Book: Stories by Foreign Authors: Polish

V >> Various >> Stories by Foreign Authors: Polish




The package, cut open, lay before him, shone upon clearly by the
afternoon sun, and on it was an open book. When the old man stretched
his hand toward it again, he heard in the stillness the beating of his
own heart. He looked; it was poetry. On the outside stood printed in
great letters the title, underneath the name of the author. The name was
not strange to Skavinski; he saw that it belonged to the great poet,
[Footnote: Mickiewicz (pronounced Mitskyevich), the greatest poet of
Poland.] whose productions he had read in 1830 in Paris. Afterward, when
campaigning in Algiers and Spain, he had heard from his countrymen of
the growing fame of the great seer; but he was so accustomed to the
musket at that time that he took no book in hand. In 1849 he went to
America, and in the adventurous life which he led he hardly ever met a
Pole, and never a Polish book. With the greater eagerness, therefore,
and with a livelier beating of the heart, did he turn to the title-page.
It seemed to him then that on his lonely rock some solemnity is about to
take place. Indeed it was a moment of great calm and silence. The clocks
of Aspinwall were striking five in the afternoon. Not a cloud darkened
the clear sky; only a few sea-mews were sailing through the air. The
ocean was as if cradled to sleep. The waves on the shore stammered
quietly, spreading softly on the sand. In the distance the white houses
of Aspinwall, and the wonderful groups of palm, were smiling. In truth,
there was something there solemn, calm, and full of dignity. Suddenly,
in the midst of that calm of Nature, was heard the trembling voice of
the old man, who read aloud as if to understand himself better:

"Thou art like health, O my birth-land Litva!
[Footnote: Lithuania.]
How much we should prize thee he only can know who has lost thee.
Thy beauty in perfect adornment this day
I see and describe, because I am yearning for thee."

His voice failed Skavinski. The letters began to dance before his eyes;
something broke in his breast, and went like a wave from his heart
higher and higher, choking his voice and pressing his throat. A moment
more he controlled himself, and read further:

"O Holy Lady, who guardest bright Chenstohova,
Who shinest in Ostrobrama and preservest
The castle town Novgrodek with its trusty people,
As Thou didst give me back to health in childhood,
When by my weeping mother placed beneath Thy care
I raised my lifeless eyelids upward,
And straightway walked unto Thy holy threshold,
To thank God for the life restored me,--
So by a wonder now restore us to the bosom of our birthplace."

The swollen wave broke through the restraint of his will. The old man
sobbed, and threw himself on the ground; his milk-white hair was mingled
with the sand of the sea. Forty years had passed since he had seen his
country, and God knows how many since he heard his native speech; and
now that speech had come to him itself,--it had sailed to him over the
ocean, and found him in solitude on another hemisphere,--it so loved, so
dear, so beautiful! In the sobbing which shook him there was no pain,--
only a suddenly aroused immense love, in the presence of which other
things are as nothing. With that great weeping he had simply implored
forgiveness of that beloved one, set aside because he had grown so old,
had become so accustomed to his solitary rock, and had so forgotten it
that in him even longing had begun to disappear. But now it returned as
if by a miracle; therefore the heart leaped in him.

Moments vanished one after another; he lay there continually. The mews
flew over the light-house, crying as if alarmed for their old friend.
The hour in which he fed them with the remnants of his food had come;
therefore, some of them flew down from the light-house to him; then more
and more came, and began to pick and to shake their wings over his head.
The sound of the wings roused him. He had wept his fill, and had now a
certain calm and brightness; but his eyes were as if inspired. He gave
unwittingly all his provisions to the birds, which rushed at him with an
uproar, and he himself took the book again. The sun had gone already
behind the gardens and the forest of Panama, and was going slowly beyond
the isthmus to the other ocean; but the Atlantic was full of light yet;
in the open air there was still perfect vision; therefore, he read
further:

"Now bear my longing soul to those forest slopes, to those green
meadows."

