If thirty peasants had been settled here instead of one man, who did nothing but squander his money, our people would not have come. Why did not you yourselves form a community and buy the village? Your money would have been as good as ours. You have been settled here for ages, but the colonists had to come in before you troubled about the land, and then no sooner have they bought it than they become a stumbling-block to you! Why wasn't the squire a stumbling-block to you?' Breathless, he paused and looked at his wasted arms, then continued: 'To whom is it that the colonists resell their land? To you peasants! On the other side of the Vistula[1] the peasants bought up every scrap of our land.' [Footnote 1: i.e. in Prussian Poland. One of the Polish people's grievances is that the large properties are not sold direct to them but to the colonists, and the peasants have to buy the land from them. Statistics show that in spite of the great activity of the German Colonization Commission more and more land is constantly acquired by the Polish peasants, who hold on to the land tenaciously.] 'One of your lot is always after me to sell him my land,' said Slimak. 'To think of such a thing!' interposed his wife. 'Who is he?' 'How should I know? there are two of them, and they came twice, an old man and one with a beard. They want my hill to put up a windmill, they say.' 'That's Hamer,' said the girl under her breath to her father. 'Oh, Hamer,' repeated the invalid, 'he has caused us difficulties enough. Our people wanted to go to the other side of the Bug, where land only costs thirty roubles an acre, but he persuaded them to come here, because they are building a railway across the valley. So our people have been buying land here at seventy roubles an acre and have been running into debt with the Jew, and we shall see what comes of it.' The girl meanwhile had been eating coarse bread, sharing it with the dog. She now looked across to where the colonists were spreading themselves over the fields. 'We must go, father,' she said. 'Yes, we must go; what do I owe you for the milk, gospodarz?' The peasant shrugged his shoulders. 'If we were obliged to take money for a little thing like that, I shouldn't have asked you.' 'Well, God repay you!' 'God speed you,' said Slimak and his wife. 'Strange folk, those Germans,' he said, when they had slowly moved off. 'He is a clever man, yet he goes about in that little cart like an old beggar.' 'And the girl!' said Slimakowa, 'whoever heard of dragging an old man about, as if you were a horse.' 'They're not bad,' said Slimak, returning to his cottage. The conversation with the Germans had reassured him that they were not as terrible as he had fancied. When Maciek went out after breakfast to plough the potato-fields, Slimak slipped off. 'You've got to put up the fence!' his wife called out after him. 'That won't run away,' he answered, and banged the door, fearful lest his wife should detain him. He crouched as he ran through the yard, wishing to attract her attention as little as possible, and went stealthily up the hill to where Maciek was perspiring over his ploughing. 'How about those Swabians?' asked the labourer. Slimak sat down on the slope so that he could not be seen from the cottage, and pulled out his pipe. 'You might sit over there,' Maciek said, pointing with his whip to a raised place; 'then I could smell the smoke.' 'What's the good of the smoke to you? I'll give you my pipe to finish, and meanwhile it does not grieve the old woman to see me sitting here wasting my time.' He lit his pipe very deliberately, rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands and looked into the valley, watching the crowd of Germans. With their covered carts they had enclosed a square into which they had driven their cattle and horses; inside and outside of this the people were bustling about. Some put a portable manger on a stand and fed the cows, others ran to the river with buckets. The women brought out their saucepans and little sacks of vegetables and a crowd of children ran down the ravine for fuel. 'What crowds of children they have!' said Slimak; 'we have not as many in the whole village.' 'Thick as lice,' said Maciek. Slimak could not wonder enough. Yesterday the field had been empty and quiet, to-day it was like a fair. People by the river, people in the ravines, people on the fields, who chop the bushes, carry wood, make fires, feed and water the animals! One man had already opened a retail-shop on a cart and was obviously doing good business. The women were pressing round him, buying salt, sugar, vinegar. Some young mothers had made cradles of shawls, suspended on short pitchforks, and while they were cooking with one hand they rocked the cradle with the other. There was a veterinary surgeon, too, who examined the foot of a lame horse, and a barber was shaving an old Swabian on the step of his cart. 'Do you notice how quickly they work? It's farther for them to fetch the firewood than for us, yet we take half the day over it and they do it before you can say two prayers.' 'Oh! oh!' said Maciek, who seemed to feel this remark as an aspersion. 'But, then, they work together, 'continued Slimak; 'when our people go out in a crowd every one attends to his own business, and rests when he likes or gets into the way of the others. But these dogs work together as if they were used to each other; if one of them were to lie down on the ground the others would cram work into his hand and stand over him till he had finished it. Watch them yourself.' He gave his pipe to Maciek and returned to the cottage. 'They are quick folk, those Swabians,' he muttered, 'and clever!' Within half an hour he had discovered the two secrets of modern work: organization and speed. About noon two colonists came to the gospodarstwo and asked Slimak to sell them butter and potatoes and hay. He let them have the former without bargaining, but he refused the hay. 'Let us at least have a cartload of straw,' they asked with their foreign accent. 'I won't. I haven't got any.' The men got angry. 'That scoundrel Hamer is giving us no end of trouble,' one cried, dashing his cap on the ground; 'he told us we should get fodder and everything at the farms. We can't get any at the manor either; the Jews from the inn are there and won't stir from the place.' Just as they were leaving, a brichka drove up containing the two Hamers, whose faces were now quite familiar to Slimak. The colonists rushed to the vehicle with shouts and explanations, gesticulating wildly, pointing hither and thither, and talking in turns, for even in their excitement they seemed to preserve system and order. The Hamers remained perfectly calm, listening patiently and attentively, until the others were tired of shouting. When they had finished, the younger man answered them at some length, and at last they shook hands and the colonists took up their sacks of potatoes and departed cheerfully. 'How are you, gospodarz?' called the elder man to Slimak. 'Shall we come to terms yet?' 'What's the use of talking, father?' said the other; 'he will come to us of his own accord!' 'Never!' cried Slimak, and added under his breath: 'They are dead set on me--the vermin! Queer folk!' he observed to his wife, looking after the departing brichka, 'when our people are quarrelling, they don't stop to listen, but these seem to understand each other all the same and to smooth things over.' 'What are you always cracking up the Swabians for, you old silly?' returned his wife. 'You don't seem to remember that they want to take your land away from you.... I can't make you out!' 'What can they do to me? I won't let them have it, and they can't rob me.' 'Who knows? They are many, and you are only one.' 'That's God's will! I can see they have more sense than I have, but when it comes to holding on, there I can match them! Look at all the woodpeckers on that little tree; that tree is like us peasants. The squire sits and hammers, the parish sits and hammers, the Jews and the Germans sit and hammer, yet in the end they all fly away and the tree is still the tree.' The evening brought a visit from old Sobieska, who stumbled in with her demand of a 'thimbleful of whisky'. 'I nearly gave up the ghost,' she cried, 'I've run so fast to tell you the news.' She was rewarded with a thimble which a giant could well have worn on his finger. 'Oh, Lord!' she cried, when she had drained it, 'this is the judgment day for some people in the village! You see, Gryb and Orzchewski had always taken for granted that the colonists wouldn't come, and they had meant to drive a little bargain between them and keep some of the best land and settle Jasiek Gryb on it like a nobleman, and he was to marry Orzchewski's Paulinka. You know, she had learnt embroidery from the squire's wife, and Jasiek had been doing work in the bailiff's office and now goes about in an overcoat on high-days and holidays and...give me another thimbleful, or I shall feel faint and can't talk.... Meanwhile, as I told you, the colonists had paid down half the money to the Jew, and here they are, that's certain! When Gryb hears of it, he comes and abuses Josel! "You cur of a Jew, you Caiaphas, you have crucified Christ and now you are cheating me! You told me the Germans wouldn't pay up, and here they are!" Whereupon Josel says: "We don't know yet whether they will stay!" At first Gryb wouldn't listen and shouted and banged his fists on the table, but at last Josel drew him off to his room with Orzchewski, and they made some arrangement among themselves.' 'He's a fool,' said Slimak; 'he wasn't cute enough to buy the land, he won't be able to cope with the Germans.' 'Not cute enough?' cried the old woman. 'Give me a thimbleful...Josel's clever enough, anyway...and his brother-in-law is even better...they'll deal with the Swabians...I know what I know...give me a thimbleful...give me a thim...' She became incoherent. 'What was that she was saying?' asked Slimakowa. 'The usual things she says when she's tipsy. She is in service with Josel, so she thinks him almighty.' When night came, Slimak again went to look at the camp. The people had retired under their awnings, the cattle were lying down inside the square, only the horses were grazing in the fields and ravines. At times a flame from the camp fires flared up, or a horse neighed; from hour to hour the call of a sleepy watchman was heard. Slimak returned and threw himself on his bed, but could find no rest. The darkness deprived him of energy, and he thought with fear of the Germans who were so many and he but one. Might they not attack him or set his house on fire? About midnight a shot rang out, followed by another. He ran into the back-yard and came upon the equally frightened Maciek. Shouts, curses, and the clatter of horses' hoofs came from beyond the river. Gradually the noise subsided. Slimak learned in the morning from the colonists that horse-thieves had stolen in among the horses. The peasant was taken aback. Never before had such a thing happened in the neighbourhood. The news of the attack spread like wildfire and was improved upon in every village. It was said that there was a gang of horse-stealers about, who removed the horses to Prussia; that the Germans had fought with them all night, and that some had been killed. At last these rumours reached the ears of the police-sergeant, who harnessed his fat mare, put a small cask and some empty bags into his cart, and drove off in pursuit of the thieves. The Germans treated him to smoked ham and excellent brandy, and Fritz Hamer explained that they suspected two discharged manor-servants, Kuba Sukiennik and Jasiek Eogacz, of stealing the horses. 'They have been arrested before for stealing locks off the doors, but had to be released because there were no witnesses,' said the sergeant. 'Which of the gentlemen shot at them? Has he a licence to carry firearms?' Hamer, seeing that the question was becoming ticklish, led him aside and explained things so satisfactorily to him that he soon drove off, recommending that watch should be kept, and that the colonists should not carry firearms. 'I suppose your farm will soon be standing, sir?' he asked. 'In a month's time,' replied Hamer. 'Capital!...we must make a day of it!' He drove on to the manor-house, where Hirschgold's agent was so delighted to see him that he brought out a bottle of Crimean wine. On the topic of thieves, however, he had no explanation to offer. 'When I heard them shooting I at once snatched up my revolvers, one in each hand, and I didn't close my eyes all night.' 'And have you a licence to carry firearms?' 'Why shouldn't I?' 'For two?' 'Oh well, the second is broken; I only keep it for show.' 'How many workmen do you employ?' 'About a hundred.' 'Are all their passports in order?' The agent gave him a most satisfactory account as to this in his own way and the sergeant took leave. 'Be careful, sir,' he recommended, 'once robbery begins in the village it will be difficult to stop it. And in case of accident you will do well to let me know first before you do anything.' He said this so impressively that the agent henceforward took the two Jews from the manor-house to sleep in the bailiff's cottage. Slimak's gospodarstwo was the sergeant's next destination. Slimakowa was just pouring out the peeled-barley soup when the stout administrator of the law entered. 'The Lord be praised,' he said. 'What news?' 'In Eternity. We are all right.' The sergeant looked round. 'Is your husband at home?' 'Where else should he be? Fetch your father, Jendrek.' 'Beautiful barley; is it your own?' 'Of course it is.' 'You might give me a sackful. I'll pay you next time I come.' 'I'll get the bag at once, sir.' 'Perhaps you can sell me a chicken as well?' 'We can.' 'Mind it's tender, and put it under the box.' Slimak came in. 'Have you heard, gospodarz, who it was that tried to steal the horses?' 'How should I know?' 'They say in the village that it was Sukiennik and Rogacz.' 'I don't know about that. I have heard they cannot find work here, because they have been in prison.' 'Have you got any vodka? The dust makes one's throat dry.' Vodka and bread and cheese were brought. 'You'd better be careful,' he said, when he departed, 'for they will either rob you or suspect you.' 'By God's grace no one has ever robbed me, and it will never happen.' The sergeant went to Josel, who received him enthusiastically. He invited him into the parlour and assured him that all his licences were in order. 'There is no signboard at the gate.' 'I'll put one up at once of whatever kind you like,' said the innkeeper obsequiously, and ordered a bottle of porter. The sergeant now opened the question of the night-attack. 'What night-attack?' jeered Josel. 'The Germans shot at one another and then got frightened and made out that there was a gang of robbers about. Such things don't happen here.' The sergeant wiped his moustache. 'All the same Sukiennik and Rogacz have been after the horses.' Josel made a wry face. 'How could they, when they were in my house that night.' 'In your house?' 'To be sure,' Josel answered carelessly. 'Gryb and Orzchewski both saw them...dead drunk they were. What are they to do? they can't get regular work, and what a man perchance earns in a day he likes to drink away at night.' 'They might have got out.' 'They might, but the stable was locked and the key with the foreman.' The conversation passed on to other topics. 'Look after Sukiennik and Rogacz,' the sergeant said, on his departure, when he and his mare had been sufficiently rested. 'Am I their father, or are they in my service?' 'They might rob you.' 'Oh! I'll see to that all right!' The sergeant returned home, half asleep, half awake. Sukiennik and Rogacz kept passing before his vision; they had their hands full of locks and were surrounded by horses. Josel's smiling face was hovering over them and now and then old Gryb and his son Jasiek jeered from behind a cloud. He sat up...startled. But there was nothing near him except the white hen under the box and the trees by the wayside. He spat. 'Bah...dreams!' he muttered. The peasants were relieved when day after day passed and there was no sign of building in the camp. They jumped to the conclusion that either the Germans had not been able to come to terms with Hirschgold, or had quarrelled with the Hamers, or that they had lost heart because of the horse-thieves. 'Why, they haven't so much as measured out the ground!' cried Orzchewski, and washed down the remark with a huge glass of beer. He had, however, not yet wiped his mouth when a cart pulled up at the inn and the surveyor alighted. They knew him directly by his moustaches, which were trimmed to the resemblance of eels, and by his sloeberry-coloured nose. While Gryb and Orzchewski sorrowfully conducted each other home, they comforted themselves with the thought that the surveyor might only be spending the night in the village on his way elsewhere. 'God grant it, I want to see that young scamp of a Jasiek settled and married, and if I let him out of my sight he goes to the dogs directly.' 'My Paulinka is a match for him; she'll look after him!' 'You don't know what you're talking of, neighbour; it will take the three of us to look after him. Lately he hasn't spent a single night at home, and sometimes I don't see him for a week.' The surveyor started work in the manor-fields the next morning, and for several days was seen walking about with a crowd of Germans in attendance on all his orders, carrying his poles, putting up a portable table, providing him with an umbrella or a place in the shade where he could take long pulls out of his wicker flask. The peasants stood silently watching them. 'I could measure as well as that if I drank as much as he does,' said one of them. 'Ah, but that is why he is a surveyor,' said another, 'because he has a strong head.' No sooner had he departed than the Germans drove off and returned with heavy cartloads of building materials. One fine day a small troop of masons and carpenters appeared with their implements. A party of colonists went out to meet them, followed by a large crowd of women and children. They met at an appointed place, where refreshments and a barrel of beer had been provided. Old Hamer, in a faded drill-jacket, Fritz in a black coat, and Wilhelm, adorned with a scarlet waistcoat with red flowers, were busy welcoming the guests; Wilhelm had charge of the barrel of beer. Maciek had noticed these preparations and gave the alarm, and all the inhabitants of the gospodarstwo watched the proceedings with the keenest interest. They saw old Hamer taking up a stake and driving it into the ground with a wooden hammer. 'Hoch!...Hoch!' shouted the workmen. Hamer bowed, took a second stake and carried it northwards, accompanied by the crowd. The women and children were headed by the schoolmaster in his little cart. He now lifted his cap high into the air, and at this sign the whole crowd started to sing Luther's hymn: 'A stronghold sure our God remains, A shield and hope unfailing, In need His help our freedom gains, O'er all our fear prevailing; Our old malignant foe Would fain work us woe; With craft and great might He doth against us fight, On earth is no one like him.' At the first note Slimak had taken off his cap, his wife crossed herself, and Maciek stepped aside and knelt down. Stasiek, with wide-open eyes, began to tremble, and Jendrek started running down the hill, waded through the river, and headed at full speed for the camp. While Hamer was driving the stake into the ground the procession, slowly coming up to him, continued: 'Our utmost might is all in vain, We straight had been rejected, But for us fights the perfect Man By God Himself elected; Ye ask: Who may He be? The Lord Christ is He! The God, by hosts ador'd, Our great Incarnate Lord, Who all His foes will vanquish.' Never had the peasants heard a hymn like this, so solemn, yet so triumphant, they who only knew their plainsongs, which rose to heaven like a great groan: 'Lord, we lay our guilt before Thine eyes.' A cry from Stasiek roused the parents from their reverie. 'Mother...mother...they are singing!' stammered the child; his lips became blue, and he fell to the ground. The frightened parents lifted him up and carried him into the cottage, where he recovered when the singing ceased. They had always known that the singing at church affected him very deeply, but they had never seen him like this. Jendrek, meanwhile, although wet through and cold, stood riveted by the spectacle he was watching. Why were these people walking and singing like this? Surely, they wanted to drive away some evil power from their future dwellings, and, not having incense or blessed chalk, they were using stakes. Well, after all, a club of oakwood was better against the devil than chalk! Or were they themselves bewitching the place? He was struck with the difference in the behaviour of the Germans. The old men, women, and children were walking along solemnly, singing, but the young fellows and the workmen stood in groups, smoking and laughing. Once they made a noisy interruption when Wilhelm Hamer, who presided at the beer-barrel, lifted up his glass. The young men shouted 'Hoch! hurrah!' Old Hamer looked round disapprovingly, and the schoolmaster shook his fist. As the procession drew near, Jendrek heard a woman's voice above the children's shrill trebles, Hamer's guttural bass and the old people's nasal tones; it was clear, full, and inexpressively moving. It made his heart tremble within him. The sounds shaped themselves in his imagination to the picture of a beautiful weeping-willow. He knew that it must be the voice of the schoolmaster's daughter, whom he had seen before. At that time the dog had engaged his attention more than the girl, but now her voice took entire possession of the boy's soul, to the exclusion of everything else he heard or saw. He, too, wanted to sing, and began under his breath: 'The Lord is ris'n to-day. The Lord Jesus Christ...' It seemed to fit in with the melody which the Germans were just singing. He was roused from this state by the young men's voices; he caught sight of the schoolmaster's daughter and unconsciously moved towards her. But the young man soon brought him to his senses. They pulled his hat over his ears, pushed him into the middle of the crowd, and, wet, smeared with sand, looking more like a scarecrow than a boy, he was passed from hand to hand like a ball. Suddenly his eyes met those of the girl, and a wild spirit awoke in him. He kicked one young man over with his bare legs, tore the shirt off another one's back, butted old Hamer in the stomach, and then stood with clenched fists in the space he had cleared, looking where he might break through. Most of the men laughed at him, but some were for handling him roughly. Fortunately old Hamer recognized him. 'Why, youngster, what are you up to?' 'They're bullying me,' he said, while the tears were rising in his throat. 'Don't you come from that cottage? What are you doing here?' 'I wanted to listen to your singing, but those scoundrels...' He stopped suddenly when he saw the grey eyes of the schoolmaster's daughter fixed on him. She offered him the glass of beer she had been drinking from. 'You are wet through,' she said. 'Take a good pull.' 'I don't want it,' said the boy, and felt ashamed directly; it did not seem well-mannered to speak rudely to one so beautiful. 'I might get tipsy...' he cried, but drained the glass, looked at her again and blushed so deeply that the girl smiled sadly as she looked at him. At that moment violins and cellos struck up; Wilhelm Hamer came heavily bounding along and took the girl away to dance. Her yearning eyes once more rested on Jendrek's face. He felt that something strange was happening to him. A terrible anger and sorrow gripped him by the throat; he wanted to throw himself on Wilhelm and tear his flowered waistcoat off his back; at the same time he wanted to cry aloud. Suddenly he turned to go. 'Are you going?' asked the schoolmaster. 'Give my compliments to your father.' 'And you can tell him from me that I have rented the field by the river from Midsummer Day,' Hamer called after him. 'But dad rented it from the squire!' Hamer laughed...'The squire! We are the squires now, and the field is mine.' As Jendrek neared the road he came upon a peasant, hidden behind a bush, who had been watching. It was Gryb. 'Be praised,' said Jendrek. 'Who's praised at your place?' growled the old man; 'it must be the devil and not the Lord, since you are taking up with the Germans.' 'Who's taking up with them?' The peasant's eyes flashed and his dry skin quivered. 'You're taking up with them!' he cried, shaking his fist, 'or perhaps I didn't see you running off to them like a dog through the water to cadge for a glass of beer, nor your father and mother on the hill praying with the Swabians...praying to the devil! God has punished them already, for something has fallen on Stasiek. There will be more to come...you wait!' Jendrek slowly walked home, puzzled and sad. When he returned to the cottage, he found Stasiek lying ill. He told his father what Gryb had said. 'He's an old fool,' replied Slimak. 'What! should a man stand like a beast when others are praying, even if they are Swabians?' 'But their praying has bewitched Stasiek.' Slimak looked gloomy. 'Why should it have been their prayers? Stasiek is easily upset. Let a woman but sing in the fields and he'll begin to shake all over.' The matter ended there. Jendrek tried to busy himself about the cottage, but he felt stifled indoors. He roamed about in the ravines, stood on the hill and watched the Germans, or forced his way through brambles. Wherever he went, the image of the schoolmaster's daughter went with him; he saw her tanned face, grey eyes, and graceful movements. Sometimes her powerful, entrancing voice seemed to come to him as from a depth. 'Has she cast a spell over me?' he whispered, frightened, and continued to think of her. CHAPTER VIII Slimak had never been so well off as he was that spring; money was flowing into his chest while he took his leisure and looked around him at all the new things. Formerly, after a heavy day, he had thrown himself on his bed and had scarcely fallen asleep like a stone when his wife would pull the cover off him, crying: 'Get up, Josef; it is morning.' 'How can it be morning?' he thought; 'I've only just lain down.' All the same he had to gather his bones together, when each one individually held to the bed; willy-nilly he had to get up. So hard was the resolution sometimes, that he even thought with pleasure of the eternal sleep, when his wife would no longer stand over him and urge: 'Get up, wash...you'll be late; they'll take it off your wages.' Then he would dress, and drag the equally tired horses out of the stable, so overcome with sleep that he would pause on the threshold and mutter, 'I shall stay at home!' But he was afraid of his wife, and he also knew very well that he could not make both ends meet at the gospodarstwo without his wages. Now all that was different. He slept as long as he liked. Sometimes his wife pulled him by the leg from habit and said: 'Get up, Josef.' But, opening only one eye, lest sleep should run away from him, he would growl: 'Leave me alone!' and sleep, maybe, till the church bell rang for Mass at seven o'clock. There was really nothing to get up for now. Maciek had long ago finished the spring-work in the fields; the Jews had left the village, carrying their business farther afield, following the new railway line now under construction, and no one sent for him from the manor--for there was no manor. He smoked, strolled about for days together in the yard, or looked at the abundantly sprouting corn. His favourite pastime, however, was to watch the Germans, whose habitations were shooting up like mushrooms. By the end of May Hamer and two or three others had finished building, and their gospodarstwos were pleasant to look at. They resembled each other like drops of water; each one stood in the middle of its fields, the garden was by the roadside, shut off by a wooden fence; the house, roughcast, consisted of four large rooms, and behind it was a good-sized square of farm-buildings. All the buildings were larger and loftier than those of the Polish peasants, and were clean and comfortable, although they looked stiff and severe; for while the roofs of the Polish gospodarstwos overhung on the four sides, those of the Germans did so only at the front and back. But they had large windows, divided into six squares, and the doors were made by the carpenter. Jendrek, who daily ran over to the settlement reported that there were wooden floors, and that the kitchen was a separate room with an iron-plated stove. Slimak sometimes dreamt that he would build a place like that, only with a different roof. Then he would jump up, because he felt he ought to go somewhere and do work, for he was bored and ashamed of idling; at times he would long for the manor-fields over which he had guided the plough, where the settlement now stood. Then a great fear would seize him that he would be powerless when the Germans, who had felled forests, shattered rocks and driven away the squire, should start on him in earnest. But he always reassured himself. He had been neighbours with them now for two months and they had done him no harm. They worked quietly, minded their cattle so that they should not stray, and even their children were not troublesome, but went to school at Hamer's house, where the infirm schoolmaster kept them in order. 'They are respectable people,' he satisfied himself. 'I'm better off with them than with the squire.' He was, for they bought from him and paid well. In less than a month he had taken a hundred roubles from them; at the manor this had meant a whole year's toil. 'Do you think, Josef, that the Germans will always go on buying from you?' his wife asked from time to time. 'They have their own gospodarstwos now, and better ones than yours; you will see, it will last through the summer at the best, and after that they won't buy a stick from us.' 'We shall see,' said the peasant. He was secretly counting on the advantages which he would reap from the building of the new line; had not the engineer promised him this? He even laid in provisions with this object, having to go farther afield, for the peasants in the village would no longer sell him anything. But he soon realized that prices had risen; the Germans had long ago scoured the neighbourhood and bought without bargaining. Once he met Josel who, instead of smiling maliciously at him as usual, asked him to enter into a business transaction with him. 