Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  DOCTOR. I shall not attract thy friendship by superior force; but listen to me for the last time. If a period of defeats begins for me, it will begin because men like thee cease to understand me. Behold, this man who has died went suddenly, blindly, and fatally against my success, my right to happiness, my future, and took all from me. He appeared with wealth, a name, relatives, and all that invincible armor which fortune and birth give. What had I against him? With what could I do battle? What could I put against his power? Nothing, but that which is the armor of new men, — that little intelligence acquired by bloody toil and effort. He declared a silent war against me. I defended myself. With what? With the armor which nature gave me. When thou tramplest a worm, do not take it ill that it defends itself with a sting, for it has nothing else with which to defend itself. When thou hast to remove a stone lying in the way, remove it as may please thee. That is a human right! Yes, I put everything on a single card, and I won; but it was not I, it was reason which overcame strength, the new time past ages. And thou takest that ill of me? What is thy wish? I am true to my principle; but ye draw back, I do not. That is one side, but what is the other? That woman was necessary to me, to my happiness; I love her, for my plans, for her property, her relations. Give me such weapons, and I will accomplish and carry out everything! Dost understand what a gigantic labor, what great objects and plans are before me? Ye wish that I should break the wall of darkness, hesitation, sloth, that I should breathe life into that which is withered; I call for means. Ye have none! Hence I will get them or perish. But what? One little noble, one pallid knight, one adventurer, whose only service is that he was born with an escutcheon, stands in the way of these great plans, of that bright future, not only for me, but for society, and I have not the right to crush him. And ye wish that I should fall at his great, mighty feet, that I should sacrifice everything to him? No, ye do not know me! Enough of sentiment. Strength is needed, and I have it, and I will open a way for myself and others even though I had to trample a hundred Pretvitses.

  ANTONI. NO, Yozvovich! Thou hast always done with me whatever pleased thee, but now thou wilt not overcome me. While it was a question of convictions, I was with thee; but thou hast assaulted certain principles which are greater than thou and I, and more enduring and more unchangeable. Thou wilt not explain thy position to me, and have a care for thyself. At any slight cause, thou wilt fall with all thy energy. Principles change, my dear man, but simple honesty is always the same. Do what may please thee, but guard thyself. What the deuce! the blood of men is avenged; that is also a right of nature. Thou hast asked if I desert thee? Perhaps thou wouldst like to be free to shoot people from behind a fence, whenever that might suit thee! No, brother! Henceforth begins between us a close account, for we cannot trust thee. Thou wilt be a deputy; but if thou thinkest that we shall serve thee, and thou not us, thou art mistaken. What hast thou supposed, that the rounds of this ladder on which thou art climbing is made up of rascals? Halt there! We, who make thee a deputy, we, in whose honesty thou dost not believe, perhaps, will watch now and judge thee. If thou do mischief, we will grind thee to dust. The cause is not for thee, but thou art for the cause. We elected thee, now serve.

  DOCTOR (violently). Andrei!

  ANTONI. Quietly! In the evening thou wilt stand before the electors in the city. Till we see each other, Doctor Yozvovich —— [Goes out.

  DOCTOR (alone). He is the first.

  SCENE VI.

  DOCTOR YOZVOVICH, YAN MILISHEVSKI.

  YAN (appears in a half-open door). Pst!

  DOCTOR. Who is there?

  YAN. I, Milishevski. Are you alone?

  DOCTOR. Come in! Well, what is it?

  YAN. It is finished. Ah, doctor, he did not live five minutes! I commanded to take the body to Milishevo, to the church.

  DOCTOR. But your mother is not here?

  YAN. I sent her to the city. This is election day, and mamma does not know that I have withdrawn; so she will wait for the evening papers, hoping that my name will be among the elected.

  DOCTOR. NO one has seen him on the road?

  YAN. I am afraid that people will see blood. He bled terribly on the road.

  DOCTOR. Strange thing! He was such a good shot.

