  THE rent for that studio in which Antek Svyatetski and I lived and painted, was unpaid, first, because we had about five rubles joint capital, and, second, because we felt a sincere repugnance to paying house-rent. People call us artists squanderers; as for me, I would rather drink away my money than waste it in paying a house-owner. Our house-owner was not a bad fellow though, and, moreover, we found means of defence against him. When he came to dun us, which was usually in the morning, Antek, who slept on a straw bed on the floor, and covered himself with a Turkish curtain used by us as a background for portraits, would rise to a sitting posture, and say in sepulchral tones,— "It is well that I see you, for I dreamed that you were dead." The house-owner, who was superstitious, and dreaded death evidently, was confused at once and beyond measure. Antek would throw himself back on the straw bed, stretch his legs, fold his hands across his breast, and continue,— "You were just like this; you had white gloves on your hands, the fingers were too long; on your feet patent-leather Then I would add, "Sometimes those dreams come true." It seems that this "sometimes" brought the man to despair. At last he would fall into a rage, slam the door after him; and we could hear him rush downstairs four steps at a time, swearing by what the world stands on. Still the honest soul did not like to send the house-bailiff to us. In truth, there was not much to take; and he had calculated that were he to bring other artists to that studio, and the kitchen adjoining, the story would be the same, or still worse. Our sharp method grew dull in time, however. The house-owner became accustomed to the thought of death. Antek had the idea to finish three pictures in the style of WÜrtz, "Death," "Burial," and "Waking from Lethargy." Naturally our man was to figure in all of them. Such funereal subjects became a specialty for Antek, who, as he says himself, paints "corpses big, medium, and small size." This is the reason, of course, why no one buys his pictures; for, subjects aside, he has talent. He has sent to the Paris Salon two "corpses," and as I also sent my "Jews on the Vistula," which in the catalogue of the Salon are christened "Jews on the Babylon," we were both waiting impatiently for the decision of the jury. Of course Antek foresaw that the worst would happen, that the jury would be made up of perfect idiots, and even if not made up of idiots, I am an idiot, he is an idiot, our pictures are idiotic, and reward for them would be the summit of idiocy! How much blood that monkey has spoiled in me during Antek's whole ambition is to pass for a moral "corpse." In company he poses as a drunkard, which he is not. He will pour down two or three tiny glasses of vodka, and turn to see if we are looking; if not sure that we are, he will punch one of us with his elbow frown and say, in subterranean tones,— "Yes, how low I have fallen, that far! Is it possible?" We answer that he is a fool. He falls into a rage then; nothing can bring him into worse humor than to show disbelief in his moral fall. Still, he is an honest fellow to the marrow of his bones. Once he and I went astray in the mountains of Salzkammergut, near Zell am See. Since night had come it was easy to break one's neck. "Dost hear," said Antek to me, "thou hast more talent than I, therefore life is a greater loss to thee. I will go ahead. If I fall, thou wilt stay on the spot till morning, and in the morning thou canst save thyself somehow." "Thou wilt not go ahead; I will go, because I can see better." "If I don't break my neck to-day," said Antek, "I'll finish in the canal—it's all one to me." We fall to disputing. Meanwhile it has become as dark as in a cellar. In the end of ends we conclude to go at hazard. We advance cautiously. The place is wide enough at first, but afterward narrower and narrower. As far as we can see, on the right and left are abysses, probably bottomless. The ridge grows still narrower, and, what is more, pieces of stone, loosened by the wind, fall away from under our feet. "I will go on my hands and knees; 'tis impossible to go any other way!" said Antek. In truth, 'tis impossible to go any other way, so we go on our hands and knees, advancing like two chimpanzees. But soon it appears that that too is impossible. The back of the cliff becomes as narrow as a horse's back. Antek sits astride of it, I also, and leaning on our hands put down before us we pushed forward with uncommon damage to our clothing. After a certain time I hear the voice of my comrade,— "Vladek?" "What is it?" "The ridge has come to an end." "And what is there beyond?" "Emptiness—there must be a precipice." "Take a stone and throw it, we will listen to hear if it is a long time falling." In the darkness I hear Antek feeling to find a fragment of crumbling rock. "I am throwing," said he, "listen." I open both ears. Silence! "Haven't you heard anything?" "No!" "We have ended up nicely! The place must be a hundred fathoms deep." "Throw once more." Antek finds a larger stone, throws it. No sound! "What does this mean, no bottom, or what?" asked Antek. "Hard to help it! We will sit here till morning." We are sitting there. Antek throws a couple of "Vladek, but don't go to sleep—hast a cigarette?" It appears that I have cigarettes, but we have used up our matches. Despair! The hour may be one in the morning, or not even so late. Very fine rain begins to fall. Around us, darkness impenetrable. I come to the conclusion that people who live in towns or in villages have no idea of what silence is,—silence like that which surrounds us, silence which rings in our ears. I almost hear the blood coursing in my veins; I hear the beating of my own heart perfectly. At first the position interests me. To sit in the midst of the silent night on the back of a cliff, as on a horse, and right over a bottomless abyss, that could not be done by some shopkeeper of the city; but soon the air becomes cold, and, to crown everything, Antek begins to philosophize,— "What is life? Life is just swinishness. People talk about art! art! May I and art be ——. Art is pure monkeying with nature, and meanness besides. Twice I have seen the Salon. Painters sent in so many pictures that one might have made canvas beds of them for all the Jews living; and what were these pictures? The lowest possible pandering to shopkeepers' tastes, painted for money, or the stuffing of stomachs. A chaos of art, nothing more! Were that art, I would that paralysis had struck it; luckily there is no real art upon earth—there is only nature. Maybe nature is swinishness also. The best would be to jump down here—and end everything quickly. I would do so if I had vodka; but as I have no vodka, I will not, for I have made a vow not to die sober." I was used to this gabbling of Antek's; still, in that silence and bewilderment, in cold, in darkness, at the It seemed to me that daybreak would come before long, when suddenly we heard a calling and the sound of wings. It was dark yet, and I could see nothing; I was certain, however, that eagles were beginning to circle over the precipice. "Kra! kra!" was heard with greater force above and in the darkness. It astonished me to hear such a multitude of voices, just as if whole legions of eagles were passing. But, happen what might, they were heralding daylight. After a while, I saw my hands resting on the rocky edge; then Antek's shoulders were outlined in front of me, precisely like a dark object on a ground somewhat less dark. That ground grew paler each instant. Then a rich, light silver tone began to shine in on the rocks and on Antek's shoulders. This color filled the darkness more and more, just as if into that darkness some one were pouring a silver liquid which permeated it, mixed with it, and from black made it gray, from gray pearl-color. There was also a certain severity and dampness about us; not only the cliff but the air too seemed moist. Now more light comes every moment. I am looking, trying to fix in my mind those changes in tone, and am painting a little in my soul, when all at once Antek's cry interrupts me,— "Tfu! idiots!" And his shoulders vanish from my eyes. "Antek!" I cry, "what are thou doing?" "Don't howl! look here!" I bend over, look—what appears? I am sitting on a rocky cliff which slopes down to a meadow, lying perhaps a yard and a half below me. The moss deadened the sound of the stones, for the meadow is very level; at a distance the road is visible, and on it crows, which I took for eagles. To walk home with the greatest comfort it was merely necessary to take our legs off the rock. Meanwhile, we had been sitting on that rock, our teeth chattering, through the whole of God's night. I know not why, but while waiting in the studio with Antek for the house-owner, that adventure of a year and a half before came to my mind, as if it had happened the previous day. That recollection gave me great solace; therefore I said at once,— "Dost remember, Antek, how we thought ourselves sitting on the edge of a precipice, and it turned out that there was a level road right before us? It may be the same to-day. We are as poor as church mice, as thou knowest; the house-owner wants to turn us out of the studio; meanwhile all things may change. Let some sluice of glory and money open out to us." Antek was sitting just then on the straw bed, pulling on his boots, grumbling the while that life was made up of pulling boots on in the morning and pulling them off at night; that only the man had sense who had courage to hang himself, which, if he, Antek, had not done hitherto, it was simply because he was not only a supreme fool, but a low coward besides. My outburst of optimism interrupted his meditation; so he raised his fishy eyes and said,— "Thou, beyond all men, hast something to rejoice at; the other day Suslovski drove thee from his house and Alas! Antek told the truth. Three days before I was the betrothed of Kazia Suslovski, but on Tuesday morning—yes, on Tuesday, I received from her father the following letter:—