At last the dusk obliterates the letters on the white paper,--the dusk
short as a twinkle. The old man rested his head on the rock, and closed
his eyes. Then "She who defends bright Chenstohova" took his soul, and
transported it to "those fields colored by various grain." On the sky
were burning yet those long stripes, red and golden, and on those
brightnesses he was flying to beloved regions. The pine-woods were
sounding in his ears; the streams of his native place were murmuring. He
saw everything as it was; everything asked him, "Dost remember?" He
remembers! he sees broad fields; between the fields, woods and villages.
It is night now. At this hour his lantern usually illuminates the
darkness of the sea; but now he is in his native village. His old head
has dropped on his breast, and he is dreaming. Pictures are passing
before his eyes quickly, and a little disorderly. He does not see the
house in which he was born, for war had destroyed it; he does not see
his father and mother, for they died when he was a child; but still the
village is as if he had left it yesterday,--the line of cottages with
lights in the windows, the mound, the mill, the two ponds opposite each
other, and thundering all night with a chorus of frogs. Once he had been
on guard in that village all night; now that past stood before him at
once in a series of views. He is an Ulan again, and he stands there on
guard; at a distance is the public-house; he looks with swimming eyes.
There is thundering and singing and shouting amid the silence of the
night with voices of fiddles and bass-viols "U-ha! U-ha!" Then the Ulans
knock out fire with their horseshoes, and it is wearisome for him there
on his horse. The hours drag on slowly; at last the lights are quenched;
now as far as the eye reaches there is mist, and mist impenetrable; now
the fog rises, evidently from the fields, and embraces the whole world
with a whitish cloud. You would say, a complete ocean. But that is
fields; soon the land-rail will be heard in the darkness, and the
bitterns will call from the reeds. The night is calm and cool,--in
truth, a Polish night! In the distance the pine-wood is sounding without
wind, like the roll of the sea. Soon dawn will whiten the East. In fact,
the cocks are beginning to crow behind the hedges. One answers to
another from cottage to cottage; the storks are screaming somewhere on
high. The Ulan feels well and bright. Some one had spoken of a battle
to-morrow. Hei! that will go on, like all the others, with shouting,
with fluttering of flaglets. The young blood is playing like a trumpet,
though the night cools it. But it is dawning. Already night is growing
pale; out of the shadows come forests, the thicket, a row of cottages,
the mill, the poplars. The well is squeaking like a metal banner on a
tower. What a beloved land, beautiful in the rosy gleams of the morning!
Oh, the one land, the one land!

Quiet! the watchful picket hears that some one is approaching. Of
course, they are coming to relieve the guard.

Suddenly some voice is heard above Skavinski,--

"Here, old man! Get up! What's the matter?"

The old man opens his eyes, and looks with wonder at the person standing
before him. The remnants of the dream-visions struggle in his head with
reality. At last the visions pale and vanish. Before him stands Johnson,
the harbor guide.

"What's this?" asked Johnson; "are you sick?"

"No."

"You didn't light the lantern. You must leave your place. A vessel from
St. Geromo was wrecked on the bar. It is lucky that no one was drowned,
or you would go to trial. Get into the boat with me; you'll hear the
rest at the Consulate."

The old man grew pale; in fact he had not lighted the lantern that
night.

A few days later, Skavinski was seen on the deck of a steamer, which was
going from Aspinwall to New York. The poor man had lost his place. There
opened before him new roads of wandering; the wind had torn that leaf
away again to whirl it over lands and seas, to sport with it till
satisfied. The old man had failed greatly during those few days, and was
bent over; only his eyes were gleaming. On his new road of life he held
at his breast his book, which from time to time he pressed with his hand
as if in fear that that too might go from him.





THE PLAIN SISTER

BY

DEMETRIOS BIKELAS

From "Tales from the AEgean." Translated by L.E. Opdycke. Published by
A.C. McClurg & Co.

Copyright, 1894, by A.C. McClurg & Co.




I.


Mr. Plateas, professor of Greek in the Gymnasium of Syra, was returning
from his regular afternoon walk.

He used to take this walk along the Vaporia, but since they had begun to
build a carriage road to Chroussa--at the other end of the island--he
bent his steps in that direction, instead of pacing four times up and
down the only promenade in Syra. He followed the road-building with
great interest, and went farther and farther from week to week. His
learned colleagues said he would finally get to Chroussa,--when the road
was finished; but at this time--that is, in 1850--the Conservative party
in the town regarded the expense as useless and too heavy for the
resources of the commune, and so the work had been stopped for some
months.