'What sort of business?' asked Slimak. 'Build a cottage on your land for my brother-in-law.' 'What for?' 'He wants to set up a shop and deal with the railway people, else the Germans will take away all the business from under our noses.' Slimak reflected. 'No, I don't want a Jew on my land,' he said. 'I shouldn't be the first to be eaten up by you longcurls.' 'You don't want to live with a Jew, but you are not afraid to pray with the Germans,' said the Jew, pale with anger. Slimak was made to feel the profound unpopularity he had incurred in the village. At church on Sundays hardly anyone answered him 'In Eternity', and when he passed a group he would hear loud talk of heresy, and God's judgment which would follow. He therefore ordered a Mass one Sunday, on the advice of his wife, and went to confession with her and Jendrek; but this did not improve matters, for the villagers discussed over their beer in the evening what deadly sin he might have been guilty of to go to confession and pray so fervently. Even old Sobieska rarely appeared and came furtively to ask for her vodka. Once, when her tongue was loosened, she said: 'They say you have turned into a Lutheran...It's true,' she added, 'there is only one merciful God, still, the Germans are a filthy thing!' The Germans now began mysteriously to disappear with their carts at dawn of day, carrying large quantities of provisions with them. Slimak investigated this matter, getting up early himself. Soon he saw a tiny yellow speck in the direction which they had taken. It grew larger towards evening, and he became convinced that it was the approaching railway line. 'The scoundrels!' he said to his wife, 'they've been keeping this secret so as to steal a march on me, but I shall drive over.' 'Well, look sharp!' cried his wife; 'those railway people were to have been our best customers.' He promised to go next day, but overslept himself, and Slimakowa barely succeeded in driving him off the day after. He gathered some information on the way from the peasants. Many of them had volunteered for work, but only a few had been taken on, and those had soon returned, tired out. 'It's dogs' work, not men's,' they told him; 'yet it might be worth your while taking the horses, for carters earn four roubles a day.' 'Four roubles a day!' thought Slimak, laying on to the horses. He drove on smartly and soon came alongside the great mounds of clay on which strangers were at work, huge, strong, bearded men, wheeling large barrows. Slimak could not wonder enough at their strength and industry. 'Certainly, none of our men would do this,' he thought. No one paid any attention to him or spoke to him. At last two Jews caught sight of him and one asked: 'What do you want, gospodarz?' The embarrassed peasant twisted his cap in his hands. 'I came to ask whether the gentlemen wanted any barley or lard?' 'My dear man,' said the Jew, 'we have our regular contractors; a nice mess we should be in, if we had to buy every sack of barley from the peasants!' 'They must be great people,' thought Slimak, 'they won't buy from the peasants, they must be buying from the gentry.' So he bowed to the ground before the Jew, who was on the point of walking away. 'I entreat the favour of being allowed to cart for the gentlemen.' This humility pleased the Jew. 'Go over there, my dear fellow,' he said, 'perhaps they will take you on.' Slimak bowed again and made his way through the crowd with difficulty. Among other carts he saw those of the settlers. Fritz Hamer came forward to meet him; he seemed to be in a position of some authority there. 'What do you want?' he asked. 'I want a job too.' The settler frowned. 'You won't get one here!' Seeing that Slimak was looking round, he went to the inspector and spoke to him. 'No work for carters,' the latter at once shouted, 'no work! As it is we have too many, you are only getting in people's way. Be off!' The brutal way in which this order was given so bewildered the peasant that, in turning, he almost upset his cart; he drove off at full speed, feeling as if he had offended some great power which had worked enough destruction already and was now turning hills into valleys and valleys into hills. But gradually he reflected more calmly. People from the village had been taken on, and he remembered seeing peasants' carts at the embankment. Why had he been driven away? It was quite clear that some one wished to shut him out. 'Curse the Judases, they're outdoing the Jews,' he muttered and felt a horror of the Germans for the first time. He told his wife briefly that there was no work, and betook himself to the settlement. Old Hamer seemed to be in the middle of a heated argument with Hirschgold and two other men. When he caught sight of the peasant he took them into the barn. 'Sly dog,' murmured Slimak; 'he knows what I've come for. I'll tell him straight to his face when he comes out.' But at every step his courage failed him more and more. He hesitated between his desire to turn back and his unwillingness to lose a job; he hung about the fences, and looked at the women digging in their gardens. A murmur like the hum of a beehive caught his ears: one of the windows in Hamer's house was open and he looked into a schoolroom. One of the children was reciting something in a clamorous voice, the others were talking under their breath. The schoolmaster was standing in the middle of the room, calling out 'Silence!' from time to time. When he saw Slimak, he beckoned to his daughter to take his place, and the hubbub of voices increased. Slimak watched her trying to cope with the children. The schoolmaster came up behind him, walking heavily. 'Did you come to see how we teach our children?' he asked, smilingly. 'Nothing of the kind,' said Slimak; 'I've come to tell Hamer that he is a scoundrel.' He related his experience. 'What have I done?' he asked. 'Soon I may not be able to earn anything; is one to starve because it pleases them?' 'The truth is,' said the schoolmaster, 'that you are a thorn in their flesh.' 'Why?' 'Your land is right in the middle of Hamer's fields and that spoils his farm, but that is not the reason as much as your hill; he wants it for a windmill. They have nothing but level ground; it's the best land in the settlement, but no good for a windmill; if they don't put it up, one of the other settlers will.' 'And why are they so crazy after a windmill?' 'Well, it matters a great deal to them; if Wilhelm had a windmill he could marry Miller Knap's daughter from Wolka and get a thousand and twenty roubles with her; the Hamers may go bankrupt without that money. That's why you stick in their throats. If you sold them your land they would pay you well.' 'And I won't sell! I will neither help them to stay here nor do myself harm for their benefit; when a man leaves the land of his fathers...' 'There will be trouble,' the schoolmaster said earnestly. 'Then let there be; I won't die because it pleases them.' Slimak returned home without any further wish to see Hamer; he knew there could be no understanding between them. Maciek had discovered at dawn one morning that a crowd had reached the river-bank by the ravines, and Slimak, hurrying thither, found some gospodarze from the village among the men. 'What is happening?' 'They are going to throw up a dam and build a bridge across the Bialka,' Wisniewski replied. 'And what are you doing here?' 'We have been taken on to cart sand.' Slimak discovered the Hamers in the crowd. 'Nice neighbours you are!' he said bitterly, going up to them. 'Here you are sending all the way to the village for carts, and you won't let me have a job.' 'We will send for you when you are living in the village,' Fritz answered, and turned his back. An elderly gentleman was standing near them, and Slimak turned to him and took off his cap. 'Is this justice, sir?' he said. 'The Germans are getting rich on the railway, and I don't earn a kopek. Last year two gentlemen came and promised that I should make a lot of money. Well, your honours are building the railway now, but I've never yet taken my horses out of the stable. A German with thirty acres of ground is having a good job, and I have only ten acres and a wife and children to keep, as well as the farmhand and the girl. We shall have to starve, and it's all because the Germans have a grudge against me.' He had spoken rapidly and breathlessly, and after a moment of surprise the old man turned to Fritz Hamer. 'Why did you not take him on?' Fritz looked insolently at him. 'Is it you who has to answer for the cartage or I? Will you pay my fines when the men fail me? I take on those whom I can trust.' The old man bit his lip, but did not reply. 'I can't help you, my brother,' he said; 'you shall drive me as often as I come to this neighbourhood. It isn't much, but every little helps. Where do you live?' Slimak pointed to his cottage; he was longing to speak further, but the old man turned to give some orders, and the peasant could only embrace his knees. Old Hamer waylaid him on the way back. 'Do you see now how badly you have done for yourself? You will do even worse, for Fritz is furious.' 'God is greater than Fritz.' 'Will you take seventy-five roubles an acre and settle on the other side of the Bug? You will have twice as much land.' 'I would not go to the other side of the Bug for double the money; you go, if you like!' When the angry men were looking back at each other, the one was standing with a stubborn face, his pipe between his clenched teeth, the other with folded arms, smiling sadly. Each was afraid of the other. The embankment was growing slowly from west to east. Before long thousands of carriages would roll along its line with the speed of birds, to enrich the powerful, shatter the poor, spread new customs and manners, multiply crime...all this is called 'the advancement of civilization'. But Slimak knew nothing of civilization and its boons, and therefore looked upon this outcome of it as ominous. The encroaching line seemed to him like the tongue of some vast reptile, and the mounds of earth to forebode four graves, his own and those of his wife and children. Maciek also had been watching its progress, which he considered an entire revolution of the laws of nature. 'It's a monstrous thing', he said, 'to heap up so much sand on the fields near the river, and narrow the bed; when the Bialka swells, it will overflow.' Slimak saw that the ends of the embankment were touching the river, but as they had been strengthened by brick walls he took no alarm. Nevertheless, it struck him that the Hamers were hurriedly throwing up dams on their fields in the lower places. 'Quick folk!' he thought, and contemplated doing the same, and strengthening the dams with hurdles, as soon as he had cut the hay. It occurred to him that he might do it now when he had plenty of time, but, as usual, it remained a good intention. It was the beginning of July, when the hay had been cut and people were gradually preparing for the harvest. Slimak had stacked his hay in the backyard, but the Germans were still driving in stakes and throwing up dams. The summer of that year was remarkable for great heat; the bees swarmed, the corn was ripening fast, the Bialka was shallower than usual, and three of the workmen died of sunstroke. Experienced farmers feared either prolonged rain during the harvest or hail before long. One day the storm came. The morning had been hot and sultry, the birds did not sing, the pigs refused to eat and hid in the shade behind the farmbuildings; the wind rose and fell, it blew now hot and dry, now cool and damp. By about ten o'clock a large part of the sky was lined with heavy clouds, shading from ashen-grey into iron-colour and perfect black; at times this sooty mass, seeking an outlet upon the earth, burst asunder, revealing a sinister light through the crevices. Then again the clouds lowered themselves and drowned the tops of the forest trees in mists. But a hot wind soon drove them upwards again and tore strips off them, so that they hung ragged over the fields. Suddenly a fiery cloud appeared behind the village church; it seemed to be flying at full speed along the railway embankment, driven by the west wind; at the same time the north wind sprang up and buffeted it from the side; dust flew up from the highroads and sandhills, and the clouds began to growl. When they heard the sound, the workmen left their tools and barrows, and filed away in two long detachments, one to the manor-house, the other to their huts. The peasants and settlers turned the sand out of their carts with all speed and galloped home. The cattle were driven in from the fields, the women left their gardens; every place became deserted. Thunderclap after thunderclap announced ever-fresh legions pressing into the sky and obscuring the sun. It seemed as if the earth were cowering in their presence, as a partridge cowers before the hovering hawk. The blackthorn and juniper bushes called to caution with a low, swishing noise; the troubled dust hid in the corn, where the young ears whispered to each other; the distant forests murmured. High above, in the overcharged clouds, an evil force, with strong desire to emulate the Creator, was labouring. It took the limp element and formed an island, but before it had time to say, 'It is good', the wind had blown the island away. It raised a gigantic mountain, but before the summit had crowned it, the base had been blown from underneath. Now it created a lion, now a huge bird, but soon only torn wings and a shapeless torso dissolved into darkness. Then, seeing that the works fashioned by the eternal hands endured, and that its own phantom creations could not resist even the feeblest wind, the evil spirit was seized with a great anger and determined to destroy the earth. It sent a flash into the river, then thundered, 'Strike those fields with hail! drench the hill!' And the obedient clouds flung themselves down. The wind whistled the reveille, the rain beat the drum; like hounds released from the leash the clouds bounded forward...downward, following the direction to which the flashes of lightning pointed. The evil spirit had put out the sun. After an hour's downpour the exhausted storm calmed down, and now the roar of the Bialka could be distinctly heard. It had broken down the banks, flooded the highroad and fields with dirty water and formed a lake beyond the sandhills of the railway embankment. Soon, however, the storm had gathered fresh strength, the darkness increased, lightning seemed to flash from all parts of the horizon; perpendicular torrents of rain drowned the earth in sheets of mist. The inmates of Slimak's cottage had gathered in the front room; Maciek sat yawning on a corner of the bench, Magda, beside him, nursed the baby, singing to it in a low voice; Slimakowa was vexed that the storm was putting the fire out; Slimak was looking out of the window, thinking of his crops. Jendrek was the only cheerful one; he ran out from time to time, wetting himself to the skin, and tried to induce his brother or Magda to join him in these excursions. 'Come, Stasiek,' he cried, pulling him by the hand, 'it's such a warm rain, it will wash you and cheer you up.' 'Leave him alone,' said his father; 'he is peevish.' 'And don't run out yourself,' added his mother, 'you are flooding the whole room.... The Word was made Flesh,' she added under her breath, as a terrific clap of thunder shook the house. Magda crossed herself; Jendrek laughed and cried, 'What a din! there's another.... The Lord Jesus is enjoying Himself, firing off....' 'Be quiet, you silly,' called his mother; 'it may strike you!' 'Let it strike!' laughed the boy boldly. 'They'll take me into the army and shoot at me, but I don't mind!' He ran out again. 'The rascal! he isn't afraid of anything,' Slimakowa said to her husband with pride in her voice. Slimak shrugged his shoulders. 'He's a true peasant.' Yet among that group of people with iron nerves there was one who felt all the terror of this upheaval of the elements. How was it that Stasiek, a peasant child, was so sensitive? Like the birds he had felt the coming storm, had roamed about restlessly and watched the clouds, fancying that they were taking council together, and he guessed that their intentions were evil. He felt the pain of the beaten-down grass and shivered at the thought of the earth being chilled under sheets of water. The electricity in the air made his flesh tingle, the lightning dazzled him, and each clap of thunder was like a blow on his head. It was not that he was afraid of the storm, but he suffered under it, and his suffering spirit pondered, 'Why and whence do such terrible things come?' He wandered from the room to the alcove, from the alcove to the room, as if he had lost his way, gazed absently out of the window and lay down on the bench, feeling all the more miserable because no one took any notice of him. He wanted to talk to Maciek, but he was asleep; he tried Magda and found her absorbed in the baby; he was afraid of Jendrek's dragging him out of doors if he spoke to him. At last he clung to his mother, but she was cross because of the fire and pushed him away. 'A likely thing I should amuse you, when the dinner is being spoilt!' He roamed about again, then leant against his father's knee. 'Daddy,' he said in a low voice, 'why is the storm so bad?' 'Who knows?' 'Is God doing it?' 'It must be God.' Stasiek began to feel a little more cheerful, but his father happened to shift his position, and the child thought he had been pushed away again. He crept under the bench where Burek lay, and although the dog was soaking wet, he pressed close to him and laid his head on the faithful creature. Unluckily his mother caught sight of him. 'Whatever's the matter with the boy?' she cried. 'Just you come away from there, or the lightning will strike you! Out into the passage, Burek!' She looked for a piece of wood, and the dog crept out with his tail between his legs. Stasiek was left again to his restlessness, alone in a roomful of people. Even his mother was now struck by his miserable face and gave him a piece of bread to comfort him. He bit off a mouthful, but could not swallow it and burst into tears. 'Good gracious, Stasiek, what's the matter? Are you frightened?' 'No.' 'Then why are you so queer?' 'It hurts me here,' he said, pointing to his chest. Slimak, who was depressed himself, thinking of his harvest, drew him to his knee, saying: 'Don't worry! God may destroy our crop, but we won't starve all the same. He is the smallest, and yet he has more sense than the others,' he said, turning to his wife; 'he's worrying about the gospodarstwo.' Gradually, as the storm abated, the roar of the river struck them afresh. Slimak quickly drew on his boots. 'Where are you going?' asked his wife. 'Something's wrong outside.' He went and returned breathlessly. 'I say! It's just as I thought.' 'Is it the corn?' 'No, that hasn't suffered much, but the dam is broken.' 'Jesus! Jesus!' 'The water is up to our yard. Those scoundrel Swabians have dammed up their fields, and that has taken some more off the hill.' 'Curse them!' 'Have you looked into the stable?' asked Maciek. 'Is it likely I shouldn't? There's water in the stable, water in the cowshed, look! even the passage is flooded; but the rain is stopping, we must bale out.' 'And the hay?' 'That will dry again if God gives fine weather.' Soon the entire household were baling in the house and farm-buildings; the fire was burning brightly, and the sun peeped out from behind the clouds. On the other bank of the river the Germans were at work. Barelegged, and armed with long poles, they waded carefully through the flooded fields towards the river to catch the drifting logs. Stasiek was calming down; he was not tingling all over now. From time to time he still fancied he heard the thunder, and strained his ears, but it was only the noise of the others baling with wooden grain measures. There was much commotion in the passage where Jendrek pushed Magda about instead of baling. 'Steady there,' cried his mother, 'when I get hold of something hard I'll beat you black and blue!' But Jendrek laughed, for he could tell by a shade in her voice that she was no longer cross. Courage returned to Stasiek's heart. Supposing he were to peep out into the yard... would there still be a terrible black cloud? Why not try? He put his head out of the back door and saw the blue sky flecked with little white clouds hurrying eastwards. The cock was flapping his wings and crowing, heavy drops were sparkling on the bushes, golden streaks of sunlight penetrated into the passage, and bright reflections from the surface of the waters beckoned to him. He flew out joyfully through the pools of water, delighting in the rainbow-coloured sheaves that were spurting from under his feet; he stood on a plank and punted himself along with a stick, pretending that he was sailing in deep water. 'Come, Jendrek!' he called. 'Stop here and go on baling,' called out Slimakowa. The Germans were still busy landing wood; whenever they got hold of a specially large piece they shouted 'Hurrah!' Suddenly some big logs came floating down, and this raised their enthusiasm to such a pitch that they started singing the 'Wacht am Rhein'. For the first time in his life Stasiek, who was so sensitive to music, heard a men's chorus sung in parts. It seemed to melt into one with the bright sun; both intoxicated him; he forgot where he was and what he was doing, he stood petrified. Waves seemed to be floating towards him from the river, embracing and caressing him with invisible arms, drawing him irresistibly. He wanted to turn towards the house or call Jendrek, but he could only move forward, slowly, as in a dream, then faster...faster; he ran, and disappeared down the hill. The men were singing the third verse of the 'Wacht am Rhein', when they suddenly stopped and shouted: 'Help...help!' Slimak and Maciek had stopped in their work to listen to the singing; the sudden cries surprised them, but it was the labourer who was seized with apprehension. 'Run, gospodarz,' he said; 'something's up.' 'Eh! something they have taken into their heads!' 'Help!' the cry rose again. 'Never mind, run, gospodarz,' the man urged; 'I can't keep up with you, and something....' Slimak ran towards the river, and Maciek painfully dragged himself after him. Jendrek overtook him. 'What's up? Where is Stasiek?' Maciek stopped and heard a powerful voice calling out: 'That's the way you look after your children, Polish beasts!' Then Slimak appeared on the hill, holding Stasiek in his arms. The boy's head was resting on his shoulder, his right arm hung limply. Dirty water was flowing from them both. Slimak's lips were livid, his eyes wide open. Jendrek ran towards him, slipped on the boggy hillside, scrambled up and shouted in terror: 'Daddy...Stasiek...what....' 'He's drowned!' 'You are mad,' cried the boy; 'he's sitting on your arm!' He pulled Stasiek by the shirt, and the boy's head fell over his father's shoulder. 'You see!' whispered Slimak. 'But he was in the backyard a minute ago.' Slimak did not answer, he supported Stasiek's head and stumbled forward. Slimakowa was standing in the passage, shading her eyes and waiting. 'Well, what has he been up to now?... What's this? Has it fallen on Stasiek again? Curse those Swabians and their singing!' She went up to the boy and, taking his hand, said in a trembling voice: 'Never mind, Stasiek, don't roll your eyes like that, never mind! Come to your senses, I won't scold you. Magda, fetch some water.' 'He has had more than enough water,' murmured Slimak. The woman started back. 'What's the matter with him? Why is he so wet?' 'I have taken him out of the pool by the river.' 'That little pool?' 'The water was only up to my waist, but it did for him.' 'Then why don't you turn him upside down? Maciek, take him by the feet...oh, you clumsy fellows!' The labourer did not stir. She seized the boy herself by the legs. Stasiek struck the ground heavily with his hands; a little blood ran from his nose. Maciek took the child from her and carried him into the cottage, where he laid him down on the bench. They all followed him except Magda, who ran aimlessly round the yard and then, with outstretched arms, on to the highroad, crying: 'Help...help, if you believe in God!' She returned to the cottage, but dared not go in, crouched on the threshold with her head on her knees, groaning: 'Help...if you believe in God.' Slimak dashed into the alcove, put on his sukmana and ran out, he did not know whither; he felt he must run somewhere. A voice seemed to cry to him: 'Father...father...if you had put up a fence, your child would not have been drowned!' And the man answered: 'It is not my fault; the Germans bewitched him with their singing.' A cart was heard rattling on the highroad and stopped in front of the cottage. The schoolmaster got out, bareheaded and with his rod in his hand. 'How is the boy?' he called out, but did not wait for an answer and limped into the cottage. Stasiek was lying on the bench, his mother was supporting his head on her knees and whispering to herself: 'He's coming to, he's a little warmer.' The schoolmaster nudged Maciek: 'How is he?' 'What do I know? She says he's better, but the boy doesn't move, no, he doesn't move.' The schoolmaster went up to the boy and told his mother to make room. She got up obediently and watched the old man breathlessly, with open mouth, sobbing now and then. Slimak peeped through the open window from time to time, but he was unable to bear the sight of his child's pale face. The schoolmaster stripped the wet clothes off the little body and slowly raised and lowered his arms. There was silence while the others watched him, until Slimakowa, unable to contain herself any longer, pulled her hair down and then struck her head against the wall. 'Oh, why were you ever born?' she moaned, 'a child of gold! He recovered from all his illnesses and now he is drowned.... Merciful God! why dost Thou punish me so? Drowned like a puppy in a muddy pool, and no one to help!' She sank down on her knees, while the schoolmaster persevered for half an hour, listening for the beating of the child's heart from time to time, but no sign of life appeared and, seeing that he could do no more, he covered the child's body with a cloth, silently said a prayer and went out. Maciek followed him. In the yard he came upon Slimak; he looked like a drunken man. 'What have you come here for, schoolmaster?' he choked. 'Haven't you done us enough harm? You've killed my child with your singing...do you want to destroy his soul too as it is leaving him, or do you mean to bring a curse on the rest of us?' 'What is that you are saying?' said the schoolmaster in amazement. The peasant stretched his arms and gasped for breath. 'Forgive me, sir,' he said, 'I know you are a good man.... God reward you,' he kissed his hand; 'but my Stasiek died through your fault all the same: you bewitched him.' 'Man!' cried the schoolmaster, 'are we not Christians like you? Do we not put away Satan and his deeds as you do?' 'But how was it he got drowned?' 'How do I know? He may have slipped.' 'But the water was so shallow he might have scrambled out, only your singing...that was the second time it bewitched him so that something fell on him...isn't it true, Maciek?' The labourer nodded. 'Did the boy have fits?' asked the schoolmaster. 'Never.' 'And has he never been ill?' 'Never.' Maciek shook his head. 'He's been ill since the winter.' 'Eh?' asked Slimak. 'I'm speaking the truth; Stasiek has been ill ever since he took a cold; he couldn't run without getting out of breath; once I saw it fall upon him while I was ploughing. I had to go and bring him round.' 'Why did you never say anything about it?' 'I did tell the gospodyni, but she told me to mind my own business and not to talk like a barber.' 'Well, you see,' said the schoolmaster, the boy was suffering from a weak heart and that killed him; he would have died young in any case.' Slimak listened eagerly, and his consciousness seemed to return. 'Could it be that?' he murmured. 'Did the boy die a natural death?' He tapped at the window and the woman came out, rubbing her swollen eyes. 'Why didn't you tell me that Stasiek had been ill since the winter, and couldn't run without feeling queer?' 'Of course he wasn't well,' she said; 'but what good could you have done?' 'I couldn't have done anything, for if he was to die, he was to die.' The mother cried quietly. 'No, he couldn't escape; if he was to die he was to die; he must have felt it coming to-day during the storm, when he went about clinging to everyone...if only it had entered my head not to let him out of my sight...if I had only locked him up....' 'If his hour had come, he would have died in the cottage,' said the schoolmaster, departing. Already resignation was entering into the hearts of those who mourned for Stasiek. They comforted each other, saying that no hair falls from our heads without God's will. 'Not even the wild beasts die unless it is God's will,' said Slimak: 'a hare may be shot at and escape, and then die in the open field, so that you can catch it with your hands.' 'Take my case,' said Maciek: 'the cart crushed me and they took me to the hospital, and here I am alive; but when my hour has struck I shall die, even if I were to hide under the altar. So it was with Stasiek.' 'My little one, my comfort!' sobbed the mother. 'Well, he wouldn't have been much comfort,' said Slimak; 'he couldn't have done heavy farm work.' 'Oh, no!' put in Maciek. 'Or handled the beasts.' 'Oh, no!' 'He would never have made a peasant; he was such a peculiar child, he didn't care for farm work; all he cared for was roaming about and gazing into the river.' 