Such was the letter; I agree more or less with this, that out of my material position dog's boots might be made; but what that pathetic gorilla knows of my character I, in truth, do not understand. Kazia's head brings to mind types from the time of the Directory; and it would be finer if she would dress her hair, not in the fashion of to-day, but of that time. I tried even to beg her to do so, but in vain, since she has no mind for such things. But she has a complexion as warm as if Fortuni had painted it. For that very reason I loved her sincerely; and the first day, after receiving the letter from her father, I went about as if poisoned. Only on the second day, and that in the evening, did I feel a little easier, and say to myself, "If not, then not." It helped me most to bear the In a moment the thought flashed into my head: That is my picture! I had my portfolio with me, and colors, for I never go walking without them; I begin to sketch on the spot, but I say to the Jews,— "Sit as you are, don't move!—a ruble to each one at dark." My Jews see the point, in a twinkle, and, as it were, grow to the ground. I sketch and sketch. The street Arabs crawl out of the water, and soon I hear behind me,— "Painter! painter! When a man steals a thing, he says that he found it." But I answer them in their jargon, and win them at once; they even stop throwing chips at the Jews, so as not to injure my work. But, as an offset, my group fall unexpectedly into good humor. "Jews," cry I, "be sorrowful;" but the old woman answers,— "With permission, Pan artist, how can we be sorrowful when you promise us each one a ruble? Let him be sad who has no profit." I have to threaten them that I will not pay. I sketched for two evenings; then they posed for me two months in the studio. Let Antek say what he pleases, the picture is good, for there is nothing cold in it; it has pure truth and a tremendous lot of nature. I left even the freckles on the young Jewess. The faces might be more beautiful; but they could not be truer or have greater character. I thought so much of this picture that I bore the loss of Kazia more easily. When Antek reminded me of her, the subject seemed one of long ago. Meanwhile, my comrade pulled on his other boot, and I heated the samovar. Old Antonia came with cakes; Antek had been persuading this woman in vain for a year to hang herself. We sat down to tea. "Why art thou so glad?" asked Antek, peevishly. "Because I know that thou wilt see something of uncommon interest to-day." At this moment we hear steps approaching the studio. "Thy house-owner! There is thy 'something uncommon'!" Saying this, Antek gulps down his tea, which is so hot that tears fill his eyes. Up he springs; and since our little kitchen is in the passage, he hides in the studio behind the costumes, and from his hiding-place cries, with a panting voice,— "Thou! he loves thee immensely, talk thou to him." "He is dying for thee!" answer I, flying to the costumes, "talk thou to him!" Meanwhile the door opens, and who comes in? Not the house-owner, but the watchman of the house in which the Suslovskis are living. We rush out from behind the costumes. "I have a letter for you," says the watchman. I take the letter. By Hermes! it is from Kazia! I tear open the envelope, and read as follows,—
I have no idea what the parents really have to forgive me, but neither have I time to think of it, for I am losing my head from amazement. Only after a while do I give the letter to Antek, and say to the watchman,— "Friend, tell the young lady that I will come right away—wait, I have no small money, but here are three rubles [all I have] change the bill, take a ruble for yourself, and bring me the rest." Speaking in parenthesis, the monster took the three rubles, and did not show himself again. He knew, the abortion, that I would not raise a scandal at Suslovski's, and took advantage of the position most dishonorably. But at the time I didn't even notice it. "Well, Antek, what?" ask I. "Nothing! Every calf will find its butcher." The haste with which I was dressing did not permit me to find an answer befitting this insult from Antek. CHAPTER II.A QUARTER of an hour later I ring at Suslovski's. Kazia herself opens the door. She is comely; she has about her yet the warmth of sleep, and also the freshness of morning, which she brought from the garden in the folds of her muslin robe, which is pale blue in color. Her hat, just removed, has dishevelled her hair somewhat. Her face is smiling; her eyes are smiling; her moist lips are smiling,—she is just like the morning. I seize her hands, kiss them, and kiss her arms to the elbows. She bends to my ear and inquires,— "But who loves better?" Then she leads me by the hand to the presence of her parents. Old Suslovski has the mien of a Roman who is sacrificing pro patria the life of his only child; the mother is dropping tears into her coffee, for both are at coffee. But they rise at sight of us, and Papa Suslovski speaks,— "Reason and duty would command me to answer, no! but the heart of a parent has its rights—if this is weakness, let God judge me!" Here he raises his eyes in proof that he will be ready to answer, if the tribunal of Heaven begins to write a protocol that moment. I had never seen anything more Roman in my life, unless macaroni sold on the Corso. The moment is so impressive that a hippopotamus might "My children, should you have trouble in the world at any time take refuge here—here!" While saying this, she pointed to her bosom. She could not fool me! I was not to be taken for preservation there—there! If Kazia had offered me a similar refuge, it would have been different. Still I am amazed at the honesty of the Suslovskis, and my heart is filled with gratitude. I drink so many glasses of coffee from emotion that the Suslovskis begin to cast anxious glances at the coffee-pot and the cream. Kazia fills my cup continually; I try at the same time to press her foot under the table. But she draws it back always, shaking her head meanwhile, and smiling so roguishly that I know not how I escaped jumping out of my skin. I sit an hour and a half; but at last I must go, for in the studio Bobus is waiting for me,—Bobus who takes drawing-lessons, and leaves me a note each time, with a coat of arms on it, but I lose those notes generally. Kazia and her mother conduct me to the entrance; I am angry at that, for I want Kazia alone to conduct me. What a mouth she has! My road leads through the city garden. It is full of people coming from the waters. On the way I notice that all halt at sight of me. I hear whispers, "Magorski! Magorski! that's he—" Young ladies, dressed in muslin of every shade under which their forms are outlined wonderfully, cast glances at me which seem as if wishing to say, "Enter! the dwelling is ready!" What the devil, am I so famous, or what? I fail to understand. I go on—always the same thing. At the entrance But the man approaches me and says,— "My dear sir, though I have annoyed you sometimes, believe me, I have so much—just permit me simply—" With that he seizes me around the neck and hugs me. Ha! I understand, Antek must have told him that I am going to marry; and he thinks that in future I shall pay my rent regularly. Let him think so. I thunder upstairs. On the way I hear a noise in our quarters. I rush in. The studio is dark from smoke. There I find Yulek Rysinski, Wah Poterkevich, Franek Tsepkovski, old Sludetski, Karminski, Voytek Mihalak,—all amusing themselves by driving the elegant Bobus around on a string; but seeing me, they let him go, barely alive, in the middle of the studio; then they raise an unearthly uproar. "We congratulate! congratulate! congratulate!" "Up with him!" In one moment I am in their arms, and for a certain time they hurl me up, howling meanwhile in a way befitting a pack of wolves; at last I find myself on the floor. I thank them as best I can, and declare that they must all be at my wedding, especially Antek, whom I engage in advance as my best man. Antek raises his hands and says,— "That soap thinks that we are congratulating him on his marriage." "But on what are you congratulating me?" "How is that, don't you know?" asked every voice. "I know nothing; what the hangman do you want?" "Give him the morning number of 'The Kite,'" cries Poterkevich. They give me the morning number of "The Kite," shouting, one interrupting the other, "Look among the despatches!" I look at the despatches, and read the following,— "Special telegram to the 'The Kite.' Magorski's picture, 'The Jews on the river of Babylon,' received the great gold medal of the Salon of the present year. The critics cannot find words to describe the genius of the master. Albert Wolff has called the picture a revelation. Baron Hirsch offers fifteen thousand francs for it." I am fainting! Help! I have lost my senses to that degree that I cannot utter a word. I knew that my picture was a success, but of such a success I had not even dreamed. The number of "The Kite" falls from my hand. They raise it and read to me among current comments the following notes on the despatch,—
Under the excess of these monstrous lies, I return to my senses a little. Ostrynski, the editor of "The Kite," Worse than all, it comes to my mind in one moment that if the despatch is as truthful as the five notes, then farewell to everything. Ostrynski, who half a year since, in spite of the fact that her parents were for him, received a basket At the same time Stah Klosovich comes with a morning number of "The Courier." The despatch is in "The Courier." I recover breath. Now congratulations in detail begin. Old Sludetski, false to the core, but in manner sweet as syrup, shakes my hand and says,— "Beloved God! I have always believed in the genius of my colleague, and I have always defended him [I know that he used to call me an ass]; but—Beloved God, perhaps my colleague does not wish that such a fa-presto as I should call my colleague, colleague; in that event let my colleague forgive an old habit, Beloved God!" In my soul I wish him hanged; but I cannot answer, "Maybe my colleague needs money, if he does, let him say the word, and then—" Karminski is known among us for his professed willingness to oblige. Time after time he says to some of us, "If my colleague needs aid, let him say the word; and then—till we meet again!" In truth, he has money. I answer that if I do not find it elsewhere, I will apply to him. Meanwhile other men come, true as gold; and they squeeze me till my sides ache. At last Antek appears; I see that he is moved, but he conceals his emotion, and says roughly,— "Though thou art becoming a Jew, as I see, I congratulate thee!" "Though thou art becoming a fool, as I see, I thank thee," and we embrace with all our strength. Poterkevich mentions that it is dry in his throat. I haven't a copper; but Antek has two rubles; others have as much. A contribution follows, and punch. They drink my health, throw me up again; and because I tell them that the affair with the Suslovskis is settled, they drink Kazia's health also. With that Antek comes to me and says,— "Dost think, youthful idiot, that they hadn't read the despatch before the young woman wrote to thee?" Oh, the monkey! how gladly I would give him a club on the head. On one side the horizon was growing bright for me; on the other, the devil was darkening it. Anything might be expected of the Suslovskis; but that Kazik Still it was very likely that they had read the despatch at the waters in the morning, and invited me straightway. "Congratulations to the master; I too congratulate." He uttered that "I" with an emphasis, as if congratulation from him meant more than from any other man. Perhaps it did really. "How much you have invented!" cried I; "as truly as you see me here, I learned all about myself in 'The Kite.'" "How does that concern me?" asked Ostrynski. "I said nothing about exhibiting the picture either." "But now you do," answered he, phlegmatically. "And he has no mother, so his mother has not grown weak!" cried Voytek Mihalak. "That concerns me little," repeated Ostrynski, with dignity taking off his second glove. "But is the despatch true?" "True." That assurance pacifies me thoroughly. Through thankfulness I pour out punch for him. He puts his lips to the edge of the glass, drinks a sip, and says,— "First to your health, and a second draught I drink you know to whom. I congratulate you doubly." "Where do you get your information?" Ostrynski shrugs his shoulders. "Suslovski was in the editorial rooms before eight o'clock this morning." Antek begins to mutter something about mean people in general; I can restrain myself