The road was completed as far as the stony valley of Mana, and here the
professor's daily walk ended. To look at him nobody would have suspected
that he had to care for his health; but his growing stoutness gave him
no little anxiety, and led him to take this exercise. Perhaps his short
stature made him look stouter than he really was; yet it could not be
denied that his neck emerged with difficulty from the folds of his neck-
cloth, or that his close-shaven, brick-red cheeks stood out rather too
conspicuously on each side of his thick moustache. The professor had
passed his fortieth year. True, he still preserved his elasticity, and
his short legs carried their burden easily; but it was noticed that when
he had a companion on his walks, he always contrived to have his
interlocutor do the talking going up hill, and took his own turn coming
down or on the level ground.

If he had thus far failed to lessen his rotundity, he had at least
stopped its growth,--a fact of which he made sure once a month by
weighing himself on the scales of the Custom House, where a friend of
his held the post of weigher. His physician had also recommended sea-
bathing. Most of his friends--both doctors and laymen--protested against
this advice; but the professor was immovable when once he had made up
his mind or bestowed his confidence; he stood firm against the
remonstrance and banter of those who regarded sea-bathing as a tonic,
and consequently fattening. He continued his baths for two seasons, and
would have kept on for the rest of his life, if a dreadful accident had
not given him such a fear of the sea, that he would have risked doubling
his circumference rather than expose himself again to the danger from
which he had been saved only through the strength and courage of Mr.
Liakos, a judge of the civil court. But for him, Mr. Plateas would have
been drowned, and this history unwritten.

It happened in this wise.

The professor was not an expert swimmer, but he could keep above water,
and was particularly fond of floating. One summer day as he lay on the
surface of the tepid sea quite unconcernedly, the sense of comfort led
to a slight somnolence. All at once he felt the water heaving under him
as if suddenly parted by some heavy body, and then seething against his
person. In an instant he thought of a shark, and turned quickly to swim
away from the monster; but whether from hurry, fright, or his own
weight, he lost his balance and sank heavily. While all this happened
quick as a flash, the moments seemed like centuries to him, and his
imagination, excited by the sudden rush of blood to the head, worked so
swiftly, that, as the professor said afterwards, if he should try to set
down everything that came into his mind then, it would make a good-sized
book. Scenes of his childhood, incidents of his youth, the faces of his
favorite pupils since the beginning of his career as a teacher, the
death of his mother, the breakfast he had eaten that morning,--all
passed before him in quick succession, and mingled together without
becoming confused; while as a musical accompaniment, there kept sounding
in his ears the verse of Valaoritis in "The Bell":

"Ding-dong! The bell!"

The night before poor Mr. Plateas had been reading "The Bell" of the
poet of Leucadia,--that pathetic picture of the enamored young sailor,
who, on returning to his village, throws himself into the sea to reach
more speedily the shore, where he hears the tolling knell and sees the
funeral procession of his beloved, and as he buffets the waves is
devoured by the monster of the deep. The poetical description of this
catastrophe had so affected him that he afterwards attributed his
misadventure to the influence of the poet's verses. If he had not read
"The Bell" that night, he would not have mistaken for a shark the urchin
that swam under him, for it was not the first time that mischievous boys
had amused themselves by plunging under the professor's broad shoulders;
but he had never been frightened before, while to-day this poetic
recollection nearly cost him his life.

Fortunately Mr. Liakos was taking his bath near by, and when he saw the
professor disappear in that extraordinary fashion, and the circles
widening on the surface, he at once understood what had happened.
Swimming rapidly to the spot, he dived down, managed to grasp the
drowning man, dragged him to the surface, and brought him ashore
unconscious. Thanks to these prompt measures, Mr. Plateas came to
himself,--with great difficulty, it is true, but he finally did come to
himself; and there on the shore of the sea he made a double vow: never
again to go into the water, and never to forget that he owed his life to
Mr. Liakos.

This vow he kept faithfully. Indeed, so far as his preserver was
concerned, it was kept with such exaggeration, that while the judge did
not repent saving the professor's life, he often found himself
regretting that some one else had not been at hand to earn all this
embarrassing gratitude. Everywhere Mr. Plateas boasted of the merits of
his preserver; the whole island resounded with his praise; each time
they met,--and they met several times a day,--he rushed toward the judge
enthusiastically and lost no chance to proclaim that henceforth his only
desire was to prove his words by his deeds. "My life belongs to you," he
would say; "I have consecrated it to you."