'Yes, and he would talk to the grass and the birds, I have heard it myself,' said Maciek, 'and many times have I thought: "Poor thing! what will you do when you grow up? You'd be a queer fish even among gentlefolk, but what will it be like for you among the peasants?"' In the evening Slimak carried Stasiek on to the bed in the alcove; his mother laid two copper coins on his eyes and lit the candle in front of the Madonna. They put down straw in the room, but neither of them could sleep; Burek howled all night, Magda was feverish; Jendrek continually raised himself from the straw, for he fancied his brother had moved. But Stasiek did not move. In the morning Slimak made a little coffin; carpentering came so easily to him that he could not help smiling contentedly at his own work now and then. But when he remembered what he was doing, he was seized with such passionate grief that he threw down his tools and ran out, he knew not whither. On the third day Maciek harnessed the horses to the cart, and they drove to the village church, Jendrek keeping close to the coffin and steadying it, so that it should not rock. He even tapped, and listened if his brother were not calling. But Stasiek was silent. He was silent when they drove to the church, silent when the priest sprinkled holy water on him, silent when they took him to his grave and his father helped the gravedigger to lower him, and when they threw clods of earth upon him and left him alone for the first time. Even Maciek burst into tears. Slimak hid his face in his sukmana like a Roman senator and would not let his grief be looked upon. And a voice in his heart whispered: 'Father! father! if you had made a fence, your child would not have been drowned!' But he answered: 'I am not guilty; he died because his hour had come.' CHAPTER IX Autumn came with drab, melancholy stubble fields; the bushes in the ravines turned red; the storks hastily left the barns and flew south; in the few woods that remained, the birds were silent, human beings had deserted the fields; only here and there some old German women in blue petticoats were digging up the last potatoes. Even the navvies had left, the embankment was finished, and they had dispersed all over the world. Their place was taken by a light railway bringing rails and sleepers. At first you were only aware of smoke in the distant west; in a few days' time you discovered a chimney, and presently found that that chimney was fixed to a large cauldron which rolled along without horses, dragging after it a dozen wagons full of wood and iron. Whenever it stopped men jumped out and laid down the wood, fastened the iron to it and drove off again. These were the proceedings which Maciek was watching daily. 'Look, how clever that is,' he said to Slimak; 'they can get their load uphill without horses. Why should we worry the beasts?' But when the cauldron came to a dead stop where the embankment ended by the ravines and the men had taken out and disposed of the load, 'Now, what will they do?' he thought. To the farm labourer's utter astonishment the cauldron gave a shrill whistle and moved backwards with its wagons. Yes, there it was! Had not the Galician harvesters told him of an engine that went by itself? Had they not drunk through his money with which he was to buy boots? 'To be sure, they told me true, it goes by itself; but it creeps like old Sobieska,' he added, to comfort himself. Yet, deep down in his heart he was afraid of this new contrivance and felt that it boded no good to the neighbourhood. And though he reasoned inconsequently he was right, for with the appearance of the railway engines there also came much thieving. From pots and pans, drying on the fences, to horses in the stables, nothing was safe. The Germans had their bacon stolen from the larder; the gospodarz Marcinezak, who returned rather tipsy from absolution, was attacked by men with blackened faces and thrown out of his cart, with which the robbers drove off at breakneck speed. Even the poor tailor Niedoperz, when crossing a wood, was relieved of the three roubles he had earned with so much labour. The railway brought Slimak no luck either. It became increasingly difficult to buy fodder for the animals, and no one now asked him to sell his produce. The salted butter, and other produce of which he had laid in a stock, went bad, and they had to eat the fowls themselves. The Germans did all the trading with the railway men, and even in the little town no one looked at the peasant's produce. So Slimak sat in his room and did no work. Where should he find work? He sat by the stove and pondered. Would things continue like this? would there always be too little hay? would no one buy from him? would there be no end to the thieving? What was not under lock and key in the farm-buildings was no longer safe. Meanwhile the Germans drove about for miles in all directions and sold all that they produced. 'Things are going badly,' said Slimakowa. 'Eh...they'll get straight again somehow,' he answered. Gradually poor Stasiek was forgotten. Sometimes his mother laid one spoon too many, and then wiped her eyes with her kerchief, sometimes Magda thoughtlessly called Jendrek by his brother's name or the dog would run round the buildings looking for some one, and then lay down barking, with his head on the ground. But all this happened more and more rarely. Jendrek had been restless since his brother's death; he did not like to sit indoors when there was nothing to do, and roamed about. His rambles frequently ended in a visit to the schoolmaster; out of curiosity he examined the books, and as he knew some of the letters, the schoolmaster's daughter amused herself by teaching him to spell. The boy would purposely stumble over his words so that she should correct him and touch his shoulder to point out the mistake. One day he took home a book to show what he had learnt, and his overjoyed mother sent the schoolmaster's daughter a couple of fowls and four dozen eggs. Slimak promised the schoolmaster five roubles when Jendrek would be able to pray from a book and ten more when he should have learnt to write. Jendrek was therefore more and more often at the settlement, either busy with his lessons or else watching the girl through the window and listening to her voice. But this happened to annoy one of the young Germans, who was a relation of the Hamers. Under ordinary circumstances Jendrek's behaviour would have attracted his parents' attention, but they were entirely engrossed in another subject. Every day convinced them more firmly of the fact that they had too little fodder and a cow too many. They did not say so to each other, but no one in the house thought of anything else. The gospodyni thought of it when she saw the milk get less in the pails, Magda had forebodings and caressed the cows in turns, Maciek, when unobserved, even deprived the horses of a handful of hay, and Slimak would stand in front of the cowshed and sigh. It was he himself who one night broke this tacit understanding of silence on the sad question which was becoming a crisis; he suddenly awoke, sprang up and sat down on the edge of the bed. 'What's the matter, Josef?' asked his wife. 'Oh...I was dreaming that we had no fodder left and all the cows had died.' 'In the name of the Father and the Son...may you not have spoken that in an evil hour!' 'There is not enough fodder for five tails...it's no good pretending.' 'Well, then, what will you do?' 'How do I know?' 'Perhaps one could...' 'Maybe sell one of them...' finished the husband. The word had fallen. Next time Slimak went to the inn he gave Josel a hint, who passed it on at once to two butchers in the little town. When they came to the cottage, Slimakowa refused to speak to them and Magda began to cry. Slimak took them to the yard. 'Well, how is it, gospodarz, you want to sell a cow?' 'How can I tell?' 'Which one is it? Let's see her.' Slimak said nothing, and Maciek had to take up the conversation. 'If one is to be sold, it may as well be Lysa.' 'Lead her out,' urged the butchers. Maciek led the unfortunate cow into the yard; she seemed astonished at being taken out at such an unusual hour. The butchers looked her over, chattered in Yiddish and asked the price. 'How do I know?' Slimak said, still irresolute. 'What's the good of talking like that, you know as well as we do that she's an old beast. We will give you fifteen roubles.' Slimak relapsed into silence, and Maciek had to do the bargaining; after much shouting and pulling about of the cow, they agreed on eighteen roubles. A rope was laid on her horns and the stick about her shoulders, and they started. The cow, scenting mischief, would not go; first she turned back to the cowshed and was dragged towards the highroad, then she lowed so miserably that Maciek went pale and Magda was heard to sob loudly: the gospodyni would not look out of the window. The cow finally planted herself firmly on the ground with her four feet rigidly fixed, and looked at Slimak with rolling eyes as if to say: 'Look, gospodarz, what they are doing to me...for six years I have been with you and have honestly done my duty, stand by me now.' Slimak did not move, and the cow at last allowed herself to be led away, but when she had been plodding along for a little distance, he slowly followed. He pressed the Jews' money in his hand and thought: 'Ought I to have sold you? I should never have done it if the merciful God had not been angry with us; but we might all starve.' He stood still, leant against the railings and turned all his misfortunes over in his mind; now and then the thought that he might still run and buy her back stole into his mind. He suddenly noticed that old Hamer had come close up to him. 'Are you coming to see me, gospodarz?' he asked. 'I'll come, if you will sell me fodder.' 'Fodder won't help you. A peasant among settlers will always be at a disadvantage,' said the old man, with his pipe between his teeth. 'Sell me your land; I'll give you a hundred roubles an acre.' Slimak shook his head. 'You are mad, Pan Hamer, I don't know what you mean. Isn't it enough that I am obliged to sell the beast? Now you want me to sell everything. If you want me to leave, carry me out into the churchyard. It is nothing to you Germans to move from place to place, you are a roving people and have no country, but a peasant is like a stone by the wayside. I know everything here by heart. I have moved every clod of earth with my own hands; now you say: sell and go elsewhere. Wherever I went I should be dazed and lost; when I looked at a bush I should say: that did not grow at home; the soil would be different and even the sun would not set in the same place. And what should I tell my father if he were to come looking for me when it gets too hot for him in Purgatory? He would ask me how I was to find his grave again, and Stasiek's, poor Stasiek who has laid down his head, thanks to you!' Hamer was trembling with rage. 'What rubbish the man is talking!' he cried, 'have not numbers of peasants settled afresh in Volhynia? His father will come looking for him! ...You had better look out that you don't go to Purgatory soon yourself for your obstinacy, and ruin me into the bargain. You are ruining my son now, because I can't build him a windmill. Here I am offering you a hundred roubles an acre, confound it all!' 'Say what you like, but I won't sell you my land.' 'You'll sell it all right,' said Hamer, shaking his fist, 'but I shan't buy it; you won't last out a year among us.' He turned away abruptly. 'And I don't want that lad to stroll in and out of the settlement,' he called back, 'I don't keep a schoolmaster here for you!' 'That's nothing to me; he needn't go if you grudge him the room.' 'Yes, I grudge him the room,' the old man retorted viciously, 'the father is a dolt, let the son be a dolt too.' Slimak's regret for the cow was drowned in his anger. 'All right, let them cut her throat,' he thought, but remembering that the poor beast could not help his quarrel with Hamer, he sighed. There were fresh lamentations at home; Magda was blubbering because she had been given notice. Slimak sat down on the bench and listened to his wife comforting the girl. 'It's true, we are not short of food,' she said, 'but how am I to get the money for your wages? You are a big girl and ought to have a rise after the New Year. We haven't enough work for you; go to your uncle at once, tell him how things are going from bad to worse here, and fall at his feet and ask him to find you another place. Please God, you will come back to us.' 'Ho,' murmured Maciek from his corner, 'there's no returning; when you're gone, you're gone; first the cow, then Magda, now my turn will come.' 'Oh, you, Maciek, you will stay,' said Slimakowa, 'there must be some one to look after the horses, and if we don't give you your wages one year, you'll get them the next, but we can't do that to Magda, she is young.' 'That's true,' said Maciek on reflection, 'and it's kind of you to think of the girl first.' Slimak was silently admiring his wife's good sense, but at the same time he felt acute regret and apprehension at all these changes; everything had been going on harmoniously for years, and now one day sufficed to send both the cow and Magda away. 'What shall I do?' he ruminated, 'shall I try to set up as a carpenter, or shall I apply to his Reverence for advice? I might ask him at the same time to say a Mass, but maybe he would say the Mass and not give the advice. It will all come right; God strikes until His hand is tired; then He looks down in favour again on those who suffer patiently.' So he waited. Magda had found another situation by November; her place in the gospodarstwo soon grew cold, no one thought or talked of her, and only the gospodyni asked herself sometimes: 'Were there really a Stasiek in this room once and a Magda pottering about, and three cows in the shed?' Meanwhile the thieving increased. Slimak daily thought of putting bolts and padlocks on the farm-buildings, or at least long poles in front of the stable door. But whenever he reached for the hatchet, it always lay too far off, or his arm was too short; anyhow he left it, and the thought of buying padlocks when times were hard, made him feel quite faint. He hid the money at the bottom of the chest so that it should not tempt him. 'I must wait till the spring,' he thought; 'after all, there are Maciek and Burek, they are sharp enough.' Burek confirmed this opinion by much howling. One very dark night, when sleet was falling, Maciek heard him barking more furiously than usual, and attacking some one in the direction of the ravines. He jumped up and waked Slimak; armed with hatchets they waited in the yard. A heavy tread approached behind the barn as of some one carrying a load. 'At them!' they urged Burek, who, feeling himself backed up, attacked furiously. 'Shall we go for them?' asked Maciek. Slimak hesitated. 'I don't know how many there are.' At that moment a light flashed up from the settlement, horses clattered. Seeing that help was approaching, Slimak dashed behind the barn and called out: 'Hey there! who are you?' Something heavy fell to the ground. 'You wait! policeman for the Swabians, you shall soon know who we are!' answered a voice in the darkness. 'Catch him!' cried Slimak and Maciek simultaneously, but the thief had escaped to the ravines. When the Germans on horseback came up, Slimak lit a torch and ran behind the barn. A pig's carcass lay in a puddle. 'That's our hog,' cried Fritz, 'they stole it from under our noses and while there was a light in the house.' 'Daredevils!' muttered Maciek. 'To tell you the truth,' laughed Earner's farmhand, 'we thought it was you who had done it.' 'Go to the devil!' 'Let's go after them,' Fritz interrupted quickly. 'Go on! I... steal your hog! indeed!' 'Let me go, father,' begged Jendrek. 'Go indoors! We've saved them a hog and the thieves will revenge themselves on us; and here they come and accuse me of being a thief myself.' Fritz Hamer swore at the farm-hand for his clumsiness and tried to pacify the peasant, but he turned his back on him. Fritz had lost his zeal for pursuing the thieves, took up his hog and disappeared into the darkness. After a few days the police-sergeant drove up, cross-examined every one, explored the ravines, perspired, made himself muddy, and found no one. He came to the very just conclusion that the thieves must have escaped long ago. So he told Slimakowa to put some butter and a speckled hen into his cart and returned home. The thieving stopped for a while, and winter came on. The ground was warmly covered as with a sheepskin; ice as hard as flint froze on the Bialka, the Lord wrapped the branches of the trees securely in shirts of snow. But Slimak was still meditating on hasps and bolts. One evening, as he sat filling the room with smoke from his pipe, shifting his feet and arriving at the second part of his meditations, namely that 'What is done too soon is the devil's,' Jendrek excitedly burst into the room. His mother was busy with the fire and paid no attention to him, but his father noticed, although they were sparing of light in the cottage, that his sukmana was torn and he looked bruised and dishevelled. Looking at him out of the corner of his eyes, Slimak emptied his pipe and said: 'Someone has been oxing your ears three times over.' 'I gave him one better,' said the boy scowling. As the mother had gone out and did not hear the conversation, the father did not hurry himself; he cleaned his choked pipe, blew through it and indifferently inquired, 'Who's been treating you this?' 'That scoundrel, Hermann.' The boy was hitching up his shoulders as if he had been stung. 'And what were you doing at Earner's when you had been told not to go there?' 'I was looking at the schoolmaster through the window,' said Jendrek blushing, and added quickly, 'That German dog ran out from the kitchen and shouted: "You are spying about here, you thief!" "What have I stolen?" I say, and he: "Nothing yet, but you will steal some day; be off, or I'll box your ears." "Try!" I say. "I've tried before," says he; "take this!"' 'That was smart of the Swabian,' said Slimak, 'and did you do nothing to him?' 'Why should I do nothing to him? I snatched up a log and hit him over the head two or three times, but the coward started bleeding and gave in; I should have liked to have given him more, but they came running out of their houses and I made off.' 'So they didn't catch you?' 'Bah, how can they catch me, when I run like a hare?' 'Confound the boy,' said his mother, who had come in, 'the Swabians will beat him small.' 'He can always give them the slip,' said Slimak, lit his pipe, and resumed his meditations on hasps and bolts. But these were interrupted the next afternoon by a visit from the Hamers; their cousin, Hermann, had his head so tightly bandaged that hardly anything was visible of his face. They stood outside the gate and shouted to Maciek to call his master. Slimak hastily fastened his belt and stepped out. 'What do you want?' he said. 'We are going to the police-station to take out a summons against that Jendrek of yours; look what he has done to Hermann; we have a certificate from the surgeon that his injuries are serious.' 'He came ogling the schoolmaster's daughter, now he shall ogle his prison bars,' Hermann added thickly behind his bandages. Slimak was getting worried. 'You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,' he said, 'to take out a summons for a bit of boy's nonsense; didn't Hermann box his ears too? But we don't take out summonses for that sort of thing.' 'Oh, rather! I gave it him,' mumbled Hermann, 'but where's the blood? where's the doctor's certificate?' 'You're a nice one,' said Slimak bitterly, 'there was no policeman to certify that it was we who saved you the hog, but when a boy plays a prank on you, you go to law.' 'Perhaps with you a hog means as much as a man,' sneered Fritz; 'with us it is different.' Slimak's meditations now turned from bolts and padlocks to prisons. He talked the matter over with Maciek. 'When they put our small Jendrek in Court by the side of that big Hermann, I reckon they won't do much to him.' 'They'll do nothing to him,' agreed the labourer. 'All the same, I should like to know what the punishment is for thrashing a man.' 'They don't trouble their heads much about it. When Potocka beat her neighbour over the head with a saucepan, they just fined her.' 'That's true, but I am afraid they think more of the Germans than of our people.' 'How could they think more of unbelievers?' 'Look at the police-sergeant, he talks to Hamer as he wouldn't even talk to Gryb.' 'That is so, but when he has looked round to see that no one is listening, he tells you that a German is a mangy dog. You see, the Germans have their Kaiser, but he's nothing like as great as our Czar; I have it from a soldier who was in the hospital, and he used to say: "Bah, he's nothing compared to ours!"' This greatly reassured Slimak, and he went to church with his wife and son the next Sunday to find out what others, familiar with the ways of the law, thought of the matter. Maciek remained at home to look after the dinner and the baby. It was past noon when Burek began to bark furiously. Maciek looked out and saw a man dressed like the townspeople standing at the gate; he had pulled his cap well over his face. The farm-labourer went outside. 'What's up?' 'Take pity on us, gospodarz,' said the stranger, 'our sledge has broken down close by, and I can't mend it, because they have stolen the hatchet out of my basket last night.' Maciek looked doubtful. 'Have you come far?' 'Twenty-five miles; my wife and I are driving twelve miles further. I will give you good vodka and sausages if you will help us.' Maciek's suspicions lessened when vodka was mentioned. He shook his head and crossed himself, but ultimately decided that one must help one's neighbour, fetched the hatchet and went out with the stranger. He found a one-horse sledge standing near the farm. A woman, even more smartly dressed than the man, sat huddled up in a corner; she blessed Maciek in a tearful voice, but her husband did more, he poured out a large tumblerful of vodka and offered it to the labourer, drinking to his health first. Maciek apologized, as the ceremony demanded, then took a long pull, till the tears came into his eyes. He set about mending the sledge, and although it was a small job and did not take him more than half an hour, the strangers thanked him extravagantly, the woman gave him half a sausage and some roast pork, and the man exclaimed: 'I have travelled far and wide, but I have never found a more obliging peasant than you are, brother. I should like to leave you a remembrance. Have you got a bottle?' 'I think I could find one,' said Maciek, in a voice trembling with delight. The man unceremoniously pushed his wife on one side and drew a large bottle from underneath the seat. 'We are off now,' he said, 'we will go to the gospodarstwo and you shall give me some nails in case of another breakdown, and I will leave you some of this cordial in return. Mind, if your head or your stomach aches or you are worried and can't sleep, take a glassful of this: all your worries will at once disappear. Take good care of it and don't on any account give a drop away, it's a speciality; my grandfather got it from the monks at Radecznica, it's as good as holy water.' Maciek went into the house, the stranger remained in the yard, looking carelessly round the buildings, while Burek barked madly at him. At any other time the dog's anger would have roused Maciek's suspicion, but how could one think anything but well of a guest who had already given vodka and sausages and who was offering more drink? He smilingly offered a big-bellied bottle to the traveller, who poured half a pint of the cordial into it, and when he took leave he repeated the warning that it should be used only in case of need. Maciek stuffed a piece of rag into the neck of the bottle and hid it in the stable. He felt a strong desire to taste the drink, if only a drop, but he resisted. 'Supposing I were to get ill... better keep it.' He rocked the baby to sleep and then woke her up again to tell her about the hospital and his broken leg, about the travellers who had left him such a magnificent present, but nothing could take his thoughts away from the monks' cordial. The big-bellied bottle seemed to hover over the pots and pans on the stove, it blossomed out of the wall, it almost tapped at the window, but Maciek blinked his eyes and thought: 'Leave me alone, you will come in useful some day!' Shortly before sunset he heard cheerful singing in the road, and quickly stepping outside, he saw the gospodarz and his family returning from church. They were silhouetted against the red sky in the white landscape. Jendrek, his head in the air and his arms crossed behind his back, was walking on the left side of the road, the gospodyni in her blue Sunday skirt, and her jacket unbuttoned, so that her white chemise and bare chest were showing, on the right. The gospodarz, his cap awry, and holding up nis sukmana as for a dance, lurched from right to left and from left to right, singing. The labourer laughed, not because they were drunk, but because it pleased him to see them enjoying themselves. 'Do you know, Maciek,' cried Slimak from afar, 'do you know the Swabians can't hurt us!' He ran up full tilt and supported himself on Maciek's neck. 'Do you know,' cried the gospodyni, coming up,'we have seen Jasiek Gryb who knows all about the law; we told him about Jendrek's giving it to Hermann, and he swore by a happy death that the Court would let Jendrek off; Jasiek has been tried for these tricks himself, he knows.' 'Let them try and put me in prison!' shouted Jendrek. It was in this frame of mind that they sat down, but somehow the dinner was not a success. Slimakowa poured most of the sauerkraut over the table, the gospodarz had no appetite, and Jendrek had forgotten how to hold a spoon, scalded his father's foot with soup and finally fell asleep. His parents followed his example, so Maciek was left to himself again. The big-bellied bottle started pursuing him immediately. It availed nothing that he busied himself with the fire and the wick of the flickering lamp. The snoring around him disposed him to sleep and the smell of vodka that had been introduced into the room filled him with longing. In vain he tried to keep off the thoughts that circled like moths round the light. When he forgot his misery at the hospital, he thought of the forlornness of the abandoned baby, and when he put that aside his own needs overwhelmed him again. 'It's no use,' he muttered, 'I must go to bed.' He wrapped the child in the sheepskin and went into the stable. He lay down on the straw, the warmth of the horses tempered the cold, and Maciek closed his eyes, but sleep would not come; it was too early yet. As he turned from side to side, his hand came in contact with the bottle; he pushed it away; but, violating the law of inertia, it thrust itself irresistibly into his hand; the rag remained between his fingers, and when he mechanically lifted it to his eyes in the half-light, the strange vessel leapt to his lips of its own accord. Before he was conscious of what he was doing, Maciek had pulled a long draft of the health-giving speciality. He gulped it down and pulled a wry face. The drink was not only strong, it was nauseous; it simply tasted like ordinary medicine. 'Well, that wasn't worth longing for!' he thought, as he stuffed up the neck of the bottle again. He resolved to be more temperate in future with a liquor which was not distinguished for a good taste. Maciek said a prayer and felt warm and calm. He remembered the home-coming of the gospodarz's family: they all stood before his eyes as if they were alive. Suddenly Slimak and Jendrek vanished and only Slimakowa remained near him in her unbuttoned jacket which exposed rows of corals and her bare white chest. He closed his eyelids and pressed them with his fingers, so as not to look, but still he saw her, smiling at him in a strange way. He hid his head in the sheepskin--it was in vain; the woman stood there and smiled in a way that sent the fever through his veins. His heart beat violently; he turned his head to the wall and, terror-stricken, heard her voice whispering close to him: 'Move up!' 'Where am I to move to?' groaned Maciek. A warm hand seemed to embrace his neck. Then his mattress began to ascend with him, he flew... flew. God I was he falling or being lifted into the air? he felt as light as a feather, as smoke. He opened his eyes for a moment and saw stars glittering in a dark sky over a snowy landscape. How could he be seeing the sky? No... he must have made a mistake; darkness was surrounding him again. He wanted to move, but could not; besides, why should he move, when he felt so extraordinarily comfortable? there was not a thing in the world that it would be worth while moving a finger for, nothing but sleep mattered, sleep without awakening. He sighed heavily and slept and slept. A sensation of pain woke Maciek from a dreamless sleep which must have lasted about ten hours. He felt himself violently shaken, kicked in the ribs and on the head, tugged by his arms and legs. 'Get up, you thief... get up!' a voice was shouting at him. He tried to get up, but turned over on the other side instead. The blows and tugs recommenced, and the voice, choked with rage, continued: 'Get up! I wish the holy earth had never carried you!' At last Maciek roused himself and sat up; the light hurt his eyes, his head felt heavy like a rock; so he closed his eyes again, supported his head and tried to think; immediately he received a blow in the face from a fist. When at last he opened his eyes, he saw that it was Slimak who was standing over him, mad with rage. 'What are you hitting me for?' he asked in amazement. 'Where are the horses, you thief?' shouted Slimak. 'Horses? what horses?' He was suddenly seized with sickness. Coming to himself a little, he looked round. Yes, something seemed to be missing from the stable; he wiped his forehead, looked again... the stable was empty. 'But where are the horses?' he asked. 'Where?' cried Slimak, 'where your brothers have taken them, you thief.' The labourer held out his hands. 'I never took them out. I haven't stirred from here all night, something must have happened... I am ill.' He staggered up and had to support himself. 'What is that? You are trying to make out that you have lost your wits. You know quite well that the horses have been stolen. Whoever stole them must have opened the door and led them over you.' 'God help me! no one opened the door, no one led them over me,' cried Maciek, bursting into sobs. 'Dad! Burek is lying dead behind the fence,' cried Jendrek, who came running up with his mother. 'They have poisoned him,' said the woman, 'the foam has frozen on his mouth.' Maciek sank down in the open door, unable to stand any longer. 'The devil has got him too, he isn't like himself, something has fallen on him,' said Slimak. 