  YAN. He let himself be killed purposely. I was there; I saw perfectly that he did not put his finger on the trigger. He did not wish to kill Dragomir. Six steps, such a close mark! Oh it is ghastly to look at the death of another man! In truth, I would rather have died myself. They fired at command: one! two! three! — we heard a shot, but only one. We flew forward. Pretvits advanced two steps and knelt; he wanted to speak, but blood gushed out of his mouth; then he took his pistol and fired to one side. We were already standing around, and he said to Dragomir, “You have done me a favor, I thank you. This life belonged to you, for you saved it. Forgive me — brother,” said he; “give me your hand,” and he began to die — (YAN wipes his brow with his handkerchief.) Dragomir threw himself on Yerzy’s breast. Oh, doctor, indeed it was terrible! Poor Princess Stella, what will become of her now?

  DOCTOR. For God’s sake, silence, not a word before her. She is sick.

  YAN. I shall be silent.

  DOCTOR. Master your emotion.

  YAN. I cannot control my legs, for they are trembling under me.

  SCENE VII.

  The same, the PRINCE, leaning on STELLA’S arm, PANI CHESKI.

  PRINCE. I thought that Pretvits was here with you. Doctor, where is Pretvits?

  DOCTOR. I know not.

  STELLA. Did he not tell you where he was going?

  DOCTOR. I know not.

  PANI CHESKI (to YAN). What is the matter, Count, you are so pale?

  YAN. Not at all, that is from fever.

  PRINCE. Doctor, Pretvits told me —

  SCENE VIII.

  The door opens suddenly; COUNTESS MILISHEVSKI rushes in.

  COUNTESS. Jean! where is my Jean? — O God, what is happening! What a ghastliness!

  DOCTOR (running up to her quickly). Be silent, Countess. STELLA. What has happened?

  COUNTESS. Then it was not thou who killed Pretvits? It was not thou who fought the duel?

  DOCTOR. Silence, Countess.

  STELLA. Who is killed?

  COUNTESS. Then was it Dragomir? Stella dear, Dragomir has killed Pretvits.

  STELLA. Killed! O God! — O God! What has happened?

  DOCTOR. Princess, this is not true!

  STELLA. Killed? — (She staggers and falls)

  DOCTOR. She has fainted. Let us carry her to her chamber.

  PRINCE. My child!

  PANI CHESKI. Stella dear!

  [The PRINCE and DOCTOR carry STELLA out; the COUNTESS and PANI CHESKI follow them.

  YAN (alone). Oh, this is ghastly! I sent mother purposely to the city; who could have expected that she would return? (The COUNTESS appears in the door.) Mamma, how is the Princess?

  COUNTESS. The doctor is examining her. She has not regained consciousness. Jean, let us go from here.

  YAN (in despair). I will not go from here. Why did you come back from the city?

  COUNTESS. For thee. This is election day, hast forgotten?

  YAN. I have no wish to be a deputy! Why did mamma tell of Pretvits’ death?

  SCENE IX.

  The same, YOZVOVICH.

  THE COUNTESS and YAN (together). What has happened there? What?

  DOCTOR. There is nothing more to be done, all is over! (They arc ringing the chapel bell.)

  YAN (in terror). What is this? Ringing the chapel bell!

  (YOZVOVICH comes to the front of the stage and sits down.)

  SCENE X.

  The same, PODCHASKI.

  PODCHASKI (rushes in on a sudden). Victory along the whole line! The deputation is here! ( Voices behind the stage. “Long life to him!”— “Long life to him!”) He has won! Long life to him!

  DOCTOR. I have lost dreadfully.

  END.

  ACROSS THE PLAINS.

  DURING m
y stay in California I went with my worthy and gallant friend, Captain R., to visit Y., a compatriot of ours who was living in the secluded mountains of Santa Lucia. Not finding him at home, we passed five days in a lonely ravine, in company with an old Indian servant, who during his master’s absence took care of the Angora goats and the bees.