In vain the judge protested, and urged that the matter was not so
serious,--that any one else would have done the same in his place. Mr.
Plateas would not be convinced, and persisted in declaring his
gratitude. While it often rather bored him, the judge was touched by
this devotion, and came to accept the professor as a part of his daily
life; in this way the two men gradually became fast friends, although
they were unlike in almost everything.

So Mr. Plateas was returning from his constitutional. It was one of
those beautiful February days, true forerunners of spring, when the sun
kisses the first leaves of the early almonds, the blue sea sparkles, and
the cloudless sky of Greece smiles. But it was nearly sunset, and the
prudent professor hardly dared expose himself to the cool evening air,
for at this season winter reasserts itself as soon as the sun goes down.
He had almost reached the dockyard, which then marked the outskirts of
Syra, and was still walking along the shore, when he saw his well-
beloved Liakos in the distance coming from the town. A smile of
satisfaction lighted his round face; he threw up both hands, in one of
which was a stout cane, and raising his voice so as to be heard by his
friend from afar, declaimed this line from the "Iliad":

[Greek text] Who mayest thou be, of mortal men most brave?

The professor had a habit of quoting Homer on all occasions, and was
reputed to know the whole "Iliad" and "Odyssey" by heart. He modestly
disavowed this tribute to his learning, but without giving up the
quotations that seemed to justify it. It is true ill-natured people said
his verses were not always quite applicable; but the Hellenists of Syra
did not confirm this slander, possibly because they were not competent
to judge. Still, everybody used to smile when he raised his voice in the
midst of a trivial conversation to roll forth majestically some sonorous
hexameter from Homer.

When the two friends were near enough, Mr. Plateas stopped and
effusively shook hands with his preserver.

"My dear friend, why didn't you tell me you were going to walk to-day?
We could have come out together,--it's time to go in now. Why did you
start so late?"

"Yes, I am late; I expected to meet you farther on." And Mr. Liakos
added with a show of indifference, "Are there many people out to-day?"

"Very few. You know our Syrans; they're content to saunter up and down
their crowded square; it is only people of taste who enjoy themselves--

[Greek Text] ... on the shore of the resounding sea."

"And who were these men of taste to-day?" asked the judge, with a smile.

"If I had spoken of MEN of taste, I should have had to confine myself to
the dual number!" Mr. Plateas began to laugh at his own joke. His friend
smiled too, but wishing a more exact answer, continued:

"At least we two have imitators; how many did you meet and who were
they?"

"Always the same; Mr. A., Mr. B.--" And the professor began to count off
on his fingers the peripatetic philosophers, as he used to call the
frequenters of this promenade, that he had met,--all of them old, or at
least of ripe age, except one romantic youth who thought himself a poet.

"And no ladies?" asked the judge.

"Oh, yes, Mrs. X. with her flock of children, and the merchant,--what is
his name,--Mr. Mitrophanis, with his two daughters."

The judge had learned all he wanted to know without letting his friend
perceive the drift of his questions. This was not very difficult, for
the professor was by no means a modern Lynceus, and did not see any
great distance beyond his nose. No doubt this resulted from the innate
simplicity and integrity of his character; having never been able to
conceal or feign anything himself, he was easily led to believe whatever
he was told. The readiness with which he became the victim of his
friends each first of April was notorious. He was always on the watch
from the night before; but his precautions were in vain. He was a man of
first impressions. Sometimes, but not often, he fathomed the questions
afterward, and discovered that he had not acted or spoken as he would
have liked. As a rule, however, these after-thoughts came too late to be
of any use, and he had to console himself with the reflection that
what's done is done.

"What do you say, will you stroll on with me?" asked the judge.

"What, at this hour, my dear friend!"

"Only to the turn of the road."

"You had better come home with me, and I'll treat you to some perfumed
wine that I received yesterday from Siphnos. I can recommend it."

"Well, since you are so kind, I shall be very glad to taste your native
wine; but first let us sit here awhile and breathe the fresh sea-air."
And he pointed to a modest cafe, "On the Sands," which a bold speculator
had improvized only a few weeks before, by making a small inclosure of
planks and setting up a few tables.

The professor turned toward the cafe, then looked at the setting sun,
took out his watch, glanced at the hour, and heaved a gentle sigh.