no longer; I seize my hat. Ostrynski follows me out; but I leave him on the "Kazia!" ask I, severely, "didst thou know of the despatch?" "I knew," answered she, calmly. "But, Kazik!" "What was to be done, my dear? Do not wonder at my parents; they must of course have some reasonable cause to accept thee." "But thou, Kazia?" "I seized the first opportunity; dost take that ill of me, Vladek?" The question grows clear, and it seems to me that Kazia is perfectly right. Speaking plainly, why did I rush hither like a madman? Kazia comes up and rests her head on my shoulder. I put my arm around her waist; she drops her face toward my arm, closes her eyes, pushes up her rosy mouth and whispers,— "No, no, Vladek! not now—only after marriage, I implore thee." In view of that request, I press her lips to mine, and we remain in that way as long as the process of breathing permits. Kazia's eyes become languishing. At last, she screens them with her arm, and says,— "But I begged thee not to—" The reproach and the look melt me to such a degree that I kiss her a second time. When you love some one, you have naturally a greater desire to give a kiss than a blow to that person. And I love Kazia beyond measure and wit, during life till death, after death! She, or none, and that's the end of it! Kazia, with panting voice, expresses the fear that I have lost respect for her. Dearest creature, what nonsense An agreement is made between us that if the parents pretend that they heard of the despatch only after my coming, I am not to let them know that I am aware how affairs stand. I bid farewell then to Kazia, promising to come in the evening. In fact, I must rush to the office of the Society for Promoting Fine Arts; through it I can communicate most easily with the secretary of the Salon. CHAPTER III.I SEND a despatch stating that I accept Baron Hirsch's price; but stipulate, first, to exhibit the picture in Warsaw, etc. For the sending of despatches and other needs I borrow money in the institution. It is given without hesitation. Everything goes as if on oil. In "The Kite" and "The Courier" appears my biography, in which, however, there is not one word of truth; but as Ostrynski says, "How can that concern me?" I have received also a request from two illustrated papers; they wish to publish my portrait and reproduce my picture. Let them do so. Money will be as abundant as water. CHAPTER IV.A WEEK later I receive the earnest money from Baron Hirsch. The remainder will be paid when the purchaser obtains possession of the canvas. Meanwhile, the Bank of Commerce fires onto the table for me five thousand There is an assembly in the studio. I throw my coin on the floor; and since I have never wallowed in gold, I begin to wallow in it. After me Antek wallows. The house-owner comes in, and thinks that we have lost our senses. We amuse ourselves like cannibals. CHAPTER V.ONE day Ostrynski informs me that he feels happy that he got a basket from Kazia, for prospects are opening before him of which I cannot have the least idea. I am very glad of this, or rather, it is all one to me; I believe meanwhile that Ostrynski will take care of himself in this life. When he was trying for Kazia, her parents were on his side, especially Father Suslovski; Ostrynski had even a complete preponderance over him, pushed to the degree that that Roman lost his statuesqueness in presence of this suitor. Kazia, however, could not endure him from the first moment of their acquaintance. It was some unconscious repugnance; as to other things I am perfectly sure that he did not offend her with that with which he offends me, and all who know his nature thoroughly. He is a wonderful man, or rather a wonderful man of letters. There are, of course, not only among us, but in all the greater centres of literature and art, men of whom, when you think, you ask involuntarily, Whence comes their importance? To this category belongs my friend of "The Kite." Who would believe that the secret of Ostrynski's significance and the reason of his mental position is this, that he does not love and does not respect talents,—especially literary talents,—and One should see him at sessions, at artistic and literary meetings, at jubilee dinners; with what condescending irony he treats men who in the region of creativeness have ten times more power than he; how he pushes them to the wall; how he confuses them with his logic, with his judgment; how he overwhelms them with his literary importance! Whenever Antek thinks of this, he calls for a slat from the bedstead with which to crack Ostrynski's skull; but Ostrynski's preponderance does not astonish me. People of genuine talent are frequently awkward, timid, devoid of marked quickness and mental equilibrium. It is only when genuine talent is alone with itself that wings grow out on its shoulders; Ostrynski in such a position could only go to sleep, for he has absolutely nothing to say to himself. The future brings order, gives rank, and assigns to each man his own proper place. Ostrynski is too clever not to know this; but in his soul he laughs at it. For him, 'tis enough that at present he has greater significance than others, and that people count more with him than with men better than he. We painters stand less in his way. Still he advertises the talents of writers at times, but only when urged by the interest of "The Kite" and in opposition to "The Courier." For the rest, he is a good comrade, an agreeable person. I can say that I like the man; but—devil take him!—we've had enough of Ostrynski. CHAPTER VI.THEY will make me slam the door some day. What a comedy! Since I have won reputation and money, Suslovski, in spite of my forethought, treats me simply with contempt; his wife, all Kazia's relatives, male and female, meet me frigidly. On the first evening Suslovski announces that if I suppose that my new position has influenced their action, or if I suppose—which for that matter is evident in me—that I am doing them a favor, I am mistaken. Though ready to sacrifice much for the happiness of their child, still even that only child cannot ask them to sacrifice their human dignity. The mother adds, that, in case of need, the child will know where to seek refuge. The honest Kazia defends me at moments very angrily; but they are in wait for every word of mine. Barely do I open my mouth when Suslovski bites his lips, looks at his wife and nods, as if to say, "I knew that it would come to this." Such a saw have they fixed for me from morning till evening. And to think that all this is hypocrisy, that its special service is to keep me in their net, that at the bottom of the question they are after my fifteen thousand francs, and that they are as anxious for them as I am, though our motives are different. It is time to finish. They have brought me to this that I seem to myself to have committed really some scoundrelism in getting the gold medal and the fifteen thousand francs for my picture. CHAPTER VII.THE day of my betrothal is drawing near. I buy a beautiful ring in the style of Louis XV. which does not please the Suslovskis, nor even Kazia, for in that whole house there is no one who has an idea of real art. I must work much yet over Kazia to destroy in her vulgar preferences and teach her to feel artistically; but since she loves me, I am hopeful. I invited no one to the betrothal except Antek. I wanted him to visit the Suslovskis as a preliminary; but he declared, that though physically and morally bankrupt, he has not become so degraded yet as to go visiting. It cannot be helped! I forewarn the Suslovskis that my friend is an original beyond compare, but a painter of genius and the most honest man in the world. Suslovski, learning that my friend paints "corpses," raises his brows, declaring that hitherto he has had to do with decent people, that his whole official career is unspotted, and that he hopes my friend will respect the manners prevailing in an honorable and decorous house. I confess to myself that I am not free from fears touching Antek, and from the morning hours I am at war with him. He insists on wearing leggings. I persuade, I implore, I entreat. At last he gives way, declaring that he sees no reason decisively why he should not remain a fool. It is a pity that his shoes remind one of explorers in Central Africa; for no blacking has touched them since they were brought from the shoemaker's on credit! Still worse, Antek's head looks like the summit of the Carpathian Mountains, covered with forests, torn by On the street people turn to look at his knotty stick and his immense tattered hat; but I am accustomed to this. We ring; we enter. In the antechamber, the voice of Cousin Yachkovich reaches me; he is discoursing on overpopulation. Cousin Yachkovich is always discoursing on overpopulation; that is his hobby. Kazia looks in her muslin like a cloud, and pretty. Suslovski is in a dress-coat; the relatives are in dress-coats; the old aunts are in silk gowns. Antek's entrance makes an impression. They look at him with a certain disquiet. He looks around gloomily, and informs Suslovski that in truth he would not have come "unless Vladek were getting married, or something of that sort." This "something of that sort" is received most fatally. Suslovski straightens himself with dignity, and inquires what is meant by "something of that sort." Antek answers that it is all one to him; but "for Vladek" he might even knock his heels off, especially if he knew that Pan Suslovski cared anything about the matter. My future father-in-law looks at his wife, at me, at Kazia, with a look in which amazement is struggling with mortification. Happily I save the position, and, with presence of mind rare with me, beg my future father-in-law to present me to those members of his family with whom I am still unacquainted. The presentation follows; then we sit down. Kazia sits near me, and lets her hand stay in mine. The room is full of people; but all are stiff and silent. The atmosphere is heavy. Cousin Yachkovich begins again at his talk on overpopulation. My Antek looks under the table. In the silence the voice of Yachkovich is heard with increasing shrillness; not having a front tooth, whenever he has to pronounce sz, he utters a prolonged hiss. "The most dreadful catastrophe may arise from this for all Europe," said Yachkovich. "Emigration," put in some one from aside. "Statistics show, that emigration will not prevent overpopulation." Suddenly Antek raises his head and turns his fishy eyes toward the speaker. "Then Chinese customs should be introduced among us," says he, with a gloomy bass. "With permission,—what Chinese customs?" "In China parents have the right to smother imbecile children. Well, then, with us, children should have the right to kill imbecile parents." It has come! The bolt has struck; the sofa groans under the aunts; and I am lost. Suslovski closes his eyes, and loses speech for a season. Silence. Then is heard the voice of my coming father-in-law, trembling with terror,— "My dear sir, I hope, that as a Christian—" "Why must I be a Christian?" interrupts Antek, shaking his head ominously. Another thunderbolt! The sofa with the aunts begins to tremble as if in a fever; it vanishes from my sight; I feel the earth opening beneath me. All is lost; all hope is vain. Suddenly Kazia's laughter rings out, resonant as a bell; then Yachkovich bursts into laughter, not knowing why; after Yachkovich, I laugh, also not knowing why. "Father!" cries Kazia, "Vladek forewarned father, that Pan Svyatetski [Antek] is an original. Pan Svyatetski is joking; he has a mother, I know that, and he is the best of sons to her." A rogue, not a maiden, that Kazia!