  Conforming to the ways of the country, I spent the hot summer days mainly in sleep, but when night came I sat down near a fire of dry “chamisal,” and listened to stories from the captain, concerning his wonderful adventures, and events which could happen only in the wilds of America.

  Those hours passed for me very bewitchingly. The nights were real Californian: calm, warm, starry; the fire burned cheerily, and in its gleam I saw the gigantic, but shapely and noble form of the old pioneer warrior. Raising his eyes to the stars, he sought to recall past events, cherished names, and dear faces, the very remembrance of which brought a mild sadness to his features. Of these narratives I give one just as I heard it, thinking that the reader will listen to it with as much interest as I did.

  CHAPTER I.

  I CAME to America in September, 1849, said the captain, and found myself in New Orleans, which was half French at that time. From New Orleans I went up the Mississippi to a great sugar plantation, where I found work and good wages. But since I was young in those days, and full of enterprise, sitting in one spot and writing annoyed me; so I left that place soon and began life in the forest. My comrades and I passed some time among the lakes of Louisiana, amidst crocodiles, snakes, and mosquitoes. We supported ourselves with hunting and fishing, and from time to time floated down many logs to New Orleans, where purchasers paid for them not badly in money.

  Our expeditions reached distant places. We went as far as “Bloody Arkansas,” which, sparsely inhabited even at this day, was well-nigh a pure wilderness at that time. Such a life, full of labors and dangers, bloody encounters with pirates on the Mississippi, and with Indians, who were numerous then in Louisiana, Arkansas, and Tennessee, increased my health and strength, which by nature were uncommon, and gave me also such knowledge of the plains, that I could read in that great book not worse than any red warrior.

  After the discovery of gold in California, large parties of emigrants left Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and other eastern cities almost daily, and one of these, thanks to my reputation, chose me leader, or as we say here, captain.

  I accepted the office willingly, since wonders were told of California in those days, and I had cherished thoughts of going to the Far West, though without concealing from myself the perils of the journey.

  At present the distance between New York and San Francisco is passed by rail in a week, and the real desert begins only west of Omaha; in those days it was something quite different. Cities and towns, which between New York and Chicago are as numerous as poppy-seeds now, did not exist then; and Chicago itself, which later on grew up like a mushroom after rain, was merely a poor obscure fishing-village not found on maps. It was necessary to travel with wagons, men, and mules through a country quite wild, and inhabited by terrible tribes of Indians: Crows, Blackfeet, Pawnees, Sioux, and Arickarees, which it was well-nigh impossible to avoid in large numbers, since those tribes, movable as sand, had no fixed dwellings, but, being hunters, circled over great spaces of prairie, while following buffaloes and antelopes.

  Not few were the toils, then, that threatened us; but he who goes to the Far West must be ready to suffer hardship, and expose his life frequently. I feared most of all the responsibility which I had accepted. This matter had been settled, however, and there was nothing to do but make preparations for the journey. These lasted more than two months, since we had to bring wagons, even from Pittsburgh, to buy mules, horses, arms, and collect large supplies of provisions. Toward the end of winter, however, all things were ready.

  I wished to start in such season as to pass the great prairies lying between the Mississippi and the Rocky Mountains in spring, for I knew that in summer because of heat in those open places, multitudes of men died of various diseases. I decided for this reason to lead the train, not over the southern route by St. Louis, but through Iowa, Nebraska, and Northern Colorado. That road was more dangerous with reference to Indians, but beyond doubt it was healthier. The plan roused opposition at first among people of the train. I declared that if they would not obey they might choose another captain. They yielded after a brief consultation, and we moved at the first breath of spring.

  Days now set in which for me were toilsome enough, especially till such time as men had grown accustomed to me and the conditions of the journey. It is true that my person roused confidence, for my daring trips to Arkansas had won a certain fame among the restless population of the border, and the name of “Big Ralph,” by which I was known on the prairies, had struck the ears of most of my people more than once. In general, however, the captain, or leader, was, from the nature of things, in a very critical position frequently with regard to emigrants. It was my duty to choose the camping-ground every evening, watch over the advance in the daytime, have an eye on the whole caravan, which extended at times a mile over the prairie, appoint sentries at the halting-places, and give men permission to rest in the wagons when their turn came.