'And may he keep it till he dies,'cried the woman, 'here he is sleeping in the stable and lets the horses be stolen. May the ground spit him out!' Jendrek was looking for a stone, but his parents, taking notice of the man's deathly pallor and his sunken eyes for the first time, restrained him. 'Maybe they have poisoned him too,' whispered Slimakowa. Slimak shrugged his shoulders, not knowing what to make of it. He began to question Maciek: Had anything happened in his absence? Slowly and with difficulty, but concealing nothing, Maciek told his story. 'Of course they gave me some filthy stuff, and then they made off with the horses,' he added, sobbing. But instead of taking pity on him, Slimak burst out afresh: 'What? you took drink from strangers and never told me anything about it?' 'Why should I have bothered you, gospodarz, when you were a little bit screwed yourself?' 'What's that to do with you?' bawled Slimak, 'dogs have no right to notice whether one is drunk or not, they have to be all the more watchful when one is! You are a thief like the others, only you are worse. I took you in when you were starving, and you've robbed me in return.' 'Don't talk like that,' groaned Maciek, crawling to Slimak's feet, 'I have saved a few roubles from my wages, and there is my little chest and a bit of sheepskin and my sukmana; take it all, but don't say I robbed you. Your dog has not been more faithful, and they have poisoned him too.' 'Don't bother me,' cried Slimak, thrusting him aside, 'the fellow offers me his wages and his box when the horses were worth twenty-eight roubles. I haven't taken twenty-eight roubles the whole year. If you were my own son I wouldn't let you off; neither of the boys have ever cost me as much.' His anger overcame him, he beat himself with his clenched fists. 'Find the horses,' he cried, 'or I will give you in charge, go where you like, look where you like, but don't show your face here without them or one of us will die! I loathe you. Take that bastard or we will let it starve, and be off!' 'I will find the horses,' said Maciek, and drew his old sheepskin round him with trembling hands; 'perhaps God will help me.' 'The devil will help you, you low scoundrel,' said Slimak, and turned away. 'And leave your box,' added Jendrek. 'He has paid us out for our kindness,' whimpered Slimakowa, wiping her eyes. They went into the house. Not one of them had a kind glance to spare for Maciek, although he was leaving them forever. Slowly and painfully he wrapped the child up in an old bit of a shirt and a shawl, fastened his belt round himself and looked for a stick. His head was aching as if he were going through a severe illness; he was unable to reason out the situation. He felt no resentment towards Slimak for having beaten him and driven him away; the gospodarz was in the right, of course; neither was he afraid of having no roof over his head; people like him never had any roof of their own; he was not thinking of the future. Another thought was torturing him...the horses. For Slimak the horses were part of his working machinery, for Maciek they were friends and brothers. Who but they in the whole world had longed for him, had greeted him heartily when he returned, or looked after him when he went out? No one but Wojtek and Kasztan. For years they had shared hardships together. Now they were gone, perhaps led away into misery, through his, Maciek's, fault. He fancied he heard them neighing. They were becoming sensible of what was happening to them and were calling to him for help! 'I am coming, I am coming,' he muttered, took the child on his arm, seized the stick and limped forth. He did not look round, he would see the gospodarstwo again when he came back with the horses. He saw Burek lying stark behind the barn, but he had no thought to spare for him; he peered for the traces of the horses' feet. There they were, stamped into the snow as into wax; Kasztan's large feet and the broken hoof of Wojtek; here the thieves had mounted and ridden off at a slow trot. How bold, how sure of themselves they had been! But Maciek will find you! The peasant rancour in him had been awakened. If you escape to the end of the world he will pursue you; if you dig yourselves into the ground he will dig you out with his hands; if you escape to Heaven he will stand at the gate and importune the saints until they fly all over the universe and give him back the horses! On the highroad the tracks became less distinct, but they were still recognizable. Maciek could read the whole history of the peregrination in them. Here Kasztan had been startled and had shied; here the thief had dismounted and altered Wojtek's bridle. What gentlemen they were, these thieves, they came stealing in new boots, such as no gentleman need have been ashamed of! Near the church the tracks became confused and, what was worse, divided. Kasztan had been ridden to the right and Wojtek to the left. After reflecting for a moment, Maciek followed the latter track, possibly because it was clearer, but most likely because he loved that little horse the best. About noon he found himself near the village where Magda's uncle, the Soltys Grochowski, lived. He turned in there, hoping for a bite of food; he was hungry and the little girl was crying. Grochowski was at home and in the middle of receiving a sound rating from his wife for no particular reason but just for the pleasure of it. The huge man was sitting on the bench by the wall, with one arm on the table and the other on the window-sill, listening with an expression of fixed attention to his wife's homilies; this attention was, however, assumed, for whenever she buried her head among the pots and pans on the stove he yawned and stretched himself, pulling a face as if the conversation had long been distasteful to him. As his wife was in the habit of relenting before strangers, so as not to prejudice his office, Grochowski hailed Maciek's arrival gladly, and ordered food for him and milk for the little girl, adding cold meat and vodka to the repast when he heard the news that Slimak's horses had been stolen and that Maciek was applying to him for advice. He even talked of drawing up a statement, but the necessary implements were not at hand. So he drew Maciek into the alcove for a long, whispered conversation, the upshot of which was that they must proceed with caution upon the track of the thieves, as certain strong influences tied Grochowski's hands until he had clearer evidence. Maciek was also given to understand why Jasiek Gryb had entertained the gospodarz and his family so liberally, and Grochowski even seemed to know the man who had presented Maciek with the monks' cordial and said that the woman in the sledge was not a woman at all. 'I will do whatever you tell me, Soltys,' said Maciek, embracing his knees, 'even if you should send me to my death.' 'It is no use tracking near here,' said the Soltys, 'we know all about that, but it would be useful to know where the other track leads to. Follow that as far as you can, and if you find any clue let me know at once. You ought to be back here by to-morrow.' 'And shall we find the horses?' 'We shall find them even if we had to drag them out of the thieves' bowels,' said the Soltys, looking fierce. It was about two o'clock when Maciek was ready to start. The Soltys hinted that the child had better be left behind, but his wife was so angry at the suggestion that he desisted. So Maciek tied her up again in the old bits of clothing and went his way. He easily found Kasztan's tracks on the highroad and followed them for an hour, when he thought that he must be nearing the thieves' quarters, for the tracks had been covered up, and finally led into the ravines. The frost was pinching harder and harder, but the breathless man scarcely noticed the cold. From time to time clouds flew over the sky and snow drifted along the ground in gusts; Maciek searched all the more eagerly, so as not to miss the track before it should be covered with fresh drifts. On and on he walked, never even noticing that darkness was coming on and the snow was falling faster. Now and then he would sit down for a moment, too tired to go on, but he jumped up again, for he fancied he heard Kasztan neighing. Probably it was his aching head that produced these sounds, but at last they became so loud that he left the track and cut right across the hill in the direction from which they seemed to proceed. With his last remaining strength he struggled with the bushes, fell, scrambled to his feet, and continued. Then the neighing ceased and he found that he was in the ravines, knee-deep in snow, and night-was falling. With difficulty he dragged himself on to a knoll to see where he was. He could see nothing but snow--snow to the right and to the left, here and there intercepted by bushes, the last streak of light had faded from the sky. He tried to descend; in one place the slope was too steep, in another there were too many bushes; at last he decided on an easier place and put his stick forward; it gave way, and he fell after it for several yards. It was fortunate that the snow lay waist-deep in this spot. The frightened child began its low sobbing, it had always been too weak to cry heartily. Fear was knocking at Maciek's heart. 'Surely, I can't have lost my way?' he thought, 'these are our ravines that I know so well, yet I don't see my way out of them.' He started walking again, alternately in low and deep snow, until he came upon a place that had been trodden down recently. He knelt down and felt the tracks with his hands. They were his own footprints. 'Dear me! I've been going round in a circle,' he muttered, and tried another corridor of ravines which presently led him to the place where he had slid down the hill. He fancied he heard murmurings overhead and looked up, but it was only the rustling of the bushes. The wind had sprung up on the hillside and was driving before it clouds of fine snow which stung his face and hands like gnats. 'Can it be that my hour has come?' he thought; 'No, no,' he whispered, 'not till I have found the horses, else they will take me for a thief.' He wrapped the child more closely in the coverings; she had fallen asleep in spite of shaking and discomfort; he walked about aimlessly, so as to keep moving. 'I won't be a fool and sit down,' he muttered, 'if I sit down I shall be frozen, and the thieves will keep the horses.' The hard snow fell faster and faster, whitening Maciek from head to foot; the wind swept along the top of the hills, and as he listened to it, the man was glad that he had not been caught in the open. 'It's quite warm here,' he said, 'but all the same I'm not going to sit down, I must keep on walking till the morning.' But it was not yet midnight and Maciek's legs began to refuse obedience, he could no longer push away the snow with his feet; he stopped and stamped, but that was even more tiring; he leant against the sides of the little cavity. The spot was excellent; it was raised above the ravine, and the little hollow was just large enough to hold a man; bushes sheltered it against the snow on all sides. But the crowning advantage was a jutting piece of rock, about the size of a stool. 'No, I won't sit down,' he determined, 'I know I should get frozen.... It's true,' he added after a while, 'it would not do to go to sleep, but it can't hurt to sit down for a bit.' He boldly sat down, drew his cap over his ears and the clothes round the sleeping child, and decided that he would alternately rest and stamp, and so await the morning. 'So long as I don't go to sleep,' he kept on reminding himself. He fancied the air was getting a little warmer and his feet were thawing. Instead of the cold he felt ants creeping under the soles of his feet. They crept in among his toes, swarmed over his injured leg, then over the other, and reached his knees. In a mysterious way one had suddenly settled on his nose; he wanted to flick it off, but a whole swarm was sitting on his arms. He decided not to drive them away, for in the first place they were keeping him awake, and then he rather liked them. He smiled, as one reached his waist, and did not ask how they came to be there. It was not surprising that there should be ant-hills in the ravines, and he forgot that it was winter. 'So long as I don't go to sleep...so long as I don't go to sleep....' But at last he asked himself 'Why am I not to go to sleep? It's night and I am in the stable? The thieves might be coming, that's it!' He grasped his stick more firmly; whispers seemed to be stirring all round. 'Oho! they are opening the stable door, there is the snow, this time I will give it to them....' The thieves must have found out that he was on the watch this time and made off. Maciek laughed; now he could go to sleep. He straightened his back, pressed the little girl close. 'Just a moment's sleep,' he reminded himself, 'I've something to do, but what is it? Ploughing? no, that's done. Water the horses.. the horses....' After midnight the moon dispersed the clouds and the new moon peeped out and looked straight into the sleeper's face: but the man did not move. Fresh clouds came up and hid the moon, yet he did not move. He sat in the hollow of the hill, his head leaning against its side, the child clasped to his breast. At last the sun rose, but even then he did not move. He seemed to be gazing in astonishment at the railway line, not more than twenty steps away from his resting place. The sun was high when a signalman came along the permanent way. He caught sight of the sleeper and shouted, but there was no answer, and the man approached. 'Heh, father! have you been drinking?' he called out, as he went round the hollow at a distance. At last, hardly believing his eyes, he went up to the silent sitter and touched his hand. Maciek's and the child's faces were hard, as if they had been cast in wax, hoarfrost lay on his lashes, and frozen moisture stood on the child's lips. The signalman's arms dropped in astonishment; he wanted to call for help, but remembered that no one would hear him. He turned and ran at full speed to the Soltys' office. In the course of an hour or two a sledge with some men arrived to remove the bodies. But Maciek's was frozen so hard that it was impossible to open his arms or straighten his legs, so they put him in the sledge as he was. He went for his last drive with the child on his knees, his head resting against the rail, and his face turned upwards, as though he had done with human reckoning and was recounting his wrongs to his Creator. When the mournful procession stopped, a small crowd of peasants, women, and Jews gathered in front of the Wojt's office. The Wojt, his clerk, and Grochowski were standing together. A shudder of remorse seized the latter, he guessed who the man and child were that had been found, frozen to death. He explained to the crowd what Maciek had told him. When he had finished, the men turned away, the women groaned, the Jews spat on the ground; only Jasiek, the son of the rich peasant Gryb, lighted an expensive cigar and smiled. He put his hands in the pockets of his sheepskin coat, stuck out first one foot, then the other, to display his elegant top-boots that reached above his knees, sucked his cigar, and continued to smile. The men looked at him with aversion, but the women, although shocked, did not think him repulsive. Was he not a tall, broadshouldered, graceful lad, with a complexion like milk and blood, and eyes the colour of a bluebottle, and did he not trim his moustaches and beard like a nobleman? It was a pity he was not a foreman with plenty of opportunities of ordering the girls about! The men, however, were whispering among themselves that he was a scoundrel who would come to a bad end. 'Certainly it was wrong of Slimak to send the poor wretch away in such weather,' said the Wojt. 'It was a shame,' murmured the women. 'It's only natural he should be angry when his horses had been stolen,' said one of the men. 'Driving him away did not bring the horses back, and he will have the two poor souls on his conscience till he dies,' cried an old woman. Grochowski was seized with shuddering again. 'It was not so much that Slimak drove him away, but that he himself was anxious to go,' he said quickly, 'he wanted to track the thieves;' here he gave a quick glance at Jasiek, who returned it insolently, and observed that horse-thieves were sharp, and more people might meet their death in tracking them. 'They may find that there is a limit to it,' said Grochowski. The policeman now proceeded to examine the corpses, and the Wojt was standing by with a wry face, as if he had bitten on a peppercorn. 'We must drive them to the district police-court,' he said; 'Stojka,' turning to the owner of the sledge, 'drive on, we will overtake you presently. This is the first time that any one in this parish has ever been frozen to death.' Stojka demurred and scratched his head, but he took up the reins and lashed the horses; after all, it was only a few versts, and one need not look much at the passengers. He walked by the side of the sledge and Grochowski and a man who was to make closer acquaintance with the police-court, for spoiling his neighbour's bucket, went with him. It so happened that, just as the Wojt was dispatching the bodies to the police-court, the police officer was sending 'Silly Zoska' back to her native village. A few months after leaving her child in Maciek's care she had been arrested; the reason was unknown to her. As a matter of fact she had been accused of begging, vagrancy, and attempted arson. After the discovery of each new crime, they had taken her from police-station to prison, from prison to infirmary, from infirmary to another prison, and so on for a whole year. During her peregrinations Zoska had behaved with complete indifference; when she was taken to a new place she would worry at first whether she would find work. After that she became apathetic and slept the greater part of the time, on her plank bed, or waiting in corridors and prison-yards. It was all the same to her. At times she began to long for freedom and her child, and then she fell into accesses of fury. Now they were sending her back under escort of two peasants; one carried the papers relating to her case, and the other had come to keep him company. She had a boot on one foot and a sandal on the other, a sukmana in holes, and a handkerchief like a sieve on her head. She walked quickly in front of the men, as if she were in a hurry to get back, yet neither the familiar neighbourhood nor the hard frost seemed to make any impression on her. When the men called out: 'Heh! not so fast!' she stood as still as a post, and waited till they told her to go on. 'She's quite daft!' said one. 'She's always been like that,' said the other, who had known her a long time, 'yet she's not bad at rough work.' A few versts from the village, where the chimneys peeped out from beyond the snowy hills, they came upon the little cortège. The attendants, noticing something unusual in the look of it, stopped and talked to the Soltys. 'Look, Zoska,' said the latter to the woman who was standing by indifferently, 'that is your little girl.' She approached without seeming to understand; slowly, however, her face acquired a human expression. 'What's fallen upon them?' 'They have been frozen.' 'Why have they been frozen?' 'Slimak drove them out of the house.' 'Slimak drove them out of the house?' she repeated, fingering the bodies, 'yes, that's my little girl, she's grown a bit; whoever heard of a child being frozen to death?... she was meant to come to a bad end. As God loves me, yes, that's my girl, my little girl--they've murdered her; look at her!' she suddenly became animated. 'Drive on,' said the Soltys, 'we must be getting on.' The horses started, Zoska tried to get into the sledge. 'What are you doing?' cried her attendants, pulling her back. 'That's my little girl!' cried Zoska, holding on. 'What if she is yours?' said the Soltys, 'there's one road for you and another for her.' 'She's my little girl, mine!' With both hands the woman held on to the sledge, but the peasant whipped up the horses and she fell to the ground; she grasped the runners and was dragged along for several yards. 'Don't behave like a lunatic,' cried the men, detaching her with difficulty from the fast-moving sledge; she would have run after it, but one of them knelt on her feet and the other held her by the shoulders. 'She's my little girl; Slimak has let her freeze to death.... God punish him, may he freeze to death himself!' she screamed. Gradually, as the sledge moved away, she calmed down, her livid face assumed its copper colour, and her eyes became dull. She fell back into her old apathy. 'She's forgotten all about it,' said one of her companions. 'These lunatics are often happier than other people,' answered the friend. Then they walked on in silence. Nothing was heard but the creaking snow under their feet. CHAPTER X The loss of his horses had almost driven Slimak crazy. Beating Maciek and kicking him out had not exhausted his anger. He felt the room oppressive, walked out into the yard and ran up and down with clenched fists and bloodshot eyes, waiting for a chance to vent his temper. He remembered that he ought to feed the cows and went into the stable, where he pushed the animals about, and when one clumsily trod on his foot, he seized a fork and beat her mercilessly. He kicked Burek's body behind the barn. 'You damned dog, if you had not taken bread from strangers, I should still have my horses!' He returned to the room and threw himself on the bench with such violence that he upset the block for wood-chopping. Jendrek laughed, but his father unbuckled his belt and did not stop beating him till the boy crept, bleeding, under the bench. With the belt in his hand Slimak waited for his wife to make a remark. But she remained silent, only holding on to the chimney-piece for support. 'What makes you stagger? Haven't you got over yesterday's vodka?' 'Something's wrong with me,' she answered low. He decided to strap on his belt. 'What's wrong?' 'I can't see, and there's a noise in my ears. Is any one whistling?' 'Don't drink vodka and you'll hear no noises,' he said, spitting, and went out. It surprised him that she had made no remark after the thrashing he had given Jendrek, and having no one to beat, he seized an axe and chopped wood until nightfall, eating nothing all day. Logs and splinters fell round him, he felt as if he were revenging himself on his enemies, and when he left off, stiff and tired, his shirt soaked with perspiration, his anger had gone from him. He was surprised to find no one in the room and peeped into the alcove; Slimakowa was lying on the bed. 'What's the matter' 'I'm not well, but it's nothing.' 'The fire has gone out.' 'Out?' she asked vaguely, raising herself. She got up and lighted the fire with difficulty, her husband watching her. 'You see,' he said presently, 'you got hot yesterday and then you would drink water out of the Jew's pewter pot and unbutton your jacket. You have caught cold.' 'It's nothing,' she said ill-humouredly, pulled herself together and warmed up the supper. Jendrek crept out and took a spoon, but cried instead of eating. During the night, at about the hour when the unhappy Maciek was drawing his last breath in the ravines, Slimakowa was seized with violent fits of shivering. Slimak covered her with his sheepskin and it passed off. She got up in the morning, and although she complained of pains, she went about her work. Slimak was depressed. Towards evening a sledge stopped at the gate and the innkeeper Josel entered with a strange expression on his face. Slimak's conscience pricked him. 'The Lord be praised,' said Josel. 'In Eternity.' A silence ensued. 'You have nothing to ask?' said the Jew. 'What should I have to ask?' Slimak looked into his eyes and involuntarily grew pale. 'To-morrow,' Josel said slowly, 'to-morrow Jendrek's trial is coming on for violence to Hermann.' 'They'll do nothing to him.' 'I expect he will have to sit in jail for a bit.' 'Then let him sit, it will cure him of fighting.' Again silence fell. The Jew shook his head; Slimak's alarm grew. He screwed up his courage at last and asked: 'What else?' 'What's the use of making many words?' said the Jew, holding up his hands, 'Maciek and the child have been frozen to death.' Slimak sprang to his feet and looked for something to throw at the Jew, but staggered and held on to the wall. A hot wave rushed over him, his legs shook. Then he wondered why he should have been seized with fear like this. 'Where...when?' 'In the ravines close to the railway line.' 'But when?' 'You know quite well that it was yesterday when you drove them out.' Slimak's anger was rising. 'As I live! the Jew is a liar! Frozen to death? What did he go to the ravines for? are there no cottages in the world?' The innkeeper shrugged his shoulders and got up. 'You can believe it or not, it's all the same to me, but I myself saw them being driven to the police-station.' 'Ah well! What harm can they do to me, because Maciek has been frozen?' 'Perhaps men can't do you harm, but, man, before God! or don't you believe in God?' the Jew asked from the other side of the door, his burning eyes fixed on Slimak. The peasant stood still and listened to his heavy tread down to the gate and to the sound of his departing sledge. He shook himself, turned round and met Jendrek's eyes looking fixedly at him from the far corner. 'Why should I be to blame?' he muttered. Suddenly an annual sermon, preached by an old priest, flashed through his mind; he seemed to hear the peculiar cadence of his voice as he said: 'I was an hungered and ye gave me no meat.... I was a stranger and ye took me not in.' 'By God, the Jew is lying,' he exclaimed. These words seemed to break the spell; he felt sure Maciek and the child were alive, and he almost went out to call them in to supper. 'A low Jew, that Josel,' he said to his wife, while he covered her again with the sheepskin, when her shivering-fits returned. Nothing should induce him to believe that story. Next day the village Soltys drove up with the summons for Jendrek. 'His trial does not come on till to-morrow,' he said, 'but as I was driving that way, I thought he might as well come with me.' Jendrek grew pale and silently put on his new sukmana and sheepskin. 'What will they do to him?' his father asked peevishly. 'Eh! I dare say he'll get a few days, perhaps a week.' Slimak slowly pulled a rouble out of a little packet. 'And...Soltys, have you heard what the accursed Jew has been saying about Maciek and the child being frozen to death?' 'How shouldn't I have heard?' said the Soltys, reluctantly; 'it's true.' 'Frozen...frozen?' 'Yes, of course. But,' he added, 'every one understands that it's not your fault. He didn't look after the horses and you discharged him. No one told him to go down into the ravines. He must have been drunk. The poor wretch died through his own stupidity.' Jendrek was ready to start, and embraced his parents' knees. Slimak gave him the rouble, tears came into his eyes; his mother, however, showed no sign of interest. 'Jagna,' Slimak said with concern, 'Jendrek is going to his trial.' 'What of that?' she answered with a delirious look. 'Are you very ill?' 'No, I'm only weak.' She went into the alcove and Slimak remained alone. The longer he sat pondering the lower his head dropped on to his chest. Half dozing, he fancied he was sitting on a wide, grey plain, no bushes, no grass, not even stones were to be seen; there was nothing in front of him; but at his side there was something he dared not look at. It was Maciek with the child looking steadily at him. No, he would not look, he need not look! He need see nothing of him, except a little bit of his sukmana...perhaps not even that! The thought of Maciek was becoming an obsession. He got up and began to busy himself with the dishes. 'What am I coming to? It doesn't do to give way!' He pulled himself together, fed the cattle, ran to the river for water. It was so long since he had done these things that he felt rejuvenated, and but for the thought of Maciek he would have been almost cheerful. His gloom returned with the dusk. It was the silence that tormented him most. Nothing stirred but the mice behind the boards. The voice was haunting him again: 'I was a stranger and ye took me not in.' 'It's all the fault of those scoundrel Swabians that everything is going wrong with me,' he muttered, and began to count his losses on the window-pane: 'Stasiek, that's one, the cow two, the horses four, because the thieves did that out of spite for the hog, Burek five, Jendrek six, Maciek and the child eight, and Magda had to leave, and my wife is ill with worry, that makes ten. Lord Christ...!' Trembling seized him and he gripped his hair; he had never in his life felt fear like this, though he had looked death in the face more than once. He had suddenly caught a glimpse of the power the Germans were exercising, and it scared him. They had destroyed all his life's work, and yet you could not bring it home to them. They had lived like others, ploughed, prayed, taught their children; you could not say they were doing any wrong, and yet they had made his home desolate simply by being there. They had blasted what was near them as smoke from a kiln withers all green things. Not until this moment had the thought ever come to him: 'I am too close to them! The gospodarstwos farther off do not suffer like this. What good is the land, if the people on it die?' This new aspect was so horrible to him that he felt he must escape from it; he glanced at his wife, she was asleep. The cadence of the priest's voice began to haunt him again. Steps were approaching through the yard. The peasant straightened himself. Could it be Jendrek? The door creaked. No, it was a strange hand that groped along the wall in the darkness. He drew back, and his head swam when the door opened and Zoska stood on the threshold. For a moment both stood silent, then Zoska said: 'Be praised.' She began rubbing her hands over the fire. The idea of Maciek and the child and Zoska had become confused in Slimak's mind; he looked at her as if she were an apparition from the other world. 'Where do you come from?' His voice was choked. 'They sent me back to the parish and told me to look out for work. They said they wouldn't keep loafers.' Seeing the food in the saucepan, she began to lick her lips like a dog. 