—not only does she invent, but she divines. In fact, Antek has a mother, and he is a good son to her. Kazia's words make a certain diversion. The entrance of a servant with wine and cake makes a still greater diversion. That servant is the watchman who took my last three rubles; but now he is arrayed in a dress-coat, and comes out with the dignity of a waiting-man. He keeps his eyes fixed on the tray; the glasses rattle, and he moves forward as slowly as if he were carrying glasses filled with water. I begin to fear that he will drop them all to the floor; fortunately my fear proves barren. After a while the glasses are filled. We proceed to the act of betrothal. A little cousin holds a porcelain plate on which two rings are lying. The eyes are creeping out of her head with curiosity, and the whole ceremony causes her such evident pleasure that she is dancing together with the plate and rings. Suslovski rises; all rise; the noise of the chairs is heard as they are pushed back. Silence follows. I hear one of the matrons remark in a whisper, how she had hoped that my ring "would be better." In spite of this remark there is such solemnity of feeling that flies are dropping from the wall. Suslovski begins to speak,— "My children, receive the blessing of your parents." Kazia kneels; I kneel as well. What a physiognomy Antek must have at this moment, what a face! I dare not look at him; I look at Kazia's muslin robe, which, on the faded red sofa, makes a very nice spot. The hands of Suslovski and of Pani Suslovski rest on our heads; then my future father-in-law says,— "My daughter, thou hast had the best example at home of what a wife should be to a husband, therefore I need not teach thee thy duties, which moreover thy husband will indicate to thee." (I hope so.) "But I turn to thee, Pan Vladislav—" Here begins a speech during which I count to one hundred, and having counted to a hundred, I begin again at one. Suslovski the citizen, Suslovski the official, Suslovski the father, Suslovski the Roman, had the opportunity of showing all his grandeur of soul. The words: child, parents, duties, future, blessing, thorns, pure conscience, buzz around my ears like a swarm of wasps, sit on my head, sting me on the above-mentioned ears as well as on my neck and forehead. It must be that I tied my cravat too tightly, for it is suffocating me. I hear the weeping of Pani Suslovski, which affects me, for at heart she is an honest woman; I hear the sound of the rings, held on the plate by the dancing little cousin. O Lord Christ, what a face that Antek must have! At last we rise. The little cousin thrusts the plate under my very eyes. Kazia and I exchange rings. Uf! I am betrothed! I suppose this to be the end; but no, Suslovski calls us to go and beg a blessing of all the aunts. We go. I kiss five hands which are like the feet of storks. All the aunts hope that I will not deceive their confidence. What the devil confidence can they have in me? But the worst is over. Tea is brought in. I sit near Kazia, and it seems to me all the time that I do not see Antek. The monkey, he frightens me once more; when the question whether he will have rum in his tea is asked, he answers that he drinks rum only by the bottle. At last the evening is ended successfully. We go out. I draw in the air with full breast. Indeed, my cravat was too tight. Antek and I walk on in silence. The silence begins to weigh on me and soon becomes unendurable. I feel that I must talk to Antek, tell him something of my happiness, how handsomely all has passed, how I love Kazia— I prepare, but it is of no use! At last when just near the studio I say,— "Own up, Antek, that life is still beautiful." Antek halts, casts a frowning glance at me, and says,— "Poodle!" That night we conversed no more with each other. CHAPTER VIII.A WEEK after the evening of betrothal my "Jews" arrive for exhibition. The picture is placed in a separate hall, and a special fee is charged for admission. One half of the net proceeds is for me. At the exhibition there is probably a throng from morning till evening. I see it only once; but as people look at me more than at the picture, I shall not go again, for why should I be angry for nothing. If my picture were a masterpiece, such as has never been seen in the world till this day, people would rather satisfy that curiosity in virtue of Such a Hottentot am I at this moment. I should be satisfied were I really a poodle; but I am too much of a painter not to be enraged by such degradation of art before a fashionable peculiarity. CHAPTER IX.THREE weeks ago few persons knew of my existence, but now I begin to receive tens of letters, for the greater part love-letters. I may wager that of five four begin with these words: "It may be that when you have read this letter, you will despise the woman who, etc.—" I will not despise the woman, on condition that she will keep away from me. Were it not for Kazia, perhaps, to tell the truth, I shouldn't shrug my shoulders so much at such a torrent of feeling. How can such an "unknown" hope that a man who has never seen her will answer the invitation of an invisible woman? This makes me specially indignant. Remove first the curtain, O fair unknown! and when I behold thee, I will say to thee—Oi! I will say nothing, because of Kazia. I receive also an anonymous missive, from some gray-haired friendess, in which I am called master, and Kazia a little goose. "Oh, master, is she a wife for thee?" inquires my gray-haired friendess. "Is that a choice worthy of him on whom the eyes of the whole country are turned? Thou art a victim of intrigue, etc." A wonderful supposition, and a still more wonderful demand, that I should marry not to please my heart but the public! And poor Kazia is already in their way! There are greater crimes surely than anonymous letters, but there is no greater—how can I express myself justly? But never mind! The end of my betrothal is not fixed yet, but it will come before long. Meanwhile I shall tell Kazia to array herself famously, and I will escort her to the exhibition. Let the world see us together. Antek's two corpses have come also from Paris. The picture is called "The Last Meeting," and represents a young man and a young woman lying on the dissecting-table. At the first glance the idea is interpreted perfectly. It is clear that those two dead ones loved each other in life, that misery separated and death united them. The students bending over the corpses have come out in the picture somewhat rigid; there are faults in the perspective of the dissecting-room; but the "corpses" are painted superbly. Such corpses that icy cold comes from them! The picture did not receive even mention, perhaps for the reason that the subject is wonderfully unpleasant; but critics praised it. Among our "painters" there are beyond doubt many talents. For instance, at the side of Antek's corpses Franek Tsepkovski exhibited "The Death of Koretski." Immense strength in it, and immense individuality. Antek calls Franek an idiot: first, because Franek has a forelock, and wears his beard wedge-form; second, because he dresses according to the latest fashion; and, third, because he is terribly well-bred and ceremonious, and mentions rather frequently his high-born relatives. But Antek is mistaken. Talent is a bird that builds its I have seen, in Monachium and Paris, painters who looked like laborers in a brewery, then others like barbers or dandies, you would not give three coppers for the men; still one and the other beast of them had in his soul such exaltation, such uncommon feeling of forms and colors, and such a power of projecting that feeling out of himself onto canvas! Ostrynski, who has a trite phrase for everything, would have written in mentioning them in his "Kite," spiritus flat ubi vult (the spirit bloweth where it listeth). In Antek's opinion, historical painting is "obscure barbarism." I do not paint historical subjects, and personally the question is all one to me, but I hear this opinion on every side as being progressive. People have made a saw of it, and it begins to annoy me. Our Polish painters have one defect: they become wedded to certain doctrines touching art, live under their slippers, look at everything with the eyes of these doctrines, force art to them, and are rather apostles than painters. In contrast to painters mentioned above (in connection with Monachium and Paris), I have known others whose lips were worn off in talking of what art is, and what it should be; but when it came to the brush they could not do anything. More than once I have thought that a theory of art should be framed by philosophers, and if they framed nonsense—let them answer; but painters should paint what the heart dictates to each man, and to know how to paint is the main thing. To my thinking, the most wretched talent is worth more than the most splendid doctrine, and the most splendid doctrine is not worthy to clean the boots of freedom. CHAPTER X.I WAS with Kazia and the Suslovskis at the exhibition. There are crowds before my picture at all times. They began to whisper the moment we entered; and this time they looked mostly, not at the picture, and not at me, but at Kazia. The women especially did not take their eyes from her. I saw that she was pleased with this fabulously; but I did not take it ill of her. I take it worse that she said of Antek's corpses, "that is not a decent picture." Suslovski declared that she had taken the words out of his mouth; but I was raging. To think that Kazia too should have such a view of art! From anger I took farewell of them at once, on pretence that I must see Ostrynski. I went to his office, it is true, but to induce him to dine with me. CHAPTER XI.I SAW a miracle, and that's the end of it. Now for the first time I understand why a man has eyes. Corpo di Bacco; what beauty! I am walking with Ostrynski; I see on a sudden at the corner of Willow Street some woman passing quickly. I stand as if fixed to the earth; I become oak; I become stone; I stare; I lose consciousness; without knowing it I seize Ostrynski by the cravat; I loosen his cravat—and—save me, or I die! What that she has perfect features? It is not the features, she is simply an artist's ideal, a masterpiece as I gaze and gaze. She is walking alone,—how alone? Poetry is walking with her; music, spring, splendor, and love are walking with her. I know not whether I should prefer to paint her immediately; I should rather kneel before her and kiss her feet, because such a woman was born. Finally, do I know what I would do? She passes us as serenely as a summer day. Ostrynski bows to her; but she does not see him. I wake from my amazement and cry,— "Let us follow her!" "No," answers Ostrynski; "have you gone mad? I must tie my cravat. Give me peace! that is an acquaintance of mine." "An acquaintance of yours? Present me." "I do not think of it; look to your own betrothed." I hurl a curse at Ostrynski and his posterity to the ninth generation; then I wish to fly after the unknown. To my misfortune, she