  Americans have in them, it is true, the spirit of organization developed to a high degree; but in toils on a journey men’s energies weaken, and unwillingness seizes the most enduring. At such times no one wishes to reconnoitre all day on horseback and stand sentry at night, but each would like to evade the turn which is coming to him, and lie entire days in a wagon. Besides, in intercourse with Americans, a captain must know how to reconcile discipline with a certain social familiarity, — a thing far from easy. In time of march, and in the hours of night-watching, I was perfect master of the will of each of my companions; but during rest in the day at farms and settlements, to which we came at first on the road, my rôle of commander ended. Each man was then his own master, and more than once I was forced to overcome the opposition of insolent adventurers; but when in presence of numerous spectators it turned out a number of times that my Mazovian fist was the stronger, my significance rose, and later on I never had personal encounters. Besides, I knew American character thoroughly. I knew how to help myself, and, in addition to all, my endurance and willingness were increased by a certain pair of blue eyes, which looked out at me with special interest from beneath the canvas roof of a wagon. Those eyes looked from under a forehead shaded by rich golden hair, and they belonged to a maiden named Lillian Morris. She was delicate, slender, with finely cut features, and a face thoughtful, though almost childlike. That seriousness in such a young girl struck me at once when beginning the journey, but duties connected with the office of captain soon turned elsewhere my mind and attention.

  During the first weeks I exchanged with Miss Morris barely a couple of words beyond the usual daily “good morning.” Taking compassion, however, on her loneliness and youth, — she had no relatives in that caravan, — I showed the poor girl some trifling services. I had not the least need of guarding her with my authority of leader nor with my fist from the forwardness of young men in the train, for among Americans even the youngest woman is sure, if not of the over-prompt politeness for which the French are distinguished, at least of perfect security. In view, however, of Lillian’s delicate health, I put her in the most commodious wagon, in charge of a driver of great experience, named Smith. I spread for her a couch on which she could sleep with comfort; finally, I lent her a warm buffalo-skin, of which I had a number in reserve. Though these services were not important, Lillian seemed to feel a lively gratitude, and omitted no opportunity to show it. She was evidently very mild and retiring. Two women, Aunt Grosvenor and Aunt Atkins, soon loved her beyond expression for her sweetness of character. “Little Bird,” a title which they gave her, became the name by which she was known in the caravan. Still, there was not the slightest approach between Little Bird and me, till I noticed that the blue and almost angelic eyes of that
maiden were turned toward me, with a certain special sympathy and determined interest.

  That might have been interpreted in this way: Among all the people of the train I alone had some social refinement; Lillian, in whom also a careful training was evident, saw in me, therefore, a man nearer to her than the rest of the company. But I understood the affair somewhat differently. The interest which she showed pleased my vanity; my vanity made me pay her more attention, and look oftener into her eyes. It was not long till I was striving in vain to discover why, up to that time, I had paid so little attention to a person so exquisite, — a person who might inspire tender feelings in any man who had a heart.

  Thenceforth I was fond of coursing around her wagon on my horse. During the heat of the day, which in spite of the early spring annoyed us greatly at noon, the mules dragged forward lazily, and the caravan stretched along the prairie, so that a man standing at the first wagon could barely see the last one. Often did I fly at such times from end to end, wearying my horse without need, just to see that bright head in passing, and those eyes, which hardly ever left my mind. At first my imagination was more taken than my heart; I received pleasant solace from the thought that among those strange people I was not entirely a stranger, since a sympathetic little soul was occupied with me somewhat. Perhaps this came not from vanity, but from the yearning which a man feels on earth to discover his own self in a heart near to him, to fix his affections and thoughts on one living beloved existence, instead of wasting them on such indefinite, general objects as plains and forests, and losing himself in remotenesses and infinities.