'Pour out a basin of soup for yourself.' She did as she was told. 'Don't you want a servant?' she asked presently. 'I don't know; my wife is ill.' 'There you are! It's quiet here. Where's Magda?' 'Left.' 'Jendrek?' 'Sent up for trial.' 'There you are! Stasiek?' 'Drowned last summer,' he whispered, fearful lest Maciek's and the little girl's turn should come next. But she ate greedily like a wild animal, and asked nothing further. 'Does she know?' he thought. Zoska had finished and struck her hand cheerfully on her knee. He took courage. 'Can I stop the night?' Uneasiness seized him; any other guest would have been a blessing in his solitude, but Zoska.... If she did not know the truth, what ill wind had blown her here? And if she knew?...' He reflected. In the intense silence suddenly the priest's voice started again: 'I was a stranger and ye took me not in.' 'All right, stop here, but you must sleep in this room.' 'Or in the barn?' 'No, here.' He hardly knew what it was that he feared; there was a vague sense of misfortune in the air which was tormenting him. The fire died down. Zoska lay down on the bench in her rags and Slimak went into the alcove. He sat on the bed, determined to be on the watch. He did not know that this strange state of mind is called 'nerves'. Yet a kind of relief had come in with Zoska; she had driven away the spectre of Maciek and the child. But an iron ring was beginning to press on his head. This was sleep, heavy sleep, the companion of great anguish. He dreamt that he was split in two; one part of him was sitting by his sick wife, the other was Maciek, standing outside the window, where sunflowers bloomed in the summer. This new Maciek was unlike the old one, he was gloomy and vindictive. 'Don't believe,' said the strange guest, 'that I shall forgive you. It's not so much that I got frozen, that might happen to anyone the worse for drink, but you drove me away for no fault of mine after I had served you so long. And what harm had the child done to you? Don't turn away! Pass judgment on yourself for what you have done. God will not let these wrongs be done and keep silent.' 'What shall I say?' thought Slimak, bathed in perspiration. 'He is telling the truth, I am a scoundrel. He shall fix the punishment, perhaps he will get it over quickly.' His wife moved and he opened his eyes, but closed them again. A rosy brightness filled the room, the frost glittered in flowers on the window panes. 'Daylight?' he thought. No, it was not daylight, the rosy brightness trembled. A smell of burning was heavy in the room. 'Fire?' He looked into the room; Zoska had disappeared. 'I knew it!' he exclaimed, and ran out into the yard. His house was indeed on fire; the roof towards the highroad was alight, but owing to the thick layers of snow the flames spread but slowly; he could still have saved the house, but he did not even think of this. 'Get up, Jagna,' he cried, running back into the alcove, 'the house is on fire!' 'Leave me alone,' said the delirious woman, covering her head with the sheepskin. He seized her and, stumbling over the threshold, carried her into the shed, fetched her clothes and bedding, broke open the chest and took out his money; finally he threw everything he could lay hands on out of the window. Here was at least something tangible to fight. The whole roof was now ablaze; smoke and flames were coming into the room from the boarded ceiling. He was dragging the bench through the brightly illuminated yard when he happened to look at the barn; he stood petrified. Flames were licking at it, and there stood Zoska shaking her clenched fist at him and shouting: 'That's my thanks to you, Slimak, for taking care of my child, now you shall die as she did!' She flew out of the yard and up the hill; he could see her by the light of the fire, dancing and clapping her hands. 'Fire, fire!' she shouted. Slimak reeled like a wild animal after the first shot. Then he slowly went towards the barn and sat down, not thinking of seeking help. This was the beginning of the divine punishment for the wrong he had done. 'We shall all die!' he murmured. Both buildings were burning like pillars of fire, and in spite of the frost Slimak felt hot in the shed. Suddenly shouts and clattering came from the settlement; the Germans were coming to his assistance. Soon the yard was swarming with them, men, women and children with hand-fire-engines and buckets. They formed into groups, and at Fritz Hamer's command began to pull down the burning masses and to put out the fire. Laughing and emulating each other in daring, they went into the fire as into a dance; some of the most venturesome climbed up the walls of the burning buildings. Zoska approached once more from the side of the ravines. 'Never mind the Germans helping you, you will die all the same,' she cried. 'Who is that?' shouted the settlers, 'catch her!' But Zoska was too quick for them. 'I suppose it was she who set fire to your house?' asked Fritz. 'No one else but she.' Fritz was silent for a moment. 'It would be better for you to sell us the land.' The peasant hung his head.... The barn could not be saved, but the walls of the cottage were still standing; some of the people were busy putting out the fire, others surrounded the sick woman. 'What are you going to do?' Fritz began again. 'We will live in the stable.' The women whispered that they had better be taken to the settlement, but the men shook their heads, saying the woman might be infectious. Fritz inclined to this opinion and ordered her to be well wrapped up and taken into the stable. 'We will send you what you need,' he said. 'God reward you,' said Slimak, embracing his knees. Fritz took Hermann aside. 'Drive full speed to Wolka,' he said, 'and fetch miller Knap; we may be able to settle this affair to-night.' 'It's high time we did,' replied the other, audibly, 'we shan't hold out till the spring unless we do.' Fritz swore. Nevertheless, he took leave benevolently. Bending over the sick woman he said: 'She is quite unconscious.' But in a strangely decided voice she ejaculated: 'Ah! unconscious!' He drew back in confusion. 'She is delirious,' he said. At daybreak the Germans brought the promised help, but Slimak paced backwards and forwards among the ruins of his homestead, from which the smell of smouldering embers rose pungently. He looked at his household goods, tumbled into the yard. How many times had he sat on that bench and cut notches and crosses into it when a boy. That heap of smouldering ruins represented his storehouse and the year's crop. How small the cottage looked now that it was reduced to walls, and how large the chimney! He took out his money, hid it under a heap of dry manure in the stable and strolled about again. Up the hill he went, with a feeling that they were talking about him in the village and would come to his help. But there was no one to be seen on the boundless covering of snow; here and there smoke rose from the cottages. His imagination, keener than usual, conjured up old pictures. He fancied he was harrowing on the hill with the two chestnuts who were whisking their tails under his nose; the sparrows were twittering, Stasiek gazing into the river; by the bridge his wife was beating the linen, he could hear the resounding smacks, while the squire's brother-in-law was wildly galloping up and down the valley. Jendrek and Magda were answering each other in snatches of songs.... Suddenly he was awakened from his dreams by the stench of his burnt cottage; he looked up, and everything he saw became abominable to him. The frozen river, into which his child would never gaze again; the empty, hideous homestead; he longed to escape from it all and go far away and forget Stasiek and Maciek and the whole accursed gospodarstwo. He could buy land more cheaply elsewhere with the money he would get from the Germans. What was the good of the land if it was ruining the people on it? He went into the stable and lay down near his wife, who was moaning deliriously, and soon fell asleep. At noon old Hamer appeared, accompanied by a German woman who carried two bowls of hot soup. He stood over Slimak and poked him with his stick. 'Hey, get up!' Slimak roused himself and looked about heavily; seeing the hot food he ate greedily. Hamer sat down in the doorway, smoking his pipe and watching Slimak; he nodded contentedly to himself. 'I've been down to the village to ask Gryb and the other gospodarze to come and help you, for that is a Christian duty....' He waited for the peasant's thanks, but Slimak went on eating and did not look at him. 'I told them they ought to take you in; but they said, God was punishing you for the death of the labourer and the child and they didn't wish to interfere. They are no Christians.' Slimak had finished eating, but he remained silent. 'Well, what are you going to do?' Slimak wiped his mouth and said: 'I shall sell.' Hamer poked his pipe with deliberation. 'To whom?' 'To you.' Hamer again busied himself with his pipe. 'All right! I am willing to buy, as you have fallen upon bad times. But I can only give you seventy roubles.' 'You were giving a hundred not long ago.' 'Why didn't you take it?' 'That's true, why didn't I take it? Everyone profits as he can.' 'Have you never tried to profit?' 'I have.' 'Then will you take it?' 'Why shouldn't I take it?' 'We will settle the matter at my house to-night.' 'The sooner the better.' 'Well, since it is so,' Hamer added after a while, 'I will give you seventy-five roubles, and you shan't be left to die here. You and your wife can come to the school; you can spend the winter with us and I will give you the same pay as my own farm-labourers.' Slimak winced at the word 'farm-labourer', but he said nothing. 'And your gospodarze,' concluded Hamer, 'are brutes. They will do nothing for you.' Before sunset a sledge conveyed the unconscious woman to the settlement. Slimak remained, recovered his money from under the manure, collected a few possessions and milked the cows. The dumb animals looked reproachfully at him and seemed to ask: 'Are you sure you have done the best you could, gospodarz?' 'What am I to do?' he returned, 'the place is unlucky, it is bewitched. Perhaps the Germans can take the spell away, I can't.' He felt as if his feet were being held to the ground, but he spat at it. 'Much I have to be thankful to you for! Barren land, far from everybody so that thieves may profit!' He would not look back. On the way he met two German farm-labourers, who had come to spend the night in the stable; as he passed them, they laughed. 'Catch me spending the winter with you scoundrels! I'm off directly the wife is well and the boy out of jail.' A black shadow detached itself from the gate when he reached the settlement, 'Is that you, schoolmaster?' 'Yes. So you have consented after all to sell your land?' Slimak was silent. 'Perhaps it's the best thing you can do. If you can't make much of it yourself, at least you can save others.' He looked round and lowered his voice. 'But mind you bargain well, for you are doing them a good turn. Miller Knap will pay cash down as soon as the contract has been signed and give his daughter to Wilhelm. Otherwise Hirschgold will turn the Hamers out at midsummer and sell the land to Gryb. They have a heavy contract with the Jew.' 'What? Gryb would buy the settlement?' 'Indeed he would. He is anxious to settle his son too, and Josel has been sniffing round for a month past. So there's your chance, bargain well.' 'Why, damn it,' said Slimak, 'I would rather have a hundred Germans than that old Judas.' A door creaked and the schoolmaster changed the conversation. 'Come this way, your wife is in the schoolroom.' 'Is that Slimak?' Fritz called out. 'It is I.' 'Don't stay long with your wife, she is being looked after, and we want you at daybreak; you must sleep in the kitchen.' The noise of loud conversation and clinking of glasses came from the back of the house, but the large schoolroom was empty, and only lighted by a small lamp. His wife was lying on a plank bed; a pungent smell of vinegar pervaded the room. That smell took the heart out of Slimak; surely his wife must be very ill! He stood over her; her eye-lashes twitched and she looked steadily at him. 'Is it you, Josef?' 'Who else should it be?' Her hands moved about restlessly on the sheepskin; she said distinctly: 'What are you doing, Josef, what are you doing?' 'You see I am standing here.' 'Ah yes, you are standing there...but what are you doing? I know everything, never fear!' 'Go away, gospodarz,' hurriedly cried the old woman, pushing him towards the door, 'she is getting excited, it isn't good for her.' 'Josef!' cried Slimakowa, 'come back! Josef, I must speak to you!' The peasant hesitated. 'You are doing no good,' whispered the schoolmaster, 'she is rambling, she may go to sleep when you are out of sight.' He drew Slimak into the passage, and Fritz Hamer at once took him to the further room. Miller Knap and old Hamer were sitting at a brightly lighted table behind their beer mugs, blowing clouds of smoke from their pipes. The miller had the appearance of a huge sack of flour as he sat there in his shirtsleeves, holding a full pot of beer in his hand and wiping the perspiration off his forehead. Gold studs glittered in his shirt. 'Well, you are going to let us have your land at last?' he shouted. 'I don't know,' said the peasant in a low voice, 'maybe I shall sell it.' The miller roared with laughter. 'Wilhelm,' he bellowed, as if Wilhelm, who was officiating at the beer-barrel on the bench, were half a mile off, 'pour out some beer for this man. Drink to my health and I'll drink to yours, although you never used to bring me your corn to grind. But why didn't you sell us your land before?' 'I don't know,' said the peasant, taking a long pull. 'Fill up his glass,' shouted the miller, 'I will tell you why; it's because you don't know your own mind. Determination is what you want. I've said to myself: I will have a mill at Wolka, and a mill at Wolka I have, although the Jews twice set fire to it. I said: My son shall be a doctor, and a doctor he will be. And now I've said: Hamer, your son must have a windmill, so he must have a windmill. Pour out another glass, Wilhelm, good beer...eh? my son-in-law brews it. What? no more beer? Then we'll go to bed.' Fritz pushed Slimak into the kitchen, where one of the farm-hands was asleep already. He felt stupefied; whether it was with the beer or with Knap's noisy conversation, he could not tell. He sat down on his plank bed and felt cheerful. The noise of conversation in German reached him from the adjoining room; then the Hamers left the house. Miller Knap stamped about the room for a while; presently his thick voice repeated the Lord's prayer while he was pulling off his boots and throwing them into a corner: 'Amen amen,' he concluded, and flung himself heavily upon the bed; a few moments later noises as if he were being throttled and murdered proclaimed that he was asleep. The moon was throwing a feeble light through the small squares of the window. Between waking and sleeping Slimak continued to meditate: 'Why shouldn't I sell? It's better to buy fifteen acres of land elsewhere, than to stay and have Jasiek Gryb as a neighbour. The sooner I sell, the better.' He got up as if he wished to settle the matter at once, laughed quietly to himself and felt more and more intoxicated. Then he saw a human shadow outlined against the window pane; someone was trying to look into the room. The peasant approached the window and became sober. He ran into the passage and pulled the door open with trembling hands. Frosty air fanned his face. His wife was standing outside, still trying to look through the window. 'Jagna, for God's sake, what are you doing here? Who dressed you?' 'I dressed myself, but I couldn't manage my boots, they are quite crooked. Come home,' she said, drawing him by the hand. 'Where, home? Are you so ill that you don't know our home is burnt down? Where will you go on a bitter night like this?' Hamer's mastiffs were beginning to growl. Slimakowa hung on her husband's arm. 'Come home, come home,' she urged stubbornly, 'I will not die in a strange house, I am a gospodyni, I will not stay here with the Swabians. The priests would not even sprinkle holy water on my coffin.' She pulled him and he went; the dogs went after them for a while snapping at their clothes; they made straight for the frozen river, so as to reach their own nest the sooner. On the riverbank they stopped for a moment, the tired woman was out of breath. 'You have let yourself be tempted by the Germans to sell them your land! You think I don't know. Perhaps you will say it is not true?' she cried, looking wildly into his eyes. He hung his head. 'You traitor, you son of a dog!' she burst out. 'Sell your land! You would sell the Lord Jesus to the Jews! Tired of being a gospodarz, are you? What is Jendrek to do? And is a gospodyni to die in a stranger's house?' She drew him into the middle of the frozen river. 'Stand here, Judas,' she cried, seizing him by the hands. 'Will you sell your land? Listen! Sell it, and God will curse you and the boy. This ice shall break if you don't give up that devil's thought! I won't give you peace after death, you shall never sleep! When you close your eyes I will come and open them again...listen!' she cried in a paroxysm of rage, 'if you sell the land, you shall not swallow the holy sacrament, it shall turn to blood in your mouth.' 'Jesus!' whispered the man. '...Where you tread, the grass shall be blasted! You shall throw a spell on everyone you look at, and misfortune shall befall them.' 'Jesus...Jesus!' he groaned, tearing himself from her and stopping his ears. 'Will you sell the land?' she cried, with her face close to his. He shook his head. 'Not if you have to draw your last breath lying on filthy litter?' 'Not though I had to draw...so help me God!' The woman was staggering; her husband carried her to the other bank and reached the stable, where the two farm labourers were installed. 'Open the door!' He hammered until one of them appeared. 'Clear out! I am going to put my wife in here.' They demurred and he kicked them both out. They went off, cursing and threatening him. Slimak laid his wife down on the warm litter and strolled about the yard, thinking that he must presently fetch help for her and a doctor. Now and then he looked into the stable; she seemed to be sleeping quietly. Her great peacefulness began to strike him, his head was swimming, he heard noises in his ears; he knelt down and pulled her by the hand; she was dead, even cold. 'Now I don't care if I go to the devil,' he said, raked some straw into a corner and was asleep within a few minutes. It was afternoon when he was at last awakened by old Sobieska. 'Get up, Slimak! your wife is dead! God's faith! dead as a stone.' 'How can I help it?' said the peasant, turning over and drawing his sheepskin over his head. 'But you must buy a coffin and notify the parish.' 'Let anyone who cares do that.' 'Who will do it? In the village they say it's God's punishment on you. And won't the Germans take it out of you! That fat man has quarrelled with them. Josel says you are now reaping the benefit of selling your fowls: he threatened me if I came here to see you. Get up now!' 'Let me be or I'll kick you!' 'You godless man, is your wife to lie there without Christian burial?' He advanced his boot so vehemently that the old woman ran screaming out along the highroad. Slimak pushed to the door and lay down again. A hard peasant-stubbornness had seized him. He was certain that he was past salvation. He neither accused himself nor regretted anything; he only wanted to be left to sleep eternally. Divine pity could have saved him, but he no longer believed in divine pity, and no human hand would do so much as give him a cup of water. While the sound of the evening-bells floated through the air, and the women in the cottages whispered the Angelus, a bent figure approached the gospodarstwo, a sack on his back, a stick in his hand; the glory of the setting sun surrounded him. Such as these are the 'angels' which the Lord sends to people in the extremity of their sorrow. It was Jonah Niedoperz, the oldest and poorest Jew in the neighbourhood; he traded in everything and never had any money to keep his large family, with whom he lived in a half-ruined cottage with broken windowpanes. Jonah was on his way to the village and was meditating deeply. Would he get a job there? would he live to have a dinner of pike on the Sabbath? would his little grandchildren ever have two shirts to their backs? 'Aj waj!' he muttered, 'and they even took the three roubles from me!' He had never forgotten that robbery in the autumn, for it was the largest sum he had ever possessed. His glance fell on the burnt homestead. Good God! if such a thing should ever befall the cottage where his wife and daughters, sons-in-law and grandchildren lived! His emotion grew when he heard the cows lowing miserably. He approached the stable. 'Slimak! My good lady gospodyni!' he cried, tapping at the door. He was afraid to open it lest he should be suspected of prying into other people's business. 'Who is that?' asked Slimak. 'It's only I, old Jonah,' he said, and peeped in, 'but what's wrong with your honours?' he asked in astonishment. 'My wife is dead.' 'Dead? how dead? what do you mean by such a joke? Ajwaj! really-dead?' He looked attentively at her. 'Such a good gospodyni...what a misfortune, God defend us! And you are lying there and don't see about the funeral?' 'There may as well be two,' murmured the peasant. 'How two? are you ill?' 'No.' The Jew shook his head and spat. 'It can't be like this; if you won't move I will go and give notice; tell me what to do.' Slimak did not answer. The cows began to low again. 'What is the matter with the cows?' the Jew asked interestedly. 'I suppose they want water.' 'Then why don't you water them?' No answer came. The Jew looked at Slimak and waited, then he tapped his forehead. 'Where is the pail, gospodarz?' 'Leave me alone.' But Jonah did not give in. He found the pail, ran to the ice-hole and watered the cows; he had sympathy for cows, because he dreamt of possessing one himself one day, or at least a goat. Then he put the pail close to Slimak. He was exhausted with this unusually hard work. 'Well, gospodarz, what is to happen now?' His pity touched Slimak, but failed to rouse him. He raised his head. 'If you should see Grochowski, tell him not to sell the land before Jendrek is of age.' 'But what am I to do now, when I get to the village?' Slimak had relapsed into silence. The Jew rested his chin in his hand and pondered for a while; at last he took his bundle and stick and went off. The miserable old man's pity was so strong that he forgot his own needs and only thought of saving the other. Indeed, he was unable to distinguish between himself and his fellow-creature, and he felt as if he himself were lying on the straw beside his dead wife and must rouse himself at all costs. He went as fast as his old legs would carry him straight to Grochowski; by the time he arrived it was dark. He knocked, but received no answer, waited for a quarter of an hour and then walked round the house. Despairing at last of making himself heard, he was just going to depart, when Grochowski suddenly confronted him, as if the ground had produced him. 'What do you want, Jew?' asked the huge man, concealing some long object behind his back. 'What do I want?' quavered the frightened Jew, 'I have come straight from Slimak's. Do you know that his house is burnt down, his wife is dead, and he is lying beside her, out of his wits? He talks as if he had a filthy idea in his head, and he hasn't even watered the cows.' 'Listen, Jew,' said Grochowski fiercely, 'who told you to come here and lie to me? is it those horse-stealers?' 'What horse-stealers? I've come straight from Slimak....' 'Lies! You won't draw me away from here, whatever you do.' The Jew now perceived that it was a gun which Grochowski was hiding behind his back, and the sight so unnerved him that he nearly fell down. He fled at full speed along the highroad. Even now, however, he did not forget Slimak, but walked on towards the village to find the priest. The priest had been in the parish for several years. He was middle-aged and extremely good-looking, and possessed the education and manners of a nobleman. He read more than any of his neighbours, hunted, was sociable, and kept bees. Everybody spoke well of him, the nobility because he was clever and fond of society, the Jews because he would not allow them to be oppressed, the settlers because he entertained their Pastors, the peasants because he renovated the church, conducted the services with much pomp, preached beautiful sermons, and gave to the poor. But in spite of this there was no intimate touch between him and his simple parishioners. When they thought of him, they felt that God was a great nobleman, benevolent and merciful, but not friends with the first comer. The priest felt this and regretted it. No peasant had ever invited him to a wedding or christening. At first he had tried to break through their shyness, and had entered into conversations with them; but these ended in embarrassment on both sides and he left it off. 'I cannot act the democrat,' he thought irritably. Sometimes when he had been left to himself for several days owing to bad roads, he had pricks of conscience. 'I am a Pharisee,' he thought; 'I did not become a priest only to associate with the nobility, but to serve the humble.' He would then lock himself in, pray for the apostolic spirit, vow to give away his spaniel and empty his cellar of wine. But as a rule, just as the spirit of humility and renunciation was beginning to be awakened, Satan would send him a visitor. 'God have mercy! fate is against me,' he would mutter, get up from his knees, give orders for the kitchen and cellar, and sing jolly songs and drink like an Uhlan a quarter of an hour afterwards. To-night, at the time when Jonah was drawing near to the Parsonage, he was getting ready for a party at a neighbouring landowner's to meet an engineer from Warsaw who would have the latest news and be entertained exceptionally well, for he was courting the landowner's daughter. The priest was longing feverishly for the moment of departure, for lie had been left to himself for several days. He could hardly bear the look of his snow-covered courtyard any more, having no diversion except watching a man chop wood, and hearing the cawing of rooks. He paced to and fro, thinking that another quarter of an hour must have gone, and was surprised to find it was only a few minutes since he had last looked at his watch. He ordered the samovar and lit his pipe. Then there was a knock at the door. Jonah came in, bowing to the ground. 'I am glad to see you,' said the priest, 'there are several things in my wardrobe that want mending.' 'God be praised for that, I haven't had work for a week past. And your honour's lady housekeeper tells me that the clock is broken as well.' 'What? you mend clocks too?' 'Why yes, I've even got the tools to do it with. I'm also an umbrella-mender and harness-maker, and I can glaze stewing-pans.' 'If that is so you might spend the winter here. When can you begin?' 'I'll sit down now and work through the night.' 'As you like. Ask them to give you some tea in the kitchen.' 'Begging your Reverence's pardon, may I ask that the sugar might be served separately?' 'Don't you like your tea sweet?' 'On the contrary, I like it very sweet. But I save the sugar for my grandchildren.' The priest laughed at the Jew's astuteness. 'All right! have your tea with sugar and some for your grandchildren as well. Walenty!' he called out, 'bring me my fur coat.' The Jew began bowing afresh. 'With an entreaty for your Reverence's pardon, I come from Slimak's.' 'The man whose house was burnt down?' 'Not that he asked me to come, your Reverence, he would not presume to do such a thing, but his wife is dead, they are both lying in the stable, and I am sure he has a bad thought in his head, for no one does so much as give him a cup of water.' The priest started. 'No one has visited him?' 'Begging your Reverence's pardon,' bowed the Jew, 'but they say in the village, God's anger has fallen on him, so he must die without help.' He looked into the priest's eyes as if Slimak's salvation depended on him. His Reverence knocked his pipe on the floor till it broke. 'Then I'll go into the kitchen,' said the Jew, and took up his bundle. The sledge-bells tinkled at the door, the valet stood ready with the fur coat. 'I shall be wanted for the betrothal,' reflected the priest, 'that man will last till to-morrow, and I can't bring the dead woman back to life. It's eight o'clock, if I go to the man first there will be nothing to go for afterwards. Give me my fur coat, Walenty.' He went into his bedroom: 'Are the horses ready? Is it a bright night?' 'Quite bright, your Reverence.' 'I cannot be the slave of all the people who are burnt down and all the women who die,' he agitatedly resumed his thoughts, 'it will be time enough to-morrow, and anyhow the man can't be worth much if no one will help him.'...His eyes fell on the crucifix. 'Divine wounds! Here I am hesitating between my amusement and comforting the stricken, and I am a priest and a citizen! Get a basket,' he said in a changed voice to the astonished servant, 'put the rest of the dinner into it. I had better take the sacrament too,' he thought, after the surprised man had left the room, 'perhaps he is dying. God is giving me another spell of grace instead of condemning me eternally.' He struck his breast and forgot that God does not count the number of amusements preferred and bottles emptied, but the greatness of the struggle in each human heart. 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 SZYMÁNSKI 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 aúl,[1] where he had lived for three years; he was due to arrive on Christmas Eve. [Footnote 1: _Aúl: 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 aúls 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 Danteësque 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 'Kalarè! 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. 'May you... may you!' She continued to count up: 'Fowls, geese, calves, all the farm implements. And all left to that trull! May misery eat you up... may the worms devour you in the ditch for the wrong you have done me, and for leaving me no better off than an orphan!' She sprang towards the bed in a towering rage and shouted: 'Get up! 