has entered an open carriage. Only from a distance do I see her straw hat and red parasol. "Do you know her really?" ask I of Ostrynski. "I know all people." "Who is she?" "Pani Helena Kolchanovski of the house of Turno, otherwise Panna Vdova [Miss Widow], so called." "Why Miss Widow?" "Because her husband died at their wedding supper. If you have recovered, I will tell you her history. There was a rich, childless bachelor, Kolchanovski de Kolchanovo, a noble of the Ukraine. He had immensely honorable "Was that long ago?" "Three years. At that time she was twenty-two years of age. Since then she might have married twenty-two times; but she doesn't want to marry. People supposed that she was waiting for a prince. It turned out that that was not true; for she fired a prince out a little while ago. Besides I know well that she has no pretensions; the best proof of which is that Pani Kolchanovski lives to this time in close friendship with our well-known, sympathetic, gifted, etc., Eva Adami, who was a friend of hers in the boarding-school." Hearing this, I just jumped from joy. If that is true, no more of Ostrynski. My beloved, honest Evusia "Well, then you won't take me to her?" asked I of Ostrynski. "Decidedly not; if any man wishes to make the acquaintance of any one in the city, why, he will make it," answered Ostrynski; "but because you put me out with CHAPTER XII.I WAS to dine with the Suslovskis, but I wrote them that I couldn't come. My teeth have never ached, it is true, but then they might ache. Helena did not go from my eyes all day; for what sort of a painter would he be, who would not think of such a face? I painted in my soul ten portraits of her. To my mind came the idea of a picture, in which such a face as Helena's would make a splendid impression. It was only necessary to see her a couple of times more. I flew to Eva Adami's, but did not find her. In the evening I receive a card from Kazia with an invitation for the morning to waters in the garden, and then to coffee. Those waters and that coffee are a regular saw! I cannot go; for if I do not find Eva at home in the morning, I shall not catch her all day. Eva Adami (that is her stage appellation; her real name is Anna Yedlinski) is an exceptional maiden. I have enjoyed her friendship this long time, and we say "thou" to each other. This is her ninth year on the stage, and she has remained pure in the full sense of the word. In theatres, there are, it is true, plenty of women who are innocent physically; but if their corsets could betray all the desires of those women, I suppose that the most shameless baboon, on hearing the story, might blush at all points not covered with hair. The theatre spoils souls, especially female souls. Continual contact with people so spoiled as actors excites lower instincts. There is not a white Angora cat which would not be soiled in such an environment. This environment can be conquered only by great genius, which purifies itself in the fire of art; or a nature so thoroughly Æsthetic that evil does not pass through it, as water does not pass through the feathers of a swan. Of such impermeable natures is Eva Adami. At night, at tea, and the pipe more than once, I have talked with my colleagues about people belonging to the world of art, beginning with the highest, that is, poets, and ending with the lowest, that is, actors. A being who has imagination developed beyond ordinary mortals, a being impressionable beyond others, sensuous, passionate, a being who, in the domain of happiness and delight, knows everything, and desires with unheard of intensity,—that is an artist. He should have three times the character and will-power of others to conquer temptation. Meanwhile, as there is no reason why a flower, beautiful beyond others, should have greater strength to resist wind, there is no reason why an artist should have more character than an ordinary person. On the contrary, there is reason why, as a rule, he has less, for his vital energy is wasted in that gulf which divides the world of art from the world of every-day reality. He is simply a sick bird, in a continual fever,—a bird which at times vanishes from the eye beneath the clouds, and at times drags its wearied wings in the dust and the mire. Art gives him a disgust for dust and mire; but life takes strength of flight from him. Hence that discord which is so frequent between the external and the internal life of artists. The world, when it asks more from artists than from others, and when it condemns them, is right perhaps; but Christ, too, will be right when He saves them. Ostrynski maintains, it is true, that actors belong to the artistic world as much as clarionets and French horns belong to it. But that is not true; the best proof is Eva Adami, who is a thorough artist, both by gifts and that feeling which has preserved her from evil as a mother would. In spite of all the friendship which I have for Eva, I had not seen her for a long time; when she saw me then, she was very glad, though she had a certain astonished look, which I could not explain. "How art thou, Vladzio?" I was delighted to find her. She wore a Turkish morning gown with split sleeves; it had red palm-leaves on a cream-colored ground, and was bordered with wide embroidery in old gold. The rich embroidery was reflected with special beauty in her pale face and violet eyes. I told her so, and she was greatly pleased. I came to the point then at once. "My golden diva! thou knowest Pani Kolchanovski, that wonderful lady of the Ukraine?" "I do; she was my schoolmate." "Take me to her." "My golden, my good one, as thou lovest me!" "No, Vladek, I will not take thee!" "See how bad thou art; but at one time I was almost in love with thee." What a mimosa that Eva is! When she hears this, she changes, puts her elbow on the table (a miracle, not an elbow), puts her pale face on her palm and asks,— "When was that?" I was in a hurry to speak of Helena; but since on a time I had in truth almost fallen in love with Eva, and since I wish now to bring her into good humor, I begin the narrative,— "We were going once, after the theatre, to the botanical garden. Dost thou remember what a wonderful night that was? We were sitting on a bench near the fountain; thou hadst just said, 'I should like to hear a nightingale.' I was sad for some reason, and took off my cap, for my head was aching; and thou, going to the fountain, moistened a handkerchief, and put it on my forehead with thy hand. Thou didst seem simply as good as an angel, and I thought to myself: If I take that hand and put my lips to it, all will be over! I shall be in love to the death." "And then what?" asks Eva, in an undertone. "Thou didst step aside quickly, as if divining something." Eva sat a while in thought, then woke from it and said with nervous haste, "Let us not speak of this matter, I pray thee." "Well, let us not speak of it. Dost thou know, Eva, I like thee too well to fall in love with thee? One feeling excludes the other. From the time that I made thy acquaintance, I have had for thee a real genuine feeling." "But," said Eva, as if following her own thoughts, "is it true that thou art betrothed?" "True." "Why hast thou not told me of it?" "Because the engagement was broken, and then rearranged not long since. But if thou tell me that as betrothed I should not become acquainted with Pani Helena, I will answer, that I was a painter before I was betrothed. However, thou hast no fear for her?" "Do not imagine that. I will not take thee to her, for I do not wish to expose her to people's tongues. They say that for some weeks half Warsaw is in love with thee; they relate uncreated things of thy conduct. No longer back than yesterday, I heard a witticism, that thou hast made the ten commandments of God into one for thy own use. Knowest thou into what one?" "What one?" "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife—in vain." "Thou, O God, seest my suffering! but the witticism is good." "And surely pointed." "Listen to me, Evus; "Povero maestro!" "Give peace to thy Italian; take me to Pani Helena." "My Vladek, I cannot; the more thou art thought a Don Juan, the less does it beseem me, an actress, to take thee to a lone woman who attracts the attention that Hela "I am different. I am an actress, and can apply to myself the words of Shakespeare, 'Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.'" "It is possible to lose one's senses in such a case. Every one may know her, may be at her house, may look at her; but I may not! And why? Because I have painted a good picture and have made some reputation." "From thy point of view, thou art right," said Eva, smiling. "Thou dost not suspect that I knew beforehand why thou hast come to me. Ostrynski was here, and he persuaded me that it was 'better' not to take thee to Hela." "Ha, I understand!—and thou hast promised him?" "I have not; I was even angry; still I think it is 'better' not to take thee. Let us talk now of thy picture." "Do not torment me with the picture and painting. But since things are so, let them be so! This is what I will tell thee: in the course of three days I will make the acquaintance of Pani Kolchanovski, even if I have to go in disguise to her." "Dress up as gardener and take her a bouquet—from Ostrynski." But at that moment an idea altogether different comes to me; this idea seems so splendid that I strike my forehead, forget my anger and the offence which a moment before I felt that Eva had committed, and say,— "Give thy word not to betray me." "I give it," says the curious Eva. "Know, then, that I shall disguise myself as an old minstrel. I have a whole costume and a lyre; I have been in the Ukraine, and know how to sing songs. Pani "What an original idea!" cried Eva. Eva is artistic to such a degree that the idea cannot but please her; besides, she has given her word not to betray me, and she has no objection to make. "What an original idea!" repeats she. "Hela so loves her Ukraine that she will just sob when she sees a minstrel in Warsaw; but what wilt thou tell her? How wilt thou explain thy coming to the Vistula?" My enthusiasm is communicated to Eva in spite of her. For a time we sit and conspire in the best fashion possible. We agree that I am to put on the disguise; and Eva is to take me in a carriage to avoid the curiosity of onlookers. Pani Hela is to know nothing till Eva betrays the secret herself, when she chooses. Eva and I amuse ourselves with this plan, perfectly; then I fall to kissing her hands, and she keeps me for lunch. I spend the evening at the Suslovskis. Kazia is a little gloomy because I did not come in the morning; but I endure her humors like an angel, besides, I am thinking of my adventure of the morrow and—of Hela. CHAPTER XIII.ELEVEN o'clock in the forenoon. Only somehow Eva is not visible. I am wearing a coarse linen shirt, open at the breast, a coat somewhat worn, but fairly good, a girdle, boots, everything that is needed. The hair of a gray wig falls in my eyes; and he would have been a keen man who could have recognized that as a wig; my beard was a masterpiece of patience. From eight o'clock in the Antek insists that, instead of painting, I could earn my bread as a model, which would in truth be with greater profit to art. Half-past eleven—Eva is coming. I send to the carriage a bundle containing my usual clothing, since, for