"You do whatever you please with me," he said, as he followed Mr.
Liakos.




II.


The two friends bent their steps toward the empty cafe, to the great
delight of the proprietor, who ran forward zealously to offer his
services. The judge contrived to place the seats so that he could see
the road that led to Mana. The professor sat down opposite, facing the
town, with his back to the country; but he seemed rather nervous about
the evening air, for he shivered every now and then, and took care to
button up his overcoat to the very neck.

They began by talking about their daily affairs; Mr. Liakos suggested
the topics, while the professor held forth to his heart's content, and
fairly revelled in Homeric quotation. He noticed, however, that his
companion, instead of heeding what he said, kept looking toward the
highway, and leaning forward to see still further around the bend in the
road. Following his friend's gaze, Mr. Plateas also turned now and then;
he even turned squarely around and peered through his glasses to find
out what the judge was looking at; but seeing nothing he sat down again
erect upon his stool, and went on with the conversation.

At last Mr. Liakos espied what he was looking for. His eyes shone; the
expression of his whole face changed, and he made no further pretence of
listening to his friend's story about a recent controversy between two
learned professors in the University of Athens. Seeing the judge's eyes
fixed upon some object behind, Mr. Plateas stopped short, leaned his fat
hand on the table to aid the gyration that he was about to make upon his
stool, and was preparing for another effort to discover what could thus
fascinate Mr. Liakos, when the judge, divining his companion's purpose,
suddenly laid his hand on the professor's, and pressing it firmly, said
in a low voice, but with a tone of authority:

"Don't turn around!"

Mr. Plateas sat motionless, with mouth open and eyes fastened on those
of his friend, who was still staring at the road. The judge's look
showed that the object of his interest was coming nearer, but the
professor did not dare to stir or utter a word.

"Talk," whispered Mr. Liakos. "Continue the conversation."

"But, my dear friend, what shall I say? You've driven every idea out of
my head."

"Recite something."

"What shall I recite?"

"Anything you like,--something out of the 'Iliad.'"

"But I can't think of a single line!"

"Say the Creed, then,--anything you please, only don't sit there dumb."

The poor professor began to stammer out mechanically the first words of
the Creed; but either from a sense of impiety or from mere confusion of
mind, he passed abruptly to the first book of the "Iliad." His memory
played him false. How his pupils would have suffered if they had thus
maltreated the immortal bard!

He was still reciting when the judge released his hand and got up to
make an elaborate bow. Mr. Plateas looked in the same direction, and saw
the back of an elderly gentleman between two attractive young girls. He
had no difficulty in recognizing the trio, even from the rear.

Mr. Liakos sat down again, blushing furiously while the professor in
utter stupefaction made the sign of the cross.

"Kyrie Eleison!" said he. "Then all this ado was for Mr. Mitrophanis and
his daughters?"

"I beg your pardon," replied the judge, in a voice that betrayed his
agitation. "I did not want them to think that we were talking about
them."

"Bless my soul! You don't mean to say you're in love?"

"Ah, yes. I love her with all my heart!" Mr. Liakos turned once more,
and his eyes followed one of the two girls.

The professor had listened with some uneasiness. While touched by the
judge's emotion, he was at the same time perhaps a little jealous of its
cause; he was surprised that his friend had never spoken of this love,
and vexed with himself that he had not divined it. But all these ideas
were so hazy that he could hardly have expressed them.

After a few moments' silence, and while the judge's passionate avowal
still lingered in his ears, he asked naively, and without stopping to
think:

"Which one?"

Mr. Liakos looked at the professor in astonishment, and although he did
not speak, the expression of his face said plainly, "Can you ask?"

Mr. Plateas clapped his hand to his forehead.

"Where were my wits!" he cried. "Excuse me, my dear friend; but seeing
only their backs, as I did a moment ago, I couldn't tell one from the
other; and I had forgotten that the elder sister's face would scarcely
inspire love. But the younger--SHE is charming!"

The judge listened without reply.

"Do you know," the professor went on, at last unburdening his mind, "I
don't understand how you could be in love, and not tell me about it; how
you could hide your feelings from your friend! If it had been I, you
wouldn't have been spared a single sigh!" And his chest gave forth an
"Ah" which he tried to render amorous. This sigh, or perhaps the mere
idea of the professor in love, brought a smile to the judge's clouded
face.

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