'And when the old man did not move, she threatened him with her fists and screamed into his face: 'That's what you've come here for, to do your dying here, and I am to pay for your funeral and buy you a hooded cloak... that's what he thinks. I don't think! You won't live to see me do it! If your Julina is so sweet, you'd better make haste and go to her. Was it I who was supposed to look after you in your dotage? She is the pet, and if you think...' She did not finish, for she heard the tinkling of the bell, and the priest entered with the sacrament. Antkowa bowed down to his feet, wiping tears of rage from her eyes, and after she had poured the holy water into a chipped basin and put the asperges-brush beside it, she went out into the passage, where a few people who had come with the priest were waiting already. 'Christ be praised.' 'In Eternity.' 'What is it?' 'Oh nothing! Only that he's come here to give up... with us, whom he has wronged. And now he won't give up. Oh dear me... poor me!' She began to cry. 'That's true! He will have to rot, and you will have to live,' they all answered in unison and nodded their heads. 'One's own father,' she began again. '... Have we, Antek and I, not taken care of him, worked for him, sweated for him, just as much as they? Not a single egg would I sell, not half a pound of butter, but put it all down his throat; the little drop of milk I have taken away from the baby and given it to him, because he was an old man and my father... and now he goes and gives it all to Tomek. Fifteen acres of land, the cottage, the cows, the pigs, the calf, and the farm-carts and all the furniture... is that nothing? Oh, pity me! There's no justice in this world, none... Oh, oh!' She leant against the wall, sobbing loudly. 'Don't cry, neighbour, don't cry. God is full of mercy, but not always towards the poor. He will reward you some day.' 'Idiot, what's the good of talking like that?' interrupted the speaker's husband. 'What's wrong is wrong. The old man will go, and poverty will stay.' 'It's hard to make an ox move when he won't lift up his feet,' another man said thoughtfully. 'Eh... You can get used to everything in time, even to hell,' murmured a third, and spat from between his teeth. The little group relapsed into silence. The wind rattled the door and blew snow through the crevices on to the floor. The peasants stood thoughtfully, with bared heads, and stamped their feet to get warm. The women, with their hands under their cotton aprons, and huddled together, looked with patient resigned faces towards the door of the living-room. At last the bell summoned them into the room; they entered one by one, pushing each other aside. The dying man was lying on his back, his head deeply buried in the pillows; his yellow chest, covered with white hair, showed under the open shirt. The priest bent over him and laid the wafer upon his outstretched tongue. All knelt down and, with their eyes raised to the ceiling, violently smote their chests, while they sighed and sniffled audibly. The women bent down to the ground and babbled: 'Lamb of God that takest away the sins of the world.' The dog, worried by the frequent tinkling of the bell, growled ill-temperedly in the corner. The priest had finished the last unction, and beckoned to the dying man's daughter. 'Where's yours, Antkowa?' 'Where should he be, your Reverence, if not at his daily job?' For a moment the priest stood, hesitating, looked at the assembly, pulled his expensive fur tighter round his shoulders; but he could not think of anything suitable to say; so he only nodded to them and went out, giving them his white, aristocratic hand to kiss, while they bent towards his knees. When he had gone they immediately dispersed. The short December day was drawing to its close. The wind had gone down, but the snow was now falling in large, thick flakes. The evening twilight crept into the room. Antkowa was sitting in front of the fire; she broke off twig after twig of the dry firewood, and carelessly threw them upon the fire. She seemed to be purposing something, for she glanced again and again at the window, and then at the bed. The sick man had been lying quite still for a considerable time. She got very impatient, jumped up from her stool and stood still, eagerly listening and looking about; then she sat down again. Night was falling fast. It was almost quite dark in the room. The little girl was dozing, curled up near the stove. The fire was flickering feebly with a reddish light which lighted up the woman's knees and a bit of the floor. The dog started whining and scratched at the door. The chickens on the ladder cackled low and long. Now a deep silence reigned in the room. A damp chill rose from the wet floor. Antkowa suddenly got up to peer through the window at the village street; it was empty. The snow was falling thickly, blotting out everything at a few steps' distance. Undecided, she paused in front of the bed, but only for a moment; then she suddenly pulled away the feather-bed roughly and determinedly, and threw it on to the other bedstead. She took the dying man under the armpits and lifted him high up. 'Magda! Open the door.' Magda jumped up, frightened, and opened the door. 'Come here...take hold of his feet.' Magda clutched at her grandfather's feet with her small hands and looked up in expectation. 'Well, get on...help me to carry him! Don't stare about...carry him, that's what you've got to do!' she commanded again, severely. The old man was heavy, perfectly helpless, and apparently unconscious; he did not seem to realize what was being done to him. She held him tight and carried, or rather dragged him along, for the little girl had stumbled over the threshold and dropped his feet, which were drawing two deep furrows in the snow. The penetrating cold had restored the dying man to consciousness, for in the yard he began to moan and utter broken words: 'Julisha...oh God...Ju...' 'That's right, you scream...scream as much as you like, nobody will hear you, even if you shout your mouth off!' She dragged him across the yard, opened the door of the pigsty with her foot, pulled him in, and dropped him close to the wall. The sow came forward, grunting, followed by her piglets. 'Malusha! malu, malu, malu!' The pigs came out of the sty and she banged the door, but returned almost immediately, tore the shirt open on the old man's chest, tore off his chaplet, and took it with her. 'Now die, you leper!' She kicked his naked leg, which was lying across the opening, with her clog, and went out. The pigs were running about in the yard; she looked back at them from the passage. 'Malusha! malu, malu, malu!' The pigs came running up to her, squeaking; she brought out a bowlfull of potatoes and emptied it. The mother-pig began to eat greedily, and the piglets poked their pink noses into her and pulled at her until nothing but their loud smacking could be heard. Antkowa lighted a small lamp above the fireplace and tore open the chaplet, with her back turned towards the window. A sudden gleam came into her eyes, when a number of banknotes and two silver roubles fell out. 'It wasn't just talk then, his saying that he'd put by the money for the funeral.' She wrapped the money up in a rag and put it into the chest. 'You Judas! May eternal blindness strike you!' She put the pots and pans straight and tried to cheer the fire which was going out. 'Drat it! That plague of a boy has left me without a drop of water.' She stepped outside and called 'Ignatz! Hi! Ignatz!' A good half-hour passed, then the snow creaked under stealthy footsteps and a shadow stole past the window. Antkowa seized a piece of wood and stood by the door which was flung wide open; a small boy of about nine entered the room. 'You stinking idler! Running about the village, are you? And not a drop of water in the house!' Clutching him with one hand she beat the screaming child with the other. 'Mummy! I won't do it again.... Mummy, leave off.... Mumm...' She beat him long and hard, giving vent to all her pent-up rage. 'Mother! Ow! All ye Saints! She's killing me!' 'You dog! You're loafing about, and not a drop of water do you fetch me, and there's no wood am I to feed you for nothing, and you worrying me into the bargain?' She hit harder. At last he tore himself away, jumped out by the window, and shouted back at her with a tear-choked voice: 'May your paws rot off to the elbows, you dog of a mother! May you be stricken down, you sow!... You may wait till you're manure before I fetch you any water!' And he ran back to the village. The room suddenly seemed strangely empty. The lamp above the fireplace trembled feebly. The little girl was sobbing to herself. 'What are you snivelling about?' 'Mummy...oh... oh...grandad...' She leant, weeping, against her mother's knee. 'Leave off, idiot!' She took the child on her lap, and, pressing her close, she began to clean her head. The little thing babbled incoherently, she looked feverish; she rubbed her eyes with her small fists and presently went to sleep, still sobbing convulsively from time to time. Soon afterwards the husband returned home. He was a huge fellow in a sheepskin, and wore a muffler round his cap. His face was blue with cold; his moustache, covered with hoar-frost, looked like a brush. He knocked the snow off his boots, took muffler and cap off together, dusted the snow off his fur, clapped his stiff hands against his arms, pushed the bench towards the fire, and sat down heavily. Antkowa took a saucepan full of cabbage off the fire and put it in front of her husband, cut a piece of bread and gave it him, together with the spoon. The peasant ate in silence, but when he had finished he undid his fur, stretched his legs, and said: 'Is there any more?' She gave him the remains of their midday porridge; he spooned it up after he had cut himself another piece of bread; then he took out his pouch, rolled a cigarette and lighted it, threw some sticks on the fire and drew closer to it. A good while later he looked round the room. 'Where's the old man?' 'Where should he be? In the pigsty.' He looked questioningly at her. 'I should think so! What should he loll in the bed for, and dirty the bedclothes? If he's got to give up, he will give up all the quicker in there.... Has he given me a single thing? What should he come to me for? Am I to pay for his funeral and give him his food? If he doesn't give up now--and I tell you, he is a tough one--then he'll eat us out of house and home. If Julina is to have everything let her look after him--that's nothing to do with me.' 'Isn't my father... and cheated us... he has. I don't care.... The old speculator!' Antek swallowed the smoke of his cigarette and spat into the middle of the room. 'If he hadn't cheated us we should now have... wait a minute... we've got five... and seven and a half... makes... five and... seven...' 'Twelve and a half. I had counted that up long ago; we could have kept a horse and three cows... bah!... the carrion!' Again he spat furiously. The woman got up, laid the child down on the bed, took the little rag bundle from the chest and put it into her husband's hand. 'What's that?' 'Look at it.' He opened the linen rag. An expression of greed came into his face, he bent forward towards the fire with his whole frame, so as to hide the money, and counted it over twice. 'How much is it?' She did not know the money values. 'Fifty-four roubles.' 'Lord! So much?' Her eyes shone; she stretched out her hand and fondled the money. 'How did you come by it?' 'Ah bah... how? Don't you remember the old man telling us last year that he had put by enough to pay for his funeral?' 'That's right, he did say that.' 'He had stitched it into his chaplet and I took it from him; holy things shouldn't knock about in a pigsty, that would be sinful; then I felt the silver through the linen, so I tore that off and took the money. That is ours; hasn't he wronged us enough?' 'That's God's truth. It's ours; that little bit at least is coming back to us. Put it by with the other money, we can just do with it. Only yesterday Smoletz told me he wanted to borrow a thousand roubles from me; he will give his five acres of ploughed fields near the forest as security.' 'Have you got enough?' 'I think I have.' 'And will you begin to sow the fields yourself in the spring?' 'Rather... if I shouldn't have quite enough now, I will sell the sow; even if I should have to sell the little ones as well I must lend him the money. For he won't be able to redeem it,' he added, 'I know what I know. We shall go to the lawyer and make a proper contract that the ground will be mine unless he repays the money within five years.' 'Can you do that?' 'Of course I can. How did Dumin get hold of Dyziak's fields?... Put it away; you may keep the silver, buy what you like with it. Where's Ignatz?' 'He's run off somewhere. Ha! no water, it's all gone....' The peasant got up without a word, looked after the cattle, went in and out, fetched water and wood. The supper was boiling in the saucepan. Ignatz cautiously crept into the room; no one spoke to him. They were all silent and strangely ill at ease. The old man was not mentioned; it was as if he had never been. Antek thought of his five acres; he looked upon them as a certainty. Momentarily the old man came into his mind, and then again the sow he had meant to kill when she had finished with the sucking-pigs. Again and again he spat when his eyes fell on the empty bedstead, as if he wanted to get rid of an unpleasant thought. He was worried, did not finish his supper, and went to bed immediately after. He turned over from side to side; the potatoes and cabbage, groats and bread gave him indigestion, but he got over it and went to sleep. When all was silent, Antkowa gently opened the door into the next room where the bundles of flax lay. From underneath these she fetched a packet of banknotes wrapped up in a linen rag, and added the money. She smoothed the notes many times over, opened them out, folded them up again, until she had gazed her fill; then she put out the light and went to bed beside her husband. Meanwhile the old man had died. The pigsty, a miserable lean-to run up of planks and thatched with branches, gave no protection against wind and weather. No one heard the helpless old man entreating for mercy in a voice trembling with despair. No one saw him creep to the closed door and raise himself with a superhuman effort to try and open it. He felt death gaining upon him; from his heels it crept upwards to his chest, holding it as in a vice, and shaking him in terrible spasms; his jaws closed upon each other, tighter and tighter, until he was no longer able to open them and scream. His veins were hardening till they felt like wires. He reared up feebly, till at last he broke down on the threshold, with foam on his lips, and a look of horror at being left to die of cold, in his broken eyes; his face was distorted by an expression of anguish which was like a frozen cry. There he lay. The next morning before dawn Antek and his wife got up. His first thought was to see what had happened to the old man. He went to look, but could not get the door of the pigsty to open, the corpse was barring it from the inside like a beam. At last, after a great effort, he was able to open it far enough to slip in, but he came out again at once, terror-stricken. He could hardly get fast enough across the yard and into the house; he was almost senseless with fear. He could not understand what was happening to him; his whole frame shook as in a fever, and he stood by the door panting and unable to utter a word. Antkowa was at that moment teaching little Magda her prayer. She turned her head towards her husband with questioning eyes. 'Thy will be done...' she babbled thoughtlessly. 'Thy will...' '... be done...' '... be done...' the kneeling child repeated like an echo. 'Well, is he dead?' she jerked out, '...on earth...' '... on earth...' 'To be sure, he's lying across the door,' he answered under his breath. '... as it is in Heaven...' '... is in Heaven...' 'But we can't leave him there; people might say we took him there to get rid of him--we can't have that...' 'What do you want me to do with him?' 'How do I know? You must do something.' 'Perhaps we can get him across here?' suggested Antek. 'Look at that now...let him rot! Bring him in here? Not if...' 'Idiot, he will have to be buried.' 'Are we to pay for his funeral?...but deliver us from evil...what are you blinking your silly eyes for?...go on praying.' '... deliver...us...from...evil...' 'I shouldn't think of paying for that, that's Tomek's business by law and right.' '... Amen...' 'Amen.' She made the sign of the cross over the child, wiped its nose with her fingers and went up to her husband. He whispered: 'We must get him across.' 'Into the house...here?' 'Where else?' 'Into the cowshed; we can lead the calf out and lay him down on the bench, let him lie in state there, if he likes...such a one as he has been!' 'Monika!' 'Eh?' 'We ought to get him out there.' 'Well, fetch him out then.' 'All right...but...' 'You're afraid, what?' 'Idiot...damned...' 'What else?' 'It's dark...' 'If you wait till it's day, people will see you.' 'Let's go together.' 'You go if you are so keen.' 'Are you coming, you carrion, or are you not?' he shouted at her; 'he's your father, not mine.' And he flung out of the room in a rage. The woman followed him without a word. When they entered the pigsty, a breath of horror struck them, like the exhalation from a corpse. The old man was lying there, cold as ice; one half of his body had frozen on to the floor; they had to tear him off forcibly before they could drag him across the threshold and into the yard. Antkowa began to tremble violently at the sight of him; he looked terrifying in the light of the grey dawn, on the white coverlet of snow, with his anguished face, wide-open eyes, and drooping tongue on which the teeth had closed firmly. There were blue patches on his skin, and he was covered with filth from head to foot. 'Take hold,' whispered the man, bending over him. 'How horribly cold he is!' The icy wind which rises just before the sun, blew into their faces, and shook the snow off the swinging twigs with a dry crackle. Here and there a star was still visible against the leaden background of the sky. From the village came the creaking noise of the hauling of water, and the cocks crew as if the weather were going to change. Antkowa shut her eyes and covered her hands with her apron, before she took hold of the old man's feet; they could hardly lift him, he was so heavy. They had barely put him down on a bench when she fled back into the house, throwing out a linen-rag to her husband to cover the corpse. The children were busy scraping potatoes; she waited impatiently at the door. 'Have done...come in!... Lord, how long you are!' 'We must get some one to come and wash him,' she said, laying the breakfast, when he had come in. 'I will fetch the deaf-mute.' 'Don't go to work to-day.' 'Go...no, not I...' They did not speak again, and ate their breakfast without appetite, although as a rule they finished their four quarts of soup between them. When they went out into the yard they walked quickly, and did not turn their heads towards the other side. They were worried, but did not know why; they felt no remorse; it was perhaps more a vague fear of the corpse, or fear of death, that shook them and made them silent. When it was broad day, Antek fetched the village deaf-mute, who washed and dressed the old man, laid him out, and put a consecrated candle at his head. Antek then went to give notice to the priest and to the Soltys of his father-in-law's death and his own inability to pay for the funeral. 'Let Tomek bury him; he has got all the money.' The news of the old man's death spread rapidly throughout the village. People soon began to assemble in little groups to look at the corpse. They murmured a prayer, shook their heads, and went off to talk it over. It was not till towards evening that Tomek, the other son-in-law, under pressure of public opinion, declared himself willing to pay for the funeral. On the third day, shortly before this was to take place, Tomek's wife made her appearance at Antek's cottage. In the passage she almost came nose to nose with her sister, who was just taking a pail of dishwater out to the cowshed. 'Blessed be Jesus Christ,' she murmured, and kept her hand on the door-handle. 'Now: look at that... soul of a Judas!' Antkowa put the pail down hard. 'She's come to spy about here. Got rid of the old one somehow, didn't you? Hasn't he given everything to you... and you dare show yourself here, you trull! Have you come for the rest of the rags he left here, what?' 'I bought him a new sukmana at Whitsuntide, he can keep that on, of course, but I must have the sheepskin back, because it has been bought with money I have earned in the sweat of my brow,' Tomekowa replied calmly. 'Have it back, you mangy dog, have it back?' screamed Antkowa. 'I'll give it you, you'll see what you will have...' and she looked round for an object that would serve her purpose. 'Take it away? You dare! You have crawled to him and lickspittled till he became the idiot he was and made everything over to you and wronged me, and then...' 'Everybody knows that we bought the land from him, there are witnesses...' 'Bought it? Look at her! You mean to say you're not afraid to lie like that under God's living eyes? Bought it! Cheats, that's what you are, thieves, dogs! You stole the money from him first, and then.... Didn't you make him eat out of the pig-pail? Adam is a witness that he had to pick the potatoes out of the pig-pail, ha! You've let him sleep in the cowshed, because, you said, he stank so that you couldn't eat. Fifteen acres of land and a dower-life like that... for so much property! And you've beaten him too, you swine, you monkey!' 'Hold your snout, or I'll shut it for you and make you remember, you sow, you trull!' 'Come on then, come on, you destitute creature!' 'I... destitute?' 'Yes, you! You would have rotted in a ditch, the vermin would have eaten you up, if Tomek hadn't married you.' 'I, destitute? Oh you carrion!' They sprang at each other, clutching at each other's hair; they fought in the narrow passage, screaming themselves hoarse all the time. 'You street-walker, you loafer... there! that's one for you! There's one for my fifteen acres, and for all the wrong you have done me, you dirty dog!' 'For the love of God, you women, leave off, leave off! It's a sin and a shame!' cried the neighbours. 'Let me go, you leper, will you let go?' 'I'll beat you to death, I will tear you to pieces, you filth!' They fell down, hitting each other indiscriminately, knocked over the pail, and rolled about in the pigwash. At last, speechless with rage and only breathing hard, they still banged away at each other. The men were hardly able to separate them. Purple in the face, scratched all over, and covered with filth, they looked like witches. Their fury was boundless; they sprang at each other again, and had to be separated a second time. At last Antkowa began to sob hysterically with rage and exhaustion, tore her own hair and wailed: 'Oh Jesus! Oh little child Jesus! Oh Mary! Look at this pestiferous woman...curse those heathen...oh! oh!...' she was only able to roar, leaning against the wall. Tomekowa, meanwhile, was cursing and shouting outside the house, and banging her heels against the door. The spectators stood in little groups, taking counsel with each other, and stamping their feet in the snow. The women looked like red spots dabbed on to the wall; they pressed their knees together, for the wind was penetratingly cold. They murmured remarks to each other from time to time, while they watched the road leading to the church, the spires of which stood out clearly behind the branches of the bare trees. Every minute some one or other wanted to have another look at the corpse; it was a perpetual coming and going. The small yellow flames of the candles could be seen through the half-open door, flaring in the draught, and momentarily revealing a glimpse of the dead man's sharp profile as he lay in the coffin. The smell of burning juniper floated through the air, together with the murmurings of prayers and the grunts of the deaf-mute. At last the priest arrived with the organist. The white pine coffin was carried out and put into the cart. The women began to sing the usual lamentations, while the procession started down the long village street towards the cemetery. The priest intoned the first words of the Service for the Dead, walking at the head of the procession with his black biretta on his head; he had thrown a thick fur cloak over his surplice; the wind made the ends of his stole flutter; the words of the Latin hymn fell from his lips at intervals, dully, as though they had been frozen; he looked bored and impatient, and let his eyes wander into the distance. The wind tugged at the black banner, and the pictures of heaven and hell on it wobbled and fluttered to and fro, as though anxious to display themselves to the rows of cottages on either side, where women with shawls over their heads and bare-headed men were standing huddled together. They bowed reverently, made the sign of the cross, and beat their breasts. The dogs were barking furiously from behind the hedges, some jumped on to the stone walls and broke into long-drawn howls. Eager little children peeped out from behind the closed windows, beside toothless used-up old people's faces, furrowed as fields in autumn. A small crowd of boys in linen trousers and blue jackets with brass buttons, their bare feet stuck into wooden sandals, ran behind the priest, staring at the pictures of heaven and hell, and intoning the intervals of the chant with thin, shivering voices: a! o!... They kept it up as long as the organist did not change the chant. Ignatz proudly walked in front, holding the banner with one hand and singing the loudest of all. He was flushed with exertion and cold, but he never relaxed, as though eager to show that he alone had a right to sing, because it was his grandfather who was being carried to the grave. They left the village behind. The wind threw itself upon Antek, whose huge form towered above all the others, and ruffled his hair; but he did not notice the wind, he was entirely taken up with the horses and with steadying the coffin, which was tilting dangerously at every hole in the road. The two sisters were walking close behind the coffin, murmuring prayers and eyeing each other with furious glances. 'Tsutsu! Go home!...Go home at once, you carrion!' One of the mourners pretended to pick up a stone. The dog, who had been following the cart, whined, put her tail between her legs, and fled behind a heap of stones by the roadside; when the procession had moved on a good bit, she ran after it in a semi-circle, and anxiously kept close to the horses, lest she should be prevented again from following. The Latin chant had come to an end. The women, with shrill voices, began to sing the old hymn: 'He who dwelleth under the protection of the Lord.' It sounded thin. The blizzard, which was getting up, did not allow the singing to come to much. Twilight was falling. The wind drove clouds of snow across from the endless, steppe-like plains, dotted here and there with skeleton trees, and lashed the little crowd of human beings as with a whip. '... and loves and keeps with faithful heart His word...,' they insisted through the whistling of the tempest and the frequent shouts of Antek, who was getting breathless with cold: 'Woa! woa, my lads!' Snowdrifts were beginning to form across the road like huge wedges, starting from behind trees and heaps of stones. Again and again the singing was interrupted when the people looked round anxiously into the white void: it seemed to be moving when the wind struck it with dull thuds; now it towered in huge walls, now it dissolved like breakers, turned over, and furiously darted sprays of a thousand sharp needles into the faces of the mourners. Many of them returned half-way, fearing an increase of the blizzard, the others hurried on to the cemetery in the greatest haste, almost at a run. They got through the ceremony as fast as they could; the grave was ready, they quickly sang a little more, the priest sprinkled holy water on the coffin; frozen clods of earth and snow rolled down, and the people fled home. Tomek invited everybody to his house, because 'the reverend Father had said to him, that other-wise the ceremony would doubtless end in an ungodly way at the public-house.' Antek's answer to the invitation was a curse. The four of them, including Ignatz and the peasant Smoletz, turned into the inn. They drank four quarts of spirits mixed with fat, ate three pounds of sausages, and talked about the money transaction. The heat of the room and the spirits soon made Antek very drunk. He stumbled so on the way home that his wife took him firmly under the arm. Smoletz remained at the inn to drink an extra glass in prospect of the loan, but Ignatz ran home ahead as fast as he could, for he was horribly cold. 'Look here, mother...,' said Antek, 'the five acres are mine! aha! mine, do you hear? In the autumn I shall sow wheat and barley, and in the spring we will plant potatoes... mine... they are mine!... God is my comfort, sayest thou...,' he suddenly began to sing. The storm was raging, and howling. 'Shut up! You'll fall down, and that will be the end of it.' '... His angel keepeth watch...,' he stopped abruptly. The darkness was impenetrable, nothing could be seen at a distance of two feet. The blizzard had reached the highest degree of fury; whistling and howling on a gigantic scale filled the air, and mountains of snow hurled themselves upon them. From Tomek's cottage came the sound of funeral chants and loud talking when they passed by. 'These heathen! These thieves! You wait, I'll show you my five acres! Then I shall have ten. You won't lord it over me! Dogs'-breed... aha! I'll work, I'll slave, but I shall get it, eh, mother? we will get it, what?' he hammered his chest with his fist, and rolled his drunken eyes. He went on like this for a while, but as soon as they reached their home, the woman dragged him into bed, where he fell down like a dead man. But he did not go to sleep yet, for after a time he shouted: 'Ignatz!' The boy approached, but with caution, for fear of contact with the paternal foot. 