aught I know, I may be obliged to change costume; I take the lyre then, and go down; at the door of the carriage I cry,— "Slava Bogu!" Eva is astonished and enchanted. "A wonderful beekeeper, a wonderful grandfather!" repeats she, laughing. "Such a thing could only come to the head of an artist!" Speaking in parenthesis, she herself looks like a summer morning. She is in a robe of raw silk and a straw hat with poppies. I cannot take my eyes from her. She came in an open carriage. Therefore people begin at once to surround us; but what does she care for that! At last the carriage moves on; my heart beats with more animation; in a quarter of an hour I shall see the Helena dreamed of. We have not driven a hundred yards when I see Ostrynski at a distance coming toward us. That man must be omnipresent! Seeing us, he halts, bows to Eva, then looks quickly at both of us, especially at me. I do not admit that he recognizes me; still, after we pass him We are before Hela's house. I fly to the door as if shot at it. Eva runs after me, crying,— "What a hateful old grandfather!" The servant, in a very showy livery, opens the door; and the next instant opens his eyes very widely at sight of me. Eva allays his astonishment, saying that the grandfather came with her, and we go upstairs. The waiting-maid appears in a moment, declares that the lady is dressing in the next chamber, and vanishes. "Good-day, Hela!" cries Eva. "Good-day, Evus!" answers a wonderful, a fresh voice, "right away! right away! I shall be ready in a moment." "Hela, thou knowest not what is waiting for thee, nor whom thou wilt see. I have brought thee a 'grandfather,'—the most genuine 'grandfather-minstrel' that has ever walked over the steppes of the Ukraine." A cry of joy is heard in the chamber; the door opens suddenly, and in rushes Hela, in her corsets, her hair hanging down. "A grandfather! a blind grandfather! here in Warsaw!" "He is not blind; he sees!" cried Eva, hurriedly, not wishing to carry the jest too far. But it was late, for that instant I throw myself at Hela's feet, and cry,— "Cherub of the Lord!" I embrace her feet with both hands, raising my eyes the while; I see a little more than the form of those "Cherub!" I repeat, with genuine ecstasy. My minstrel enthusiasm was explained by this, that after long wandering I had met the first Ukraine soul. Notwithstanding that, Hela withdraws her feet from my hands and hurries away. I see her bare shoulders during the twinkle of an eye, and her neck, which reminds me of Psyche in the Neapolitan Museum. She vanishes then through the doorway; but I remain kneeling in the middle of the room. Eva threatens me with her parasol, and laughs, hiding her rosy face in a bouquet of reseda. Meanwhile a dialogue is begun through the door in the most beautiful dialect ever spoken from the Pripet to Chertomelik. I had prepared myself for every possible query, therefore I lie as if from notes. "I am a beekeeper, from near Chigirin. My daughter wandered after a Pole to Warsaw; and I, old man, was grieving, grieving on the beefarm, till I wandered on after her. Good people give me coppers for singing—and now what? I shall see my dear child, give her my blessing, then return home, because I yearn for Mother Ukraine. There I am to die among the beehives. Every man must die; and it is time for old Philip this long while." What a thing the actor nature is! Evus knows who I am; but she is affected so much by my rÔle that she begins to nod her beautiful head in a melancholy manner, and looks at me with sympathy. Hela's voice quivers from the other room, also with emotion. The door opens a little; a wonderfully white arm appears through the opening; and, unexpectedly, I find myself in possession of three rubles, which I receive; I I am interrupted by the waiting-maid with the announcement that Pan Ostrynski is downstairs, and inquires if the lady will receive him. "Don't let him in, my dear!" cries Eva, in alarm. Hela declares that of course she will not receive him. She even expresses astonishment at such an early visit. I, to tell the truth, also do not understand how Ostrynski, who boasts, and is celebrated for his knowledge of social forms, should come at that hour. "There is something in this," says Eva. But time fails for further explanations, since Hela appears at that moment already dressed, and breakfast is announced. Both ladies pass into the dining-room. Hela wishes to seat me at the table; but I refuse, and sit with my lyre at the threshold. Soon I receive a plate so filled with food that if six grandfathers of the Ukraine were to eat all of it, they might have a fit of indigestion. But I eat, for I am hungry, and while eating I look at Hela. In truth, a more beautiful head there is not in any gallery on earth. As I live, I have not seen such transparent eyes; it is simply possible to see all thoughts through them, just as the bottom of a clear stream is seen. Those eyes possess this power also, that they begin to laugh before the mouth; by this the face is brightened, as if a sun-ray had fallen on it. What incomparable sweetness in the form of the mouth! That is a head somewhat in the style of Carlo Dolce, though the outline of the brows and the eyes bring to mind Raphael in his noblest type. At last I cease to eat; I gaze and gaze; I would gaze till death. "Thou wert not here yesterday," says Hela to Eva. "I hoped all the afternoon to see thee run in." "In the morning I had a rehearsal, and in the afternoon I wanted to see Magorski's picture." "Didst see it?" "Not well, for there was a crowd—and thou?" "I went in the morning. What a poet!—one wishes to weep with those Jews." Eva looks at me, and my soul rises. "I will go again, and as often as I can," says Hela. "Let us go together; maybe we can go to-day? It was so agreeable to me not only to look at that picture, but to think that such power appeared among us." And people do not glorify that woman! Then I hear further,— "It is a pity that such strange things are told of that Magorski. I confess that I am dying of curiosity to know him." "Ah!" says Eva, carelessly. "Thou knowest him, I suppose?" "I can assure thee that he loses much on closer acquaintance; presumptuous, vain, oh, how vain!" I have such a desire to show Eva my tongue that I can barely restrain myself; she turns her roguish violet eyes toward me, and says,— "Somehow thou hast lost appetite, grandfather?" I'll show her my tongue; I can't restrain myself! But she spoke again to Hela,— "Yes, Magorski is much worthier of admiration than of acquaintance. Ostrynski has described him as a genius in the body of a 'barber.'" I should cut off Ostrynski's ears if he had said anything similar; I knew that Eva has the devil at her collar; but in truth she is exceeding the measure. Fortunately, I see that a perfectly harmonious picture is forming: A garden, a background of trees, spots of sunlight, fountains, those two women with uncommonly beautiful faces one of them leaning against the other; and I see an old minstrel sitting with a lyre at the wall,—all this has its own charm which affects me as a painter. Meanwhile I remember my rÔle, and begin to sing with feeling,— "People say that I am happy; I laugh at their saying, For they know not how often I am covered with tears! "I was born in misfortune, In misfortune I perish. Why didst bear me, O mother, In that evil hour?" Eva is affected, for she is an artist; Hela because she is from the Ukraine; and I—because both are so beautiful that the sight of them enchants me. Hela listens without exaggerated attention, without false enthusiasm; but in her transparent eyes I see that the listening gives her pure, genuine pleasure. How different from those Ukraine women who come to Warsaw for the carnival, and during a contra-dance annoy partners with tales of homesickness for the Ukraine; while, in fact, as an acquaintance of mine puts it, no power could draw one of them with hooks from Warsaw and the carnival to her Ukraine! Hela listens, keeps time with her exquisite head; at moments she says to Eva, "I know that," and sings with me; I surpass myself. I cast forth from my bosom and memory a whole stock of material from the steppe, beginning with hetmans, knights, and Cossacks, and ending with falcons, Sonyas, Marusyas, steppes, grave-mounds, and God knows what! I am astonished myself, whence so much comes to me. Time passes as in a dream. I return a trifle weary, but enchanted. CHAPTER XIV.IN the studio I find, most unexpectedly, the Suslovskis and Kazia. They have come to give me a surprise. Why did Antek tell them that surely I should be back soon? Neither Kazia nor the Suslovskis know me, because I am disguised. I approach Kazia and take her hand; she draws back, somewhat frightened. "Kazia, dost thou not know me?" And laughter seizes me at sight of her astonishment. "But it is Vladek," says Antek. Kazia looks at me more carefully; at last she cries,— "Tfu! what an ugly grandfather!" I an ugly grandfather! I am curious to know where she saw a handsomer. But for poor Kazia, reared in the I withdraw to our kitchen, and after a few minutes reappear in my natural form. Kazia and her parents inquire what this masquerade means. "A very simple thing. You see, sometimes we painters render one another a friendly service, and pose to one another for pictures. As Antek, who posed to me for an old Jew. You didn't know him, Kazia, did you, in the picture? I am posing for Tsepkovski. Such is the custom among painters, especially as there is a lack of models in Warsaw." "We have come to give thee a surprise," said Kazia; "besides, I have never visited a studio in my life. Oh, what disorder! Is it this way with all painters?" "More or less, more or less." Pan Suslovski declares that he would rather find a little more system; and in this respect he hopes for a change in the future. I want to break his head with my lyre. Meanwhile Kazia smiles with coquettishness, and says,— "There is one painter, a great good-for-nothing, with whom it will be different; only let me take the matter in hand, all will be put in order, arranged, cleaned, fumigated." Thus speaking, she raises her nose, which is in the air, looks at the festoons of spider-webs adorning the corners of our studio, and adds,— "Such disorder might discourage a merchant even. Some one will come, and immediately find himself, as it were, in an old clothes shop. For example, look at that armor; terrible how rusty it is! Still, all that is needed is to call a servant, tell her to crush a little brick; and all will begin to shine like a new samovar." Jesus Mary! She talks of merchants, and wants to clean with brick-dust my armor dug out of a tomb—O Kazia, Kazia! Suslovski, now happy, kisses her on the forehead; and Antek gives out certain ominous sounds which call to mind the grunting of a wild boar. Kazia threatens me with forefinger on her nose, and talks on,— "I beg thee to remember that all will be changed." Then she concludes, "And if a certain gentleman will not come to us this evening, he will be bad, and people will not love him." So saying, she closes her eyes. I cannot say that there was not much charm in those tricks of hers. I promise to come; and I conduct my future family to the groundfloor. Returning, I find Antek looking awry and distrustfully on a whole package of hundred ruble notes which are lying