'Ignatz, you dead dog! Ignatz, you shall be a first-class peasant, not a beggarly professional man,' he bawled, and brought his fist down on the bedstead. 'The five acres are mine, mine! Foxy Germans,[1] you... da...' He went to sleep. [Footnote 1: 'The term 'German' is used for 'foreigner' generally, whom the Polish peasant despises.] THE SENTENCE BY J. KADEN-BANDKOWSKI 'Yakob... Yakob... Yakob!' The old man was repeating his name to himself, or rather he was inwardly listening to the sound of it which he had been accustomed to hear for so many years. He had heard it in the stable, in the fields, and on the grazing-ground, on the steps of the manor-house and at the Jew's, but never like this. It seemed to issue from unknown depths, summoning sounds never heard before, sights never yet seen, producing a confusion which he had never experienced. He saw it, felt it everywhere; it was itself the cause of a hopeless despair. This despair crept silently into Yakob's fatalistic and submissive soul. He felt it under his hand, as though he were holding another hand. He was as conscious of it as of his hairy chest, his cold and starved body. This despair, moreover, was blended with a kind of patient expectancy which was expressed by the whispering of his pale, trembling lips, the tepid sweat under his armpits, the saliva running into his throat and making his tongue feel rigid like a piece of wood. This is what happened: he tried to remember how it had all happened. They had come swarming in from everywhere; they had taken the men away; it was firearms everywhere...everywhere firearms, noise and hubbub. The whole world was pushing, running, sweating or freezing. They arrived from this side or from that; they asked questions, they hunted people down, they followed up a trail, they fought. Of course, one must not betray one's brothers, but then...who are one's brothers? They placed watches in the mountains, in the forests, on the fields; they even drove people into the mountain-passes and told them to hold out at any cost. Yakób had been sitting in the chimney-corner in the straw and dust, covered with his frozen rags. The wind swept over the mountains and penetrated into the cottage, bringing with it a white covering of hoar-frost; it was sighing eerily in the fields; the fields themselves seemed to flee from it, and to be alive, running away into the distance. The earth in white convulsions besieged the sky, and the sky got entangled in the mountain-forests. Yakób was looking at the snow which was falling thickly, and tried to penetrate the veil with his eyes. Stronger and faster raged the blizzard. Yakób's stare became vacant under the rumbling of the storm and the driving of the snow; one could not have told whether he was looking with eyes or with lumps of ice. Shadows were flitting across the snowdrifts. They were the outlines of objects lit up by the fire; they trembled on the window-frames; the fire flickered, and the shadows treacherously caressed the images of saints on the walls. The beam played on the window, threw a red light on the short posts of the railing, and disappeared in pursuit of the wind in the fields. 'Yakób...Yakób...Yakób!' And he had really had nothing to do with it! It had all gone against him continuously, pertinaciously, and to no purpose. It had attached itself to him, clung to the dry flour that flew about in atoms in the tin where the bit of cheese also was kept. It had bewitched the creaking of the windows on their hinges; it had stared from the empty seats along the walls. But he kept on beating his breast. His forehead was wrinkled in dried-up folds, his brows bristled fantastically into shaggy, dirty tufts. His heavy, blunt nose, powdered with hairs at the tip, stood out obstinately between two deep folds on either side. These folds overhung the corners of his mouth, and were joined below the chin by a network of pallid veins. A noise, light as a beetle's wing, came in puffs from the half-open lips; they were swollen and purple like an overgrown bean. Yakób had been sitting in Turkish fashion, his hands crossed over his chest, breathing forth his misery so quietly that it covered him, together with the hoar-frost, stopped his ears and made the tufts of hair on his chest glitter. He was hugging his sorrow to himself, abandoning the last remnant of hope, and longing for deliverance. Behind the wrinkles of his forehead there swarmed a multitude not so much of pictures as of ghosts of the past, yet vividly present. At last he got up and sat down on the bench in the chimney-corner, drew a pipe from his trouser-pocket and put it between his teeth, forgetting to light it. He laid his heavy hands round the stem. Beyond the blizzard and the shadow-play of the flame, there appeared to him the scene of his wife and daughters' flight. He had given up everything he possessed, had taken off his sheepskin, had himself loosened the cow from the post. For a short moment he had caught sight of his wife and daughters again in the distance, tramping through the snow as they passed the cross-roads, then they had been swallowed up in a mass of people, horses, guns, carts, shouts and curses. Since then he had constantly fancied that he was being called, yet he knew that there was no one to call him. His thoughts were entirely absorbed in what he had seen then. With his wife all his possessions had gone. Now there was nothing but silence, surrounding him with a sharp breath of pain and death. By day and by night Yakob had listened to the shots that struck his cottage and his pear-trees. He chewed a bit of cheese from time to time, and gulped down with it the bitter fear that his cottage might be set on fire. For here and there, like large red poppies on the snow, the glare of burning homesteads leapt up into the sky. 'Here I am...watching,' he said to himself, when he looked at these blood-red graves. He smiled at the sticks of firewood on his hearth, which was the dearest thing on earth to him. The walls of his cottage were one with his inmost being, and every moment when he saw them standing, seemed to him like precious savings which he was putting away. So he watched for several days; the vermin were overrunning the place, and he was becoming desperate. Since mid-day the silence had deepened; the day declined, and there was nothing in the world but solitude and snow. Yakób went over to the window. The snow was lying deep on the fields, like a shimmering coat of varnish; the world was bathed in the light of a pale, wan moon. The forest-trees stood out here and there in blue points, like teeth. Large and brilliant the stars looked down, and above the milky way, veiled in vapours, hung the sickle of the moon. While in the immensity of the night cold and glittering worlds were bowing down before the eternal, Yakób looked, and noticed something approaching from the mountains. Along the heights and slopes there was a long chain of lights; it was opening out from the centre into two lines on either side, which looked as though they were lost in the forest. Below them there were confused gleams in the fields, and behind, in the distance, the glow of the burning homesteads. 'They have burned the vicarage,' thought Yakób, and his heart answered: 'and here am I...watching.' He pressed against the window-frame, glued his grey face to the panes and, trembling with cold, sent out an obstinate and hostile glance into space, as though determined to obtain permission to keep his own heritage. Suddenly he pricked up his ears. Something was approaching from the distance across the forest very cautiously. The snow was creaking under the advancing steps. In the great silence it sounded like the forging of iron. Those were horses' hoofs stamping the snow. This sound, suppressed as it was, produced in him a peculiar sensation which starts in the head and grips you in the nape of the neck, the consciousness that someone is hiding close to you. Yakob stood quite still at the window, not even moving his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other. Not he himself seemed to be trembling, only his rags. The door was suddenly thrown open and a soldier appeared on the threshold. The light of a lantern which was suspended on his chest, filled the room. Yakob's blood was freezing. Cossacks, hairy like bears, were standing in the opening of the door, the snow which covered them was shining like a white flame. In the courtyard there were steaming horses; lanceheads were glittering like reliquaries. Yakob understood that they were calling him 'old man', and asking him questions. He extended his hands to express that he knew nothing. Some of the Cossacks entered, and made signs to him to make up the fire. He noticed that they were bringing more horses into the yard, small, shaggy ponies like wolves. He became calmer, and his fear disappeared; he only remained cautious and observant; everything that happened seemed to take hours, yet he saw it with precision. 'It is cold...it is cold!' He made up the fire for these bandits who stretched themselves on the benches; he felt they were talking and laughing about him, and he turned to them and nodded; he thought it would please them if he showed that he approved of them. They asked him about God knows what, where they were, and where they were not. As though he knew! Then they started all over again, while they swung their booted legs under the seats. One of them came up to the hearth, and clapped the crouching Yakob on his back for fun, but it hurt. It was a resounding smack. Yakob scratched himself and rumpled his hair, unable to understand. They boiled water and made tea; a smell of sausages spread about the room. Yakob bit his jaws together and looked at the fire. He sat in his place as though he had been glued to it. His ears were tingling when he heard the soldiers grinding their teeth on their food, tearing the skin off the sausages and smacking their lips. A large and painful void was gaping in his inside. They devoured their food fast and noisily, and an odour of brandy began to fill the room, and contracted Yakob's throat. He understood that they were inviting him to share the meal, but he felt uneasy about that, and though his stomach seemed to have shrunk, and the sausage-skins and bones which they had thrown away lay quite close to him, he could not make up his mind to move and pick them up. 'Come on!' The soldier beckoned to him. 'Come here!' The old man felt that he was weakening, the savoury smell took possession of him. But 'I shan't go,' he thought. The soldier, gnawing a bone, repeated, 'Come on!' 'I shan't go,' thought Yakob, and spat into the fire, to assure himself that he was not going. All the same...the terribly tempting smell made him more and more feeble. At last two of them got up, took him under the arms, and sat him down between them. They made signs to him, they held the sausage under his nose; the tea was steaming, the brandy smelt delicious. Yakob put his hands on the table, then put them behind him. Black shadows were gesticulating on the walls. He felt unhappy about sharing a meal with people without knowing what they were, never having seen or known them before. They were Russians, thus much he knew. He had a vision of something that happened long ago, he could not distinctly remember what it was, for it happened so very long ago; his grandfather had come home from the fair that was held in the town, shivering and groaning. There had been outcries and curses. 'They are going to poison me like a dog,' he thought. The wind was changing and moaning under the roof. The fire flickered up and went down; the red flame and the darkness were dancing together on the walls. The wan moon was looking in at the window. Yakob was sitting on the bench among the soldiers like his own ghost. 'They are surely going to poison me,' he kept repeating to himself. He was still racking his memory as to what it was that had happened so long ago to his grandfather during the fair, at the inn. God knows what it was...who could know anything? 'They are going to poison me!' His sides were heaving with his breath, he was trying to breathe carefully, so as not to smell the repast. The shadows on the walls seemed to jeer at him. The soldiers were beginning to talk thickly; their mouths, their fingers were shining with grease. They took off their belts and laid their swords aside. The one next to Yakob put his arm round his neck and whispered in his ear; his red mouth was quite close; he passed his hand over Yakob's head, and brought his arm right round his throat. He was young and he was talking of his father. 'Daddy,' he said, and put the sausage between his teeth. Yakob tried to clench his teeth; but he bit the sausage at the same time. 'Daddy,' said the young soldier again, holding out the sausage for another bite; he stroked his head, looked into his eyes, and laughed. Yakob was sorry for himself. Was he to be fed like a half-blind old man? Couldn't he eat by himself? When the soldiers saw that Yakob was eating, they burst into shouts of laughter, and stamped their feet, rattling their spurs. He knew they were laughing at him, and it made him easier in his mind to see that he was affording them pleasure. He purposely made himself ridiculous with the vague idea that he must do something for them in payment of what they were giving him; they struck him on the shoulder-blades to see him gasp with his beanlike mouth, and to see the frightened smile run over his face like a flash of lightning. He ate as though from bravado, but he ate well. They started drinking again. Yakob looked at them with eagerness, his arms folded over his stomach, his head bent forward; the hairy hand of the captain put the bottle to his mouth. Now he could laugh his own natural laugh again, and not only from bravado, for he felt quite happy. His frozen body was getting warmed through. He felt as if a great danger had irrevocably passed. Gradually he became garrulous, although they hardly understood what he was talking about: 'Yes, the sausage was good... to be sure!' He nodded his head and clicked his tongue; he also approved of the huge chunks of bread, and whenever the bottle was passed round, he put his head on one side and folded his hands, as if he were listening to a sermon. From his neighbour's encircling black sleeve the old face peeped out with equanimity, looking like a withering poppy. 'Daddy,' the loquacious Cossack would say from time to time, and point in the direction of the mountains; tears were standing in his eyes. Yakób put his swollen hand on his, and waited for him to say more. The soldier held his hand, pointed in the direction of the mountains again, and sniffled. 'He respects old age... they are human, there's no denying it,' thought Yakób, and got up to put more wood on the fire. They seized hold of him, they would not allow him to do it. A young soldier jumped up: 'Sit down, you are old.' Yakób held out his empty pipe, and the captain himself filled it. So there he sat, among these armed bandits. They were dressed in sheepskins and warm materials, had sheepskin caps on their heads; there was he with his bare arms, in well-worn grey trousers, his shirt fastened together at the neck with a piece of wood. Sitting among them, defenceless as a centipede, without anyone belonging to him, puffing clouds of smoke, he inwardly blessed this adventure, in which everything had turned out so well. The Cossacks looked at the fire, and they too said: 'This is very nice, very nice.' To whom would not a blazing fire on a cold winter's night appeal? They got more and more talkative and asked: 'Where are your wife and children?' They probably too had wives and children! 'My wife,' he said, 'has gone down to the village, she was afraid.' They laughed and tapped their chests: 'War is a bad thing, who would not be afraid?' Yakób assented all the more readily as he felt that for him the worst was over. 'Do you know the way to the village?' suddenly asked the captain. He was almost hidden in clouds of tobacco-smoke, but in his eyes there was a gleam, hard and sinister, like a bullet in a puff of smoke. Yakób did not answer. How should he not know the way? They started getting up, buckled on their belts and swords. Yakób jumped up to give them the rest of the sausages and food which had been left on the plates. But they would only take the brandy, and left the tobacco and the broken meat. 'That will be for you...afterwards,' said the young Cossack, took a red muffler off his neck and put it round Yakob's shoulder. 'That will keep you warm.' Yakób laughed back at him, and submitted to having the muffler knotted tightly round his throat. The young soldier drew a pair of trousers from his kitbag: 'Those will keep you warm, you are old.' He told him a long story about the trousers; they had belonged to his brother who had been killed. 'You know, it's lucky to wear things like that. Poor old fellow!' Yakob stood and looked at the breeches. In the fire-light they seemed to be trembling like feeble and stricken legs. He laid his hand on them and smiled, a little defiant and a little touched. 'You may have them, you may have them,' grunted the captain, and insisted on his putting them on at once. When he had put them on in the chimney-corner and showed himself, they were all doubled up with laughter. He looked appalling in the black trousers which were much too large for him, a grey hood and the red muffler. His head wobbled above the red line as if it had been fixed on a bleeding neck. The rags on his chest showed the thin, hairy body, the stiff folds of the breeches produced an effect as if he were not walking on the ground but floating above it. The captain gave the command, the soldiers jumped up and looked once more round the cottage; the young Cossack put the sausage and meat in a heap and covered it with a piece of bread. 'For you,' he said once more, and they turned to leave. Yakob went out with them to bid them Godspeed. A vague presentiment seized him on the threshold, when he looked out at the frozen world, the stars, like nails fixed into the sky, and the light of the moon on everything. He was afraid. The men went up to their horses, and he saw that there were others outside. The wind ruffled the shaggy little ponies' manes and threw snow upon them. The horses, restless, began to bite each other, and the Cossacks, scattered on the snow like juniper-bushes, reined them in. The cottage-door remained open. The lucky horseshoe, nailed to the threshold, glittered in the light of the hearth, which threw blood-red streaks between the legs of the table, across the door and beyond it on to the snow. 'I wonder whether they will ever return to their families?' he thought, and: 'How queer it is that one should meet people like that.' He was sorry for them. The captain touched his arm and asked the way. 'Straight on.' 'Far?' 'No, not far, not at all far.' 'Where is it?' The little group stood in front of him by the side of their wolf-like ponies. He drew back into the cottage. The thought confusedly crossed his mind: 'After all, we did sit together and ate together, two and two, like friends.' He began hurriedly, 'Turn to the left at the crossroads, then across the fields as far as Gregor's cottage...' The captain made a sign that he did not understand. He thought: 'Perhaps they will lose their way and make a fuss; then they will come back to the cottage and eat the meat. I will go with them as far as the cross-roads.' They crept down the road, passed the clump of pine-trees which came out in a point beside the brook, and went along the valley on the slippery stones. A large block of ice lay across the brook, shaped like a silver plough; the waves surrounded it as with golden crescents. The snow creaked under the soldiers' feet. Yakób walked beside them on his sandals, like a silent ghost. 'Now keep straight on as far as the cross,' he said, pointing to a dark object with a long shadow. 'I can't see anything,' said the captain. He accompanied them as far as the cross, by the side of which stood a little shrine; the wan saint was wearing a crown of icicles. From that point the village could be seen across the fields. Yakób discovered that the chain of lights which he had observed earlier in the evening, had come down from the mountains, for it now seemed to be close to the village. Silence reigned in the sleeping world, every step could be heard. This silence filled Yakób's heart with a wild fear; he turned round with a feeling of helplessness and looked back at his cottage. Probably the fire was now going out; a red glow appeared and disappeared on the windows. Beyond the cross the road lay through low-lying ground, and was crossed by another road which led abruptly downwards into fields. Yakob hesitated. 'Come on, old man, come on,' they called to him, and walked on without waiting for his answer. The Cossacks dug their heels into the rugged ice of the road, and tumbled about in all directions. They had left their horses at the cross-roads. Each one kept a close hold on his gun, so that there should be no noise. They were whispering to each other; it sounded as if a congregation were murmuring their prayers. Yakób led them, and mentally he held fast to every bush, every lump of ice, saying to himself at every step that now he was going to leave them, they could not miss the road now. But he was afraid. They no longer whispered, they had become taciturn as they pushed onwards, stumbling, breathing hard. 'As far as Gregor's cottage, and then no more!' The effect of the drink was passing off. He rubbed his eyes, drew his rags across his chest. 'What was he doing, leading these people about on this night?' He suddenly stopped where the field-road crossed theirs; the soldiers in front and behind threw themselves down. It was as if the ground had swallowed them. A black horse was standing in the middle of the road, with extended nostrils. Its black mane, covered with hoar-frost, was tossed about its head; the saddle-bags, which were fur-lined, swung in the breeze; large dark drops were falling from its leg to the ground. 'Damn it!' cursed the captain. The horse looked meekly at them, and stretched its head forward submissively. Yakób was sorry for the creature; perhaps one could do something for it. He stood still beside it, and again pointed out the road. 'I have done enough, I shan't go any further!' He scratched his head and smiled, thinking that this was a good opportunity for escape. 'Come on,' hissed the captain so venomously in his ear that he marched forward without delay; they followed. A dull fear mixed with resentment gripped him with terrible force. He now ran at the head like a sheep worried by watch-dogs. They stopped in front of the cottage, silent, breathless, expectant. Yakob looked at his companions with boundless astonishment. Their faces under their fur-caps had a tense, cruel look, their brows were wrinkled, their eyes glittered. From all sides other Cossacks were advancing. He noticed only now that there were some lying concealed behind the fence on the straw in a confused mass. He shuddered; thick drops of perspiration stood on his forehead. The beating of his heart filled his head like the noise of a hammer, it seemed to fill everything. In spite of the feeling that he was being forced to do this thing, he again heard the voice calling: 'Yakob, Yakob!' Up the hillock where Gregor's cottage stood, they advanced on all fours. He clambered upwards, thinking of his wife, and of the cow he had loosed. Fear veiled his eyes, he saw black spots dancing. Gregor's cottage was empty as a graveyard. It had been abandoned; the open doors creaked on their hinges. Under the window stood a cradle, covered with snow. Silently the soldiers surrounded the cottage, and Yakob went with them, as though mesmerized by terror, mute and miserable. They had hardly got round, when a red glow shot up from the other side of the village. The soldiers threw themselves down in the snow. The thundering of guns began on all sides; blood-red lights came flying overhead. An appalling noise broke out, reinforced by the echo from the mountains, as though the whole world were going to perish. The Cossacks advanced, trembling. Yakob advanced with them, for the captain had hit him across the head. He saw stars when he received the blow, gesticulated wildly, and staggered along the road. He could distinguish the road running out from the forest like a silver thread. As they advanced, they came under a diabolically heavy rifle fire; bullets were raining upon them from all sides. Here and there he heard moans already, when one of the soldiers fell bleeding on the snow. Close to him fell the young Cossack who had given him the muffler and breeches. He held out his hand, groaning. Yakob wanted to stop, but the captain would not let him, but rapped him over the head again with his knuckles. The soldiers lay in heaps. The rest wavered, fell back, hid in the ditch or threw themselves down. The rifle-fire came nearer, the outlines and faces of the advancing enemy could already be distinguished. Another blow on the head stretched Yakob to the ground, and he feigned death. The Cossacks retreated, the others advanced, and he understood that they belonged to his friends. When he got up, he was immediately surrounded by them, taken by the scruff of the neck and so violently shaken, that he tumbled on his knees. Gunfire was roaring from the mountains, shadows of soldiers flitted past him, the wounded Cossacks groaned in the snow. Young, well-nourished looking men were bending over him. Looking up into their faces, he crossed his hands over his chest and laughed joyfully. 'Ah, those Russians, those Russians...the villains!' he croaked, 'aho, aho, ho hurlai!' He rolled his tear-filled eyes. Things were happening thick and fast. From where the chimney stood close to the water, near the manor-house, the village was burning. He could feel the heat and soot and hear the shouting of the crowd through the noise of the gunfire. Now he would see his wife and children again, the friendly soldiers surely had saved them. The young Cossack was still struggling on the ground; now he stretched himself out for his eternal sleep. 'Ah, the villains!' Yakob repeated; the great happiness which filled his heart rushed to his lips in incoherent babblings. 'The villains, they have served me nicely!' He felt his bleeding head, crouched on his heels and got up. The fleshy red faces were still passing close to him, breathing harder and harder. Fear rose and fell in him like the flames of the burning village; again everything was swallowed up in indescribable noise. Suddenly Yakób began to sob; he threw himself down at the soldiers' feet and wept bitterly, as though he would weep out his soul and the marrow of his bones. They lifted him up, almost unconscious, and took him along the high road, under escort with fixed bayonets. His tears fell fast upon the snow, and thus he came into his own village, among his own people, pale as a corpse, with poison in his heart. He looked dully at the blazing wooden church-spire where it stood enveloped in flames as though wrapped in an inflated glittering cloak. Dully he let his eyes wander over the hedges and fences; everything seemed unreal, as things seen across a distant wave or a downpour of rain, out of reach and strange. He was standing where the field-path joined the high road. The soldiers sat down on a heap of stones and lighted their cigarettes. Yakób, trembling all over, looked at his own black shadow; fugitives arrived from the burning village and swarmed past him; the rifle fire now sounded from the direction of the mountains. Suddenly Gregor's cottage burst into flames. A blood-red glow inflated the clouds of smoke, trembled on the snow and ran over the pine-trees like gold. Soldiers were arriving from that direction, streaming with blood, supported by their comrades. Yakób stood motionless, looking at his shadow; fear was burning within him. He looked at the sky above the awful chaos on the earth, and became calmer. He tried to remember how it had all happened. They had come, had given him food. His wife and children were probably safe in the manor-house. Blinking his swollen eyelids, he tried to deceive himself, crouched down near the guard who was smoking, and asked him for fire. His fear miraculously disappeared. He began to talk rapidly to the soldier: 'I was sitting...the wind was moaning...' he told him circumstantially how he was sitting, what he had been thinking, how the shots had struck his cottage. The soldier put his rifle between his knees, crossed his hands over his sleeves, spat out and sighed. 'But you have had underhand dealings with the Russians.' 'No...no.' 'Tell that to another.' 'I shall,' replied Yakob calmly. 'And who showed them the way?' 'Who?' said Yakob. 'Who showed them the way over here? Or did they find it on the map?' 'Yes, on the map,' assented Yakob, as though he were quite convinced. 'Well, who did?' said the soldier, wagging his head. 'Who?' repeated Yakob like an echo. 'I suppose it wasn't I?' said the soldier. 'I?' asked Yakob. The other three soldiers approached inquisitively to where Yakob was crouching. 'A nice mess you've made,' one of them said, pointing to the wounded who were arriving across the fields. 'Do you understand?' Yakob fixed his eyes on the soldiers' boots, and would not look in that, direction. But he could not understand what it all meant...all this noise, and the firing that ran from hill to hill. 'Nice mess this you've made, old man.' 'Yes.' 'You!' Yakob looked up at them, and had the sensation of being deep down at the bottom of a well instead of crouching at their feet. 'That is a lie, a lie, a lie!' he cried, beating his chest; his hair stood on end. The soldiers sat down in a row on the stones. They were young, cold, tired. 'But now they'll play the deuce with you.' 'Why?' said Yakob softly, glancing sideways at them. 'You're an old ass,' remarked one of them. 'But,' he began again, 'I was sitting, looking at the snow....' He had a great longing to talk to them, they looked as if they would understand, although they were so young. 'I was sitting...give me some fire...do you come from these parts yourselves?' They did not answer. He thought of his cottage, the bread and sausage, the black horse at the cross-roads. 'They beat me,' he sobbed, covering his face with his rags. The soldiers shrugged their shoulders: 'Why did you let them?' 'O...O...O!' cried the old man. But tears would no longer wash away a conviction which was taking possession of him, searing his soul as the flames seared the pines. 'Why did you let them? Aren't you ashamed of yourself?' No, he was not ashamed of himself for that. But that he had shown them the way...the way they had come by...what did it all mean? All his tears would not wash away this conviction: that he had shown them the way...the way they had come by. Guns were thundering from the hills, the village was burning, the mill was burning...a black mass of people was surrounding him. More and more wounded came in from the fields, covered with grey mud. The flying sparks from the mill fell at his feet. A detachment of soldiers was returning. 'Get up, old man,' cried his guard; 'we're off!' Yakób jumped to his feet, hitched up his trousers, and went off perplexed, under cover of four bayonets that seemed to carry a piece of sky between them like a starred canopy. His fear grew as he approached the village. He did not see the familiar cottages and hedges; he felt as though he were moving onwards without a goal. Moving onwards and yet not getting any farther. Moving onwards and yet hoping not to get to the end of the journey. He sucked his pipe and paid no attention to anything; but the village was on his conscience. The fear which filled his heart was nob like that which he had felt when the Cossacks arrived, but a senseless fear, depriving him of sight and hearing...as though there were no place for him in the world. 'Are we going too fast?' asked the guard hearing Yakób's heavy breathing. 'All right, all right,' he answered cheerfully. The friendly words had taken his fear away. 'Take it easy,' said the soldier. 'We will go more slowly. Here's a dry cigarette, smoke.' Without turning round, he offered Yakob a cigarette, which he put behind his ear. They entered the village. It smelt of burning, like a gipsy camp. The road seemed to waver in the flickering of the flames, the wind howled in the timber. Yakob looked at the sky. Darkness and stars melted into one. He would not look at the village. He knew there were only women and children in the cottages, the men had all gone. This thought was a relief to him, he hardly knew why. Meanwhile the detachment of soldiers, instead of going to the manor-house, had turned down a narrow road which led to the mill. They stopped and formed fours. Every stone here was familiar to Yakob, and yet, standing in the snow up to his knees, he was puzzled as to where he was. If he could only sleep off this nightmare...he did not recognize the road...the night was far advanced, and the village not asleep as usual...if they would only let him go home! He would return to-morrow. The mill was burning out. Cinders were flying across from the granaries; the smoke bit into the eyes of the people who were standing about looking upwards, with their arms crossed. Everything showed up brilliantly in the glare; the water was dripping from rung to rung of the silent wheel, and mixed its sound with that of the fire. The adjoining buildings were fenced round with a small running fire; smoke whirled round the tumbling roof like a shock of hair shot through with flames. The faces of the bystanders assumed a metallic glow. The wails of the miller and his family could be heard through the noise of battle, of water, and of fire. It was as if the crumbling walls, the melting joints, the smoke, the cries were dripping down the wheel, transformed into blood, and were carried down by the black waves and swallowed up in the infinite abyss of the night. 'They beat me....' Yakob justified himself to himself, when the tears rose to his eyes again. No tears could wash away the conviction that it was he who had shown them the way by which they had come. The first detachment was waiting for the arrival of the second. It arrived, bringing in prisoners, Cossacks. A large number of them were being marched along; they did not walk in order but irregularly, like tired peasants. They were laughing, smoking cigarettes, and pushing against each other. Among them were those who had come to his cottage; he recognized the captain and others. When they saw Yakob they waved their hands cordially and called out to him, 'Old man, old man!' Yakob did not reply; he shrunk into himself. Shame filled his soul. He looked at them vacantly. His forehead was wrinkled as with a great effort to remember something, but he could think of nothing but a huge millwheel turning under red, smooth waves. Suddenly he remembered: it was the young Cossack who had given him his brother's clothes. 'The other one,' he shouted, pointing to his muffler, 'where did you leave him?' Soldiers came between them and pushed the crowd away. There was a terrific crash in the mill; a thick red cloud rushed upwards, dotted with sparks. Under this cloud an ever-increasing mass of people was flocking towards the spot where Yakob was; they were murmuring, pulling the soldiers by their cloaks. Women, children, and old men pressed in a circle round him, gesticulating, shouting: 'It was he...he...he!' Words were lost in the chaos of sounds, faces became merely a dense mass, above which fists were flung upwards like stones. Yakob tripped about among the soldiers like a fawn in a cage, raised and lowered his head, and clutched his rags; he could not shut his quivering mouth, and from his breast came a cry like the sob of a child. The crowd turned upon him with fists and nails; he hid his face in his rags, stopped his ears with his fingers, and shook his head. The prisoners had been dispatched, and it was Yakob's turn to be taken before the officer in command of the battalion. 'Say that I...that I...' Yakob entreated his guard. 'What are you in such a hurry for?' 'Say that I...' The soldiers were sitting round a camp-fire, piling up the faggots. Soup was boiling in a cauldron. 'Say that I...' he begged again, standing in the thick smoke. At last he was taken into the school-house. The officer in command stood in the middle of the room with a cigarette between his fingers. 'I...I...' groaned Yakob, already in the door. His dishevelled hair made him look like a sea-urchin; his face was quite disfigured with black marks of violence; behind his bleeding left ear still stuck the cigarette. His swollen upper lip was drawn sideways and gave him the expression of a ghastly smile. His eyes looked out helpless, dispirited, from his swollen lids. 'What do you want to say?' asked the officer, without looking at him. Something suddenly came over him. 'It was I,' he said hoarsely. The soldier made his report. 'They gave me food,' Yakob said, 'and this muffler and breeches, and they beat me.' 'It was you who showed them the way?' 'It was.' 'You did show them the way?' He nodded. 'Did they beat you in the cottage?' Yakob hesitated. 'In the cottage we were having supper.' 'They beat you afterwards, on the way?' He again hesitated, and looked into the officer's eyes. They were clear, calm eyes. The guard came a step nearer. The officer looked down, turned towards the window and asked more gently: 'You had supper together in the cottage. Then you went out with them. Did they beat you on the way?' He turned suddenly and looked at Yakob. The peasant stood, looked at the grey snowflakes outside the window, and his face, partly black, partly pallid, was wrinkled in deep folds. 'Well, what have you got to say?' 'It was I...' This interrogation made him alternately hot and cold. 'You who beat them, and not they who beat you?' laughed the officer. 'The meat is still there in the cottage, and here is what they gave me,' he said, holding up the muffler and tobacco. The officer threw his cigarette away and turned on his heel. Yakob's eyes became dull, his arm with the muffler dropped. The officer wrote an order. 'Take him away.' They passed the schoolmaster and some women and soldiers in the passage. 'Well...well...' they whispered, leaning against the wall. The guard made a sign with his hand. Yakob, behind him, looked dully into the startled faces of the bystanders. 'How frightened he looks...how they have beaten him...how frightened he looks!' they murmured. He put the muffler round his neck again, for he felt cold. 'That's him, that's him,' growled the crowd outside. The manor-house was reached. The light from the numerous windows fell upon horses and gun-carriages drawn up in the yard. 'What do you want?' cried the sentry to the crowd, pushing them back. He nodded towards Yakob. 'Where is he to go?' 'That sort...' murmured the crowd. Yakob's guard delivered his order. They stopped in the porch. The pillars threw long shadows which lost themselves towards the fence and across the waves of the stream beyond, in the darkness of the night. The heat in the waiting-room was overpowering. This was the room where the bailiff had so often given him his pay. The office no longer existed. Soldiers were lying asleep everywhere. They passed on into a brilliantly lighted room. The staff was quartered there. The general took a few steps across the room, murmured something and stood still in front of Yakob. 'Ah, that is the man?' he turned and looked at Yakob with his blue eyes that shot glances quick as lightning from under bushy grey eyebrows. 'It was I,' ejaculated Yakob hoarsely. 'It was you who showed them the way?' Yakob became calmer. He felt he would be able to make himself more quickly understood here. 'It was.' 'You brought them here?' 'Yes.' He passed his hand over his hair and shrank into himself again. He looked at the brilliant lights. 'Do you know what is the punishment for that?' The general came a step nearer; Yakob felt overawed by the feeling of strength and power that emanated from him. He was choking. Yes, he understood and yet did not understand.' 'What have you got to say for yourself!' 'We had supper together...' he began, but stopped, for the general frowned and eyed him coldly. Yakob looked towards the window and listened to hear the sound of wind and waves. The general was still looking at him, and so they stood for a moment which seemed an eternity to Yakob, the man in the field-grey uniform who looked as if he had been sculptured in stone, and the quailing, shrunken, shivering form, covered with dirt and rags. Yakob felt as though a heavy weight were resting on him. Then both silently looked down. 'Take him back to the battalion.' The steely sound of the command moved something in the souls of the soldiers, and took the enjoyment of their sleep from them. They returned to the school-house. The crowd, as though following a thief caught in the act, ran by their side again. They found room for the old man in a shed, some one threw him a blanket. Soldiers were sleeping in serried ranks. Their heavy breathing mixed with the sound of wind and waves, and the cold blue light of the moon embraced everything. Yakob buried himself in the straw, looked out through a hole in the boarding and wept bitterly. 'What are you crying for?' asked the sentry outside, and tapped his shoulder with his gun. Yakob did not answer. 'Thinking of your wife?' the soldier gossiped, walking up and down outside the shed. 'You're old, what good is your wife to you?' The soldier stopped and stretched his arms till the joints cracked. 'Or your children? Never mind, they'll get on in the world without a helpless old man like you.' Yakob was silent, and the soldier crouched down near him. 'Old man, you ought...' 'No...' tremblingly came from the inside. 'You see,' the soldier paced up and down again, 'you are thinking of your cottage. I can understand that. But do you think the cottage will be any the worse off for your death?' The soldier's simple and dour words outside in the blue night, his talk of Yakob's death, of his own death which might come at any moment, slowly brought sleep to Yakob. In the morning he awoke with a start. The sun was shining on the snow, the mountains glittered like glass. The trees on the slopes were covered with millions of shining crystals; freshness floated between heaven and earth. Yakob stepped out of the shed, greeted the sentry and sat down on the boards, blinking his eyes. The air was fresh and cold, tiny atoms of hoarfrost were flying about. Yakob felt the sun's warmth thawing his limbs, caressing him. He let himself be absorbed into the pure, rosy morning. Doors creaked, and voices rang out clear and fresh. Opposite to him a squadron of Uhlans were waiting at the farrier's, who came out, black as a charcoal-burner, and chatted with them. They were laughing, their eyes shone. From inside the forge the hammer rang out like a bell. Yakob held his head in his hand and listened. At each stroke he shut his eyes. The soldiers brought him a cup of hot coffee; he drank it and lighted his pipe. The murmuring of the brook, punctuated by the hammer-strokes, stimulated his thoughts till they became clearer, limpid as the stream. 'It was I...it was I...' he silently confided to all the fresh voices of the morning. The guard again took him away with fixed bayonets. He knew where he was going. They would go through the village and stop at the wall of the cemetery. The sky was becoming overcast, the beauty of the morning was waning. They called at the school-house for orders. Yakob remained outside the open window. 'I won't...' he heard a voice. 'Nor I...' another. Yakob leant against the fence, supported his temples on his fists and watched the snow-clouds and mists. A feeling of immense, heavy weariness came over him, and made him limp. He could see the ruins of the mill, the tumbled-down granaries, the broken doors. The water trickled down the wheel; smoke and soot were floating on the water, yet the water flowed on. Guilty...not guilty.... What did it all matter? 'Do you hear?' he asked of the water. 'Do you hear?' he asked of his wife and children and his little property. They took him here and they took him there. They made him wait outside houses, and he sat down on the steps as if he had never been used to anything else. He picked up a dry branch and gently tapped the snow with it and waited. He waited as in a dream, going round and round the wish that it might all be over soon. While he was waiting, the crowd amused themselves with shaking their fists at him; he was thankful that his wife seemed to have gone away to the town and did not see him. At last his guard went off in a bad temper. A soldier on horseback remained with him. 'Come on, old man,' he said, 'no one will have anything to do with it.' Yakob glanced at him; the soldier and his horse seemed to be towering above the cottages, above the trees of the park with their flocks of circling crows. He looked into the far distance. 'It was I.' 'You're going begging, old man.' Again they began their round, and behind them followed the miller's wife and other women. His legs were giving way, as though they were rushes. He took off his cap and gave a tired look in the direction of his cottage. At last they joined a detachment which was starting off on the old road. They went as far as Gregor's cottage, then to the cross-roads, and in single file down the path. From time to time isolated gunshots rang out. They sat down by the side of a ditch. 'We've got to finish this business,' said the sergeant, and scratched his head. 'No one would come forward voluntarily... I have been ordered....' The soldiers looked embarrassed and drew away, looking at Yakob. He hid his head between his knees, and his thoughts dwelt on everything, sky, water, mountains, fire. His heart was breaking; a terrible sweat stood on his brows. Shots rang out. A deep groan escaped from Yakob's breast, a groan like a winter-wind. He sprang up, stood on the edge of the ditch, sighed with all the strength of his old breast and fell like a branch. Puffs of smoke rose from the ditch and from the forests. 'P.P.C.' (A LADY'S NARRATIVE) [An incident during the early part of the World War, when the Russians, retreating before the victorious Austro-German armies, destroyed everything.] BY MME RYGIER-NALKOWSKA I At the time when the bridges over the Vistula still existed, connecting by stone and iron the banks of the town now split in two, I drove to the opposite side of the river into the country to my abandoned home, for I thought I might still succeed in transporting to the town the rest of the articles I had left behind, and so preserve them from a doubtful fate. I was specially anxious to bring back the cases full of books that had been early packed and duly placed in a garret. They included one part of the library that had long ago been removed, but owing to their considerable weight they had been passed over in the hurry of the first removal. The house had been locked up and entrusted to the sure care of Martin, an old fellow bent half to the ground, who with his wife also kept an eye on the rest of the buildings, the garden, and the forest. When I arrived I found the whole of my wild, forgotten forest-world absolutely changed and transformed into one great camp. But the empty wood was moving like a living thing, like the menacing 'Birnam wood' before the eyes of Macbeth. It was full of an army, with each of their handsome big horses tied to a pine in the forest. Farther off across the roots could be seen small grey tents stretched on logs. Most of the exhausted blackened men were lying all over the ground and sleeping among the quiet beasts. Along the peaceful, silky forest paths, in a continuous line, like automobiles in the Monte Pincio park, stood small field kitchens on wheels, gunpowder boxes, and carts. At the foot of the forest, on the flowery meadow, unmown this year, were feeding pretty Ukraine cattle driven from some distant place. Quiet little sheep, not brought up in our country, were eating grass on a neighbouring hillock. Martin's bent figure was hastily coming along the road from the house, making unintelligible signs. When he was quite close he explained in a low discontented voice, and as if washing his hands of all responsibility, that I had been robbed. 'I was going round,' he said, 'this very morning, as it was my duty to do. There was no one to be seen. Now the whole forest is full of soldiers. They came, opened the house, and stole absolutely everything. My wife came upon them as they were going out!' 'What? Stole everything?' I asked. Martin was silent a moment; at last he said: 'Well, for instance, the samovar; absolutely everything!' I found the front door, in fact, wide open, and in it Martin's wife, with gloom depicted on her face. The floors were covered with articles dragged out of the drawers in the rooms on the upper floor. In the garrets scores of books in the most appalling disorder were scattered from out of parcels and boxes. Unbound volumes had been shaken, so that single sheets and maps were found in various places or not found at all. I went into the veranda. In the green of the astonished garden, now paling in the dusk, men were sleeping here and there. There was a specially large swarm in the part of the garden where ripe raspberries were growing. Nearer the house, under a shady d'Amarlis pear tree, four soldiers were lying and playing at cards. They all had attached to their caps masks to protect them from poison-gas with two thick glasses for the eyes, and with this second great pair of eyes on them their heads looked like those of certain worms. In the packs of cards I recognized without trouble some that used to lie by our fire-place. I went up to the soldiers and pointed out that they had plundered my house, and that I missed several things, and was anxious to find them, especially women's dresses not of use to any one there, and that I wanted to be assured that no one would come into the house in future--at least till I had packed afresh the damaged books and collected what remained. I could speak freely, for none of them so much as thought of interrupting me. Then I was silent, whereupon the soldier lying nearest raised his head--the movement put me in mind of a hydrostatic balance--gave me a long look and said: 'What have we to do with your books? We don't even understand your language!' Then, looking at me amiably with his double pair of eyes, he took a bite of a half-ripe pear as green as a cucumber. 'Nothing to be got here: you must go to an officer,' Martin advised, as he stood a little to the side of me. The officers had their quarters about a quarter of a mile away, in a small house near the forest path. The mist passed off, and in the darkness in the middle of the wood a number of fires shone. One could hear a confused noise, unknown soldiers' songs, and mournful music. We soon reached our destination. We were asked to go into the nearly empty room, where there was a murmur of voices of soldiers; they were all standing. At a long table, by the light of a small candle without a candlestick, two men were writing something, and one was dipping in a plate proofs of photographs. Some one asked if I felt any fear, and when I hastened to reassure him entirely, he gave me a chair. Martin stood, doubled up, at the door. A moment later a young officer, informed by a soldier of my arrival, came down from above, clapped his spurs together in a salute and inquired what I wanted. When he heard my business his brow darkened and he became severe. 'Till now we have had no instance of such an occurrence,' he informed me with much dignity, and his voice sounded sincere. 'Where is the place?' he asked. 'At the end of the wood?' 'Quite right,' I answered. 'Ah, then, it is not our soldiers,' he said with relief; 'there is a detachment of machine gunners there, and they have no officers at all.' He expressed a wish, in spite of the lateness of the hour, to examine the damage personally with two other officers. They assured me that the things were bound to be found, and punishment would fall on the guilty under the severe military law. We all walked back through the camp by a forest track which I had known from childhood as well as the paths of my own garden. The mist had thickened, the fires seemed veiled as with cobwebs. Everywhere around horses were eating hay and scraping up the ground solid with pine-tree roots. Songs ended in silence and began again farther off. On the way I explained directly to the officers that my special object was not to get back the things or to punish the thieves, and certainly not according to 'the severe military law'. How was I to trace the thieves? My watchman would certainly not recognize them, because he was not familiar with shoulder straps, and would say that in that respect all soldiers were alike. I was only afraid of further damage in the house, its locks being rotten, and what I desired was that in case the army stayed there, a guard should be appointed. So we reached the house. Martin conducted the gentlemen through the rooms, and by the light of a candle showed them the condition of things. The officers, with obvious annoyance, discovered a 'veritable pogrom'. They could not be expected to understand what the loss incurred by the scattering of so many books meant to me; one of them smelt of English 'Sweet Pea' perfume, like a bouquet of flowers. Yet they clinked their spurs together, and as they went out they again apologized for the injury done and appointed a sentry, who went on guard at midnight. II Day came fall of clouds that hung right over the tops of the trees, full of wind and cold, but dry--quite a genuine summer day. Round the house from early morning soldiers were moving about, mitigating the weariness of the man on guard. Now one, now another wanted to see how the pillaged house looked. Quite simply they walked through the open door into the interior, finishing what remained of the unripe apples they had picked in the garden. One stood still on the threshold, put his hand to his cap, bowed, and duly asked, 'if the lady would allow?' Then he entered, stooped, and picked up two books from the ground. 'May I be permitted to take the liberty of asking to whom these books belong? What is the reason for their exceedingly great number? Do they serve a special department of study?' He made his inquiries in such a stilted way that I was forced laboriously to keep my answers on the same level. He owned he would be happy if I would agree that he should help in the work, for he had not had a book in his hand for a year. He therefore stayed in the garret and with the anxiety of a genuine bibliomaniac collected volumes of similar size and shape, put together scattered maps and tied up bundles. Martin looked distrustfully at this assistant, and annoyance was depicted on the face of Martin's wife. In front of the house one of the soldiers had brought cigarettes to the man on guard. Another turned to him ironically: 'Well, under the circumstances I suppose you are going to light one?' 'You are not allowed to light a cigarette on guard?' 'It wouldn't be allowed; but perhaps, as there is no officer to see me....' The speaker was a young, fair-haired, amiable boy, assistant to an engine driver in some small town in Siberia. He was quite ready to relate his history. He could not wonder sufficiently how it came to pass that he was still alive. He had run away from the trenches at S., certain that he would die if he were not taken prisoner. The fire of the enemy was concentrated on their entrenchment, so as to cut off all chance of escape. Every one round him fell, and he was constantly feeling himself to ascertain that he was not wounded. 'You see, lady, when they turn their whole fire on one spot, you must get away; it rains so thick that no one can stand it.' 'Well, and didn't you fire just as thick?' He looked with amiable wonder. 'When we had nothing to fire?' he said good-humouredly. Well, somehow it all ended happily. But, then, the others, his companions...ah, how dashing they had been, what fellows! An admirable, glorious army, the S. Regiment! Almost everyone was killed; it was sad to see them. Now they had to fill up the gaps with raw recruits; but it was no longer the old army; there will never be such fighting again.... It will be hard to discipline them. They had fought continuously for a year. A whole year in the war! They had been close to Drialdow, in Lwow, even close to Cracow itself. 'Do you know Cracow, lady?' 'I do.' 'Well, then, just there, just five miles from Cracow. The bitter cold of a windy day penetrated to our bones. To think that the town was only five miles off!' I went away to return to the packing of my books. At the door I noticed a woman standing, a neighbour; she was frightened and timid. 'I suppose they have robbed you, lady?' 'They have.' 'And now they are at it in my place,' she said softly. 'Their cattle have eaten up my whole meadow, and they are tearing up everything in my kitchen-garden. I was looking this morning; not a cucumber left. To-morrow they will begin mowing the oats; the officer gave me an advance in money, and the rest he paid with note of hand. Is it true that they are going to burn everything?' 'I don't know.' The new watchman came up, young, black-eyed, a gloomy Siberian villager. When he laughed, his teeth shone like claws. 'We have stolen nothing, but we are ordered to do penance,' he said defiantly to Martin. 'Very well, we'll do it. It was worse in the trenches--a great deal worse! Often we were so close to the enemy that we could see them perfectly. We used to take off our caps, raise them in the air; they fired. If they hit, then we waved a white handkerchief: that meant they had made a hit. Later on they would show their caps and we fired.' 'Are you from a distance?' Martin asked. 'From Siberia,' he answered, and turned his head. 'We were four brothers all serving in the army; two still write to me, the fourth is gone. Our father is an old man, and neither ploughs nor sows. He sold a beautiful colt for 150 roubles, for what is the use of a horse when there is no more farming? God! what a country this is,' he continued with pity. 'With us in Siberia a farmer with no more than ten cows is called poor. We are rich! We have land where wheat grows like anything. Manure we cart away and burn; we've no use for it. Ah! Siberia!' The woman, my neighbour, sat in silence. It was strange to her to hear of this country as the Promised Land. When she had to go she said, thoughtfully and nervously: 'Of course if I hadn't sold him the oats they would have taken them. Even those two roubles on account were better than that.' I went upstairs again, and by evening the work of packing the books and things was completed. The soldier who loved books made elaborate remarks on them also to his simple comrades. He spoke about the psychical aspect of fighting, the physiology of heroic deeds, the resignation of those destined for death, &c. He was a thoughtful man and unquestionably sensitive; but all that he said had the stamp of oriental thought, systematically arranged in advance and quite perfectly expressed at the moment, free from the immediate naivete of elementary knowledge. 'Do you belong,' I said, 'to this detachment of machine gunners?' 'Unquestionably; I am, as you see, lady, a simple soldier.' 'I should like to see a machine gun at close quarters. Can I?' I immediately perceived that I had asked something out of order. He was confused and turned pale. 'I have never seen a machine gun,' I continued, 'up to now; but, of course, if there are any difficulties...' 'It is not that,' he answered, with hesitation. 'I must tell you honestly, lady, we haven't a single cartridge left.' He checked himself and was silent; at that moment he did not show the repose of a psychologist. 'Do you understand, lady?' 'I do.' 'And also we have absolutely no officers. There is nothing but what you see there in the forest; the rest are pitiful remnants--some 200 soldiers left out of two regiments.' Early next day Martin joyously informed me that in the night the soldiers had gone away. They had burnt nothing, but it was likely that another detachment would come in by the evening. 'And the soldier who helped you to pack was here very early. I told him the lady was asleep, so he only left this card.' _It was a visiting card with a bent edge; at the bottom was written, in pencil and in Roman characters,_ 'p.p.c.' 'Yes, my friend,' I thought to myself, 'that is just the souvenir I should have expected you to leave me after plundering me right and left... a "P.P.C." card! And my deliverance from you means destruction to somebody else's woods, house, and garden.'