on the table. "What is that?" "Dost know what has happened?" "I do not." "I, like a common thief, robbed a man." "How?" "I sold him my corpses." "And is that the money?" "It is; I am a low usurer." I embrace Antek; I congratulate him from my whole heart; he begins to relate how it happened,— "I sit here after your departure, till some gentleman comes and asks if I am Svyatetski. I answer, 'I am curious to know why I should not be Svyatetski!' Then he says, 'I saw your picture and I want to buy it.' I say, 'You are free to do so; but permit me to say that a "Long life to the corpses! Antek, get married." "I would rather hang myself; I am a low usurer, nothing more." CHAPTER XV.IN the evening I am at the Suslovskis; Kazia and I are in the niche in which there is a small sofa. Pani Suslovski is sitting at a table lighted by a lamp, and is sewing on something for Kazia's trousseau. Pan Suslovski sits at a table reading, with dignity, the evening number of "The Kite." Somehow I am not myself; I wish to dissipate that feeling by pushing up very near Kazia. In the salon silence is supreme; it is interrupted only by Kazia's whisper. I beg to embrace her; she whispers,— "Vladek, papa will see us." With that "papa" begins to read aloud, "The picture of our well-known artist, Svyatetski, 'The Last Meeting,' was bought to-day by Dr. Byalkovski for fifteen hundred rubles." "That is true," I add. "Antek sold it this morning." Then I try to embrace Kazia, and again I hear her whisper,— "Papa will see us—" My eyes turn involuntarily to Pan Suslovski. I see on a sudden that his face is changing; he shades his eyes with his hands and bends over "The Kite." What the devil can he find there of such interest? "Father, what is the matter?" asks Pani Suslovski. He rises, advances two steps toward us, then halts, transfixes me with a glance, and, clasping his hands begins to nod his head. "What is the matter?" I ask. "See how falsehood and crime come always to the surface," answers Suslovski, pathetically. "My dear sir, read to the end, if shame will permit." Thus speaking, he makes a movement as if to wrap himself in his toga, and gives me "The Kite." I take the number, and my glance falls on an announcement entitled: "A Minstrel of the Ukraine." I am confused somewhat, and read hurriedly the following,—
"Hell!" Suslovski is so enraged that he cannot recover his voice; at last he casts forth his superabundance of indignation,— "What new falsehood, what excuse will you find to justify your conduct? Have we not seen you to-day in that shameful disguise? Who is that minstrel?" "I am that minstrel," I answer; "but I do not understand why you find that disguise shameful." At that moment Kazia snatches "The Kite" from my hand and begins to read. Suslovski wraps himself still more closely in the toga of indignation and continues,— "Scarcely have you passed the threshold of an honest house when you bring with you corruption; and before you are the husband of that unfortunate child, you, in company with women of light character, betray her; you trample already on her confidence and ours; you break your plighted word—and for whom? For a hetaira of the theatre!" Anger carries me off at last. "My dear sir," say I, "enough of those commonplaces. That hetaira is worth ten such false Catos as you. You are nothing to me yet; and know this, that you annoy me! I have enough of you with your pathos, with your—" Here words fail me; but I have no further need of them, for Suslovski is opening his waistcoat, as if wishing to say,— "Strike! spare not, here is my breast!" But I have no thought of striking; I declare simply that I am going, lest I might say something more to Pan Suslovski. In fact, I leave without saying farewell to any one. The fresh breeze cools my heated head. Nine o'clock in the evening, and the night is very calm. I must walk The windows in Hela's villa are dark. Evidently she is not at home. I know not myself why that causes me immense disappointment. If I could see even her shadow on the window-pane, I should grow calm; but as it is, anger bears me away again. What I shall do with that Ostrynski at the first meeting—I know not. Fortunately, he is not a man who withdraws before responsibility. But speaking precisely, what claim have I against him? The article is written with infernal dexterity. Ostrynski denies that the minstrel is a disguised painter; he stands up, as it were, for Eva; but at the same time betrays the whole secret to Hela. Evidently he is trying to compromise Eva in the opinion of Hela; he takes vengeance on me for Kazia, and covers me besides with ridicule. If only he hadn't said that my intelligence is blunted! The deed is done. In Hela's eyes I am covered with ridicule. She reads "The Kite." Oh, what a dish of hash, and what bitterness for Eva! How that Ostrynski must triumph! Surely I must do something; but if I know what, may I become a reporter for "The Kite"! It occurs to me to take counsel with Eva. She plays to-day; I will fly to the theatre and see her after the play. There is time yet. Half an hour later I am in her dressing-room. Eva will finish directly; meanwhile, I look around. Our theatres are not distinguished, as is known, for luxury of furnishing. A chamber with white walls; two That is a picture of its own kind; there is character in it. Of course there is nothing here more than in an ordinary dressing-room of a woman, still there is something which causes that chamber to seem, not a dressing-room, but a sanctuary of some kind; there is a certain spell and charm there. Above this disorder, this medley and hurry, between these scratched walls, hovers the inspiration of art. A thunder of applause is heard. Ha! it is finished. Through the walls come to my ears the sound of calling; "Adami! Adami!" A quarter of an hour passes; they are shouting yet. At last Eva rushes in; she is in the character of "Theodora." She has a crown on her head; her eyes blackened underneath; on her cheeks a blush of rouge; her dishevelled hair falls like a storm on her naked neck and shoulders. She is feverish and exhausted to that degree that she speaks to me in a whisper barely audible. "How art thou, Vladek?" and removing her crown hurriedly, she throws herself in her regal robes on the long chair. Evidently she cannot utter words; for she looks at me silently, like a suffering bird. I sit near her, place my hand on her head, and think only of her. I see in those blackened eyes the flame of unquenched ecstasy; I see on that forehead simply the stigma of art. I see that the woman brings to the altar of that theatrical Moloch her health, blood, and life, that breath is lacking in her breast at that moment. Such pity embraces me, such sorrow, such sympathy, that I know not what to do. We sit some time in silence; at last Eva points to a number of "The Kite" lying on the toilet table, and whispers,— "What a vexation, what a vexation!" Suddenly she bursts into nervous weeping, and trembles like a leaf. I know that she is weeping from weariness, not because of "The Kite," for that article is buffoonery which every one will forget to-morrow; and the whole of Ostrynski is not worth one tear from Eva; still my heart is straitened the more. I seize her hands and cover them with kisses. I take her; I press her to my breast. My heart begins to beat with growing violence; something amazing takes place in me. I kneel down at Eva's knees, not knowing myself what I am doing; a cloud covers my eyes; suddenly I seize her in my arms, without thinking what I do. "Vladek, Vladek, pity!" whispers Eva. But I press her to my stormy breast; I know nothing of anything. I have lost my wits! I kiss her on the forehead, mouth, eyes; I can only say, "I love thee! I love—" With that Eva's head drops back; her arms enclose my neck feverishly, and I hear the whisper,— "I have loved thee this long time." CHAPTER XVI.IF for me there is a dearer creature on earth, I am a pickled herring. They say that we artists do everything under the first impression of the moment; that is not true! for it seems that I loved Eva long ago, only I was ass enough not to see it. God alone knows what took place in me while I attended her home that evening. We went hand in hand, without speaking. From moment to moment I pressed Eva's arm to my side, and she pressed mine. I felt that she loved me with all her power. I conducted her upstairs, and when we were in her little drawing-room, the position became in some way so awkward for us that we didn't dare to look into each other's eyes. But when Eva covered her face with her hands, I removed them gently and said,— "Evus, thou art mine, is it not true?" And she nestled up to me. "I am, I am." She was so beautiful, her eyes were drowsy, and at the same time gleaming, there was such a sweet weariness in her whole posture that I could not break away from her. And in truth she could not break from me; she wished, as it were, to reward herself for continued silence, and for such a long-concealed feeling. I returned home late. Antek was not sleeping yet; "There is a letter here for you," said he, without raising his eyes from his work. I take a letter from the table and feel a ring through the envelope. Good! that ring will do for to-morrow. I open the letter, and read as follows,—
At least it is brief. From this letter anger alone is looking forth, nothing more. If any shade of charm surrounded Kazia in my eyes hitherto, that shade is blown away now beyond return. A wonderful thing! all supposed that Eva was the cause of my disguise and of all those adventures; and in truth the cause of what follows will be Eva. I crush the letter, put it in my pocket, and go to bed. Antek raises his eyes from his work, and looks in expectation that I will say something; but I am silent. "That scoundrel Ostrynski was here this evening after the theatre," said Antek. CHAPTER XVII.IN the morning about ten o'clock I wish to fly to Eva; but I cannot, for I have guests. Baron Kartofler comes and engages a duplicate of my "Jews." He offers me fifteen hundred rubles; I want two thousand. The bargain is made at that price. After his departure I receive an order for two portraits I am with Eva at one o'clock. I give her the ring, and declare that we shall go to Rome after our marriage. Eva consents with delight. We are as much given to talking to-day as we were to silence last evening. I tell her of the order which I have received, and we rejoice together. I must finish the portraits before our departure; but "the Jews" for Kartofler I will paint in Rome. When we return to Warsaw, I will fit up a studio, and we will live as in heaven. While forming these projects, I tell Eva that we will keep the anniversary of yesterday as a holiday all our lives. She hides her face on my shoulder, and begs me not to mention it. Then she winds the split sleeves of her gown round my neck, and calls me her great man. She is paler than usual; her eyes are more violet than usual, but they are beaming with gladness. Ah! what an ass, that having near me such a woman I was seeking for happiness elsewhere, in a circle where I was a perfect stranger, and which was strange to me. What an artistic nature that of Eva! She is my betrothed, accepts the rÔle at once, and involuntarily plays the part of a young and happy affianced. But I do not take that ill of a beloved creature, after so many years in a theatre. After dinner we go to Hela Kolchanovski's. From the moment that Eva can present me as her betrothed, the minstrel trick becomes innocent and can cause no misunderstanding between those two ladies. In Hela laughs so heartily that her transparent eyes are filled with tears. Speaking in parenthesis, she is marvellous. When she inclines her head at the end of the visit, I cannot take my eyes from it; and Eva herself is under its spell to such a degree that during the day she imitates unconsciously that bending of the neck and that look. We agree that, after our return from abroad, I shall paint a portrait of Hela; but first I shall make my Eva in Rome, if I can reproduce those features, which are so delicate that they are almost over-refined, and that face, so impressionable that every emotion is reflected in it as a cloud in clear water. But I shall succeed; why shouldn't I? The evening "Kite" publishes untreated tales of the orders which have come to me; my income is reckoned by thousands. That in a small degree is the reason, perhaps, that next day I receive a letter from Kazia, stating that she returned the ring under the influence of anger and jealousy, but if I come and we fall at the feet of her parents, they will let themselves be implored. I have enough of that falling at the feet and those forgivenesses. I do not answer. Let him fall at Suslovski's feet who wants to; let Kazia marry Ostrynski! I have my Eva. But my silence casts an evident panic on the Suslovski Antek shows me the letter. Kazia prays him to come for a moment's conversation concerning an affair on which her whole future depends; she reckons on his heart, on that sense of justice which from the first glance of the eye she divined in him. She has the hope that he will not refuse the prayer of an unhappy woman. Antek curses, mutters something under his nose about low Philistines, and about the necessity of hanging both them and their posterity at the next opportunity; but he goes. I divine that they wish to influence me through him. CHAPTER XVIII.ANTEK, who in reality has a soft heart, is won over evidently. For a week he goes to the Suslovskis regularly; for three days he walks around me, frowns, looks at me just like a wolf. At last one day at tea he inquires peevishly, "Well, what dost thou think of doing with that girl?" "With what girl?" "With that Suslovski, or what is her name?" "I don't think of doing anything with that Suslovski, or what is her name." A moment of silence follows, then Antek speaks again,— "She is whining whole days, till I cannot look at her." What an honest soul! At that moment too his voice trembles with emotion; but he snorts like a rhinoceros and adds, "A decent man does not act in that fashion." "Antek, thou art beginning to remind me of Papa Suslovski." "I would rather remind thee of Papa Suslovski than wrong his daughter." "I beg thee to drop me." "Very well! I can even not know thee at all." With this, the conversation ends, and thenceforth I do not speak to Antek. We pretend not to know each other, which is the more amusing since we live together. We drink tea together in the morning, and it never occurs to either of us to move out of the studio. The time of my marriage is approaching. Through the intermediary of "The Kite" all Warsaw knows of that now. All look at us; all admire Eva. When we were at the exhibition, they surrounded us so that we could not push through. My unknown friendess sends an anonymous letter in which she warns me that Eva is not the wife for a man like me. "I do not believe what is said of the relations between Panna Adami and Pan Ostrynski [writes my friendess]; but thou, O master, art in need of a wife who would devote herself altogether to thy greatness; Panna Adami is an artist herself, and will always be drawing water to her own mill." Antek goes continually to the Suslovskis, but surely as a comforter, for the Suslovskis must know of my intentions. I have obtained an unlimited leave of absence for Eva. She begins to wear her hair as a village maiden; she dresses very modestly and wears robes closed to the neck. This becomes her very much. The scene in the She loves me madly. We spend whole days together. I have begun to give her lessons in drawing. She is swallowed up in those lectures, and painting in general. CHAPTER XIX.THUNDER hurling Zeus; at what art thou gazing from the summit of Olympus? Things are done of which philosophers have never dreamed. On the eve of my marriage Antek comes to me, nudges me with his elbow, and, turning aside his dishevelled head, says gloomily,— "Vladek, dost thou know I have committed a crime?" "Well, since thou hast mentioned it," I answer, "what sort of a crime?" Antek looks at the floor fixedly, and says, as if to himself,— "That such a drunkard as I, such an idiot without talent, such a moral and physical bankrupt should marry such a maiden as Kazia is an out-and-out crime." I do not believe my ears; but I throw myself on my friend's neck without regard to the fact that he pushes me away. His marriage will be in a couple of days. CHAPTER XX.AFTER a residence of some months in Rome, Eva and I receive a splendid card inviting us to the wedding of Pan Ostrynski and Panna Helena Turno, primo voto, Kolchanovski. We cannot go, for Eva's health does not permit. Eva paints continually, and makes immense progress. I receive a gold medal in Pest. A certain rich Croat bought my picture. I have entered into relations with Goupil. CHAPTER XXI.A SON is born to me in Verona. Eva herself says that she has never seen such a child. Uncommon. FOR some months we are in Warsaw. I have fitted up a splendid studio. We visit the Ostrynskis rather frequently. He has sold "The Kite," and is now "President of the Society for Distributing Barley Grits to Laborers out of Employment." Nothing can give an idea of his lordliness or the gratitude with which he is surrounded. He pats me on the shoulder and says to me: "Well, benefactor!" He patronizes literary talents also, and receives on Wednesdays. She is as beautiful as a dream. They have no children. CHAPTER XXIII.OH, save me or I die of laughter. Antek and his wife have come home from Paris. She poses as the wife of an artist of golden Bohemia; he wears silk shirts, has a forelock, and wears his beard wedge-form. I understand all; I understand that she could overcome his habits, his character; but how did she conquer his hair?—that remains for me an endless puzzle. Antek has not stopped painting "corpses;" but he paints also genre pictures of village life. He has great success. He paints portraits too; these, however, with less result, for the carnation always recalls the "corpse." I asked him, through old friendship, if he is happy with his wife. He told me that he had never dreamed of such happiness. I confess that Kazia has disappointed me in a favorable sense. I too should be perfectly happy, were it not that Eva begins to be a little weak, and, besides, the poor thing becomes peevish. I heard her crying once in the night. I know what that means. She is pining for the theatre. She says nothing, but she pines. I have begun a portrait of Pani Ostrynski. She is simply an incomparable woman! Regard for Ostrynski would not restrain me, of course, and were it not that to this hour I love Eva immensely, I know not— But I love Eva immensely, immensely! THE END. TRANSLATOR'S NOTES. Charcoal Sketches were written in the Pico House, Los Angeles, California, in 1878. Perhaps the hotel is in existence yet; in that case the register for the above year contains the signature of Sienkiewicz and the number of his room. These Charcoal Sketches, as the author informed me, are founded on facts observed by him, and give a picture of life in the district where he was born and where he spent his youth. Ignorance, selfish class isolation, and resultant social helplessness, are depicted in remarkable relief and unsparingly. There is not collective intelligence and strength enough in Barania-Glova to save Repa's wife from ruin and murder. Pan Floss is driven from his land of "Little Progress" and has to pay for Sroda's oxen, which the owner himself turned in on his neighbor's clover; since Pan Floss is a noble and Sroda a peasant, the latter thinks himself justified in taking what he can from the noble in the night or the daytime, by fair means or foul. Pan Skorabevski has no wish to annoy himself in aiding peasants; if he wants anything from them, or wishes to defend himself against them, he calls in Pan Zolzik. The great public forces of Barania-Glova are the vile Zolzik, and Shmul without conscience. Father Chyzik, the priest, considering that his whole business is with another world, has no thought for the temporal welfare of Repa's wife. The following is a translation of most of the names in Charcoal Sketches:—
Tartar Captivity is a sketch preliminary to "With Fire and Sword." Though it appears as a fragment of a memoir, it is an original production written by Sienkiewicz in the style of the seventeenth century. Here the author uses for the first time the two main historical elements of Polish society: nobility and the Church. These two elements were raised to an ideal height in the Polish mind. Zdaniborski was a noble sincere and naÏve, who considered the position and privileges of the nobility to be as sacred and inviolable as those of the Church; both he believed to be the direct product of God's will. Mayors of the air, referred to in Chapter V., were men appointed to keep alive fires which would fill the air with a smoke disagreeable to the plague or pest, and prevent it, or rather her, from approaching. The plague or pest in the popular mind was represented as a female who went around killing people. On the Bright Shore. All persons who have read "Children of the Soil" will remember Svirski, the sympathetic artist in that book; this same Svirski is the hero of the present narrative. That Third Woman. In this narrative the only character needing explanation is, I believe, the minstrel. In Little Russia and the Ukraine the minstrel called "Kobzar," from kobza, the instrument on which he plays, and also "Did" (grandfather), because he is generally old and sometimes blind, is a prominent figure to this day. In centuries past he played a great part by rousing popular feeling and carrying intelligence from place to place. At present his rÔle is to entertain people who wish to hear either what the minstrel himself improvises, or the ballads of that region. The Duma, or ballad of the Ukraine, is famous. Let Us Follow Him was written somewhat earlier than "Quo Vadis," and was a tentative sketch in a new field, as was Tartar Captivity, which preceded "With Fire and Sword." Footnotes Star of the sea who nourished The last line in the Polish if taken alone would mean, our first father, Skrushyla, and the wise Gomula takes it alone. Taken in connection with its pronoun and ending the compound Tys, the first word in the third line, it means: Thou hast crushed. Typographical errors changed in text: p. 112 "Enunia" changed to "Evunia". p. 197 "countenance'" changed to "countenance,". p. 211 "trappings" changed to "trappings,". p. 301 "'" changed to full quote after "rubel!". p. 382 "lip" changed to "lips". Words with multiple spellings retained as in original. |
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