Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  The night was damp, but calm; a kind of weight oppressive to the spirit was hanging in the atmosphere. From the Dnieper came a harsh breeze; a watery mist left drops on Helena’s clothing and hair. On, on she ran. Nervous spasms distorted her face. In spite of the coolness it seemed to her that fire from heaven was falling on her head, her hands, and her breast. Those little fires seemed to dance and whirl about her, and in each one of them she saw the face now of Yosef, now of Gustav. Her cape had fallen off, the wind had torn her hat away, dampness unbound her hair. She fell to the earth a number of times. Soon amid night and emptiness she found herself alone. Only the distant noise of the city and the barking of dogs in that part through which she was hastening pursued her. She ran ever forward.

  She felt neither torture nor pain. All her thoughts rushed to one centre; that was her misfortune. When love takes a part of one’s life, it pays with disappointment; for Helena love had been everything. Existence for her had ceased now to have sense. The charm was broken. There was no forgiveness for that woman, though she had “loved much;” there could be only peace, not in life, but beyond it.

  Meanwhile she ran forward, but strength was deserting her. Her lips had grown parched, her eyes were now dim, her clothing wet and bespattered with mud. She fell oftener and oftener; sometimes she turned her face to the sky, seizing the air greedily. The ground on which she was running became wetter and wetter. From afar could be heard now the sobbing of the wave, and that marvellous converse of water, half fitful, half gloomy.

  At the brink Helena halted a moment.

  Closing her eyes on a sudden and stretching her hands out before her, the woman rushed forward.

  With the plash in the river was heard a short scream, stopped by the water, — her last scream.

  Then followed silence. Deep night was in the sky.

  CHAPTER XXII

  “Everything is marvellously involved in this poor world,” said the ancient poet. This is certain, that more than once life becomes so involved that it is only to be cut like that Gordian knot of old. So was it with Yosef.

  A few years before he had come to Kieff full of confidence in his own strength. It had seemed to him that he could push forward not only his own fate, but that of others in a way chosen in advance. Meanwhile he had convinced himself that in a short time he had lost the rudder even of his own boat. He had been left to rush and save himself if he wished, but he had to sail with the wind, and therewith he had little happiness in life. In his case, as in that of all men, life, or rather the excess of that seething of youthful years, had to pour out in the single but very narrow direction of love for woman. There was little space between the banks; hence the stream flowed too violently, so that in all Yosef’s past there were barely a few peaceful moments. He lacked little of paying with his life for the past, and God knows there was nothing to pay for. After the last incident with Helena the danger might be renewed. Augustinovich feared relapse; happily his fears were not justified.

  Yosef improved continually. It was difficult to foresee how long he would have to lie in bed yet; his weakness after the grievous illness was very great, but his return to health was assured.

  Augustinovich shortened the long hospital hours to the best of his power and ability, but vain were his efforts to win back the old-time humor. Recent events had made him sedate and sparing of words. He had lost many of his old habits. From the time of Yosef’s illness he had not visited Pani Visberg even once, though she came rather often to inquire for Yosef’s health.

  But if in this way events of recent days had acted on Augustinovich, how much more had they acted on Yosef! Out of his long illness he rose a new man altogether. He had no longer that lively, active, unbending temperament. In his movements there was slowness, in his look heaviness, and as it were indolence.

  Augustinovich attributed this, and justly, to the weakness unavoidable after such an illness, but soon he noticed in the sick man other things foreign to him before. A certain marvellous indifference approaching apathy broke through his words. He began to look at the world again, but in a manner entirely different from that in which he had looked at it earlier. He seemed to be capable of no vivacious feeling. It was disagreeable to look at him; these changes had touched not merely his moral side, he had changed physically also. His hair had grown thin, his face was white and emaciated, his eyes had a sleepy look, he had lost his former brightness. Lying whole days without movement, he looked for hours together at one point in the ceiling, or slept. The presence of any one did not seem to concern him.

  All this alarmed Augustinovich, especially when he considered that in spite of the speedy return of physical strength these symptoms, if they yielded, yielded very slowly. He sighed when he remembered the former Yosef, and he labored to rouse the present one, but the labor was difficult.

  A certain time Augustinovich, sitting by the bed of the sick man, read aloud to him. Yosef was lying on his back; according to habit he was looking at the ceiling. Evidently he was thinking of something else, or was thinking of nothing, for after a certain time annoyance was expressed on his face. Augustinovich stopped reading.

  “Dost wish to sleep?”

  “No, but the book wearies me.”

  Augustinovich was reading “Dame aux Camélias.”

  “Still, there is life and truth here.”

  “Yes, but there is not judgment to the value of a copper.”

  “Still, the book raises the question of such women!”

  “But whom do such women concern?”

  “They once concerned thee.”

  Yosef said nothing; on his face a slight thoughtfulness was evident.

  After a time he asked, —

  “What is happening with Helena? Has she been here?”

  Augustinovich was confused.

  “She has been here, she has been here.”

  “Well, and now?”

  “That is — yes — she is sick, very sick.”

  Yosef’s face continued indifferent.

  “What is the matter with her?” asked he, leisurely.

  “With her? — She — Well, I will tell thee the truth, only be not frightened.”

  “Well?”

  “Helena is no longer alive — she was drowned.”

  Some sort of indefinite impression shot over Yosef’s face; he made an effort as if to rise in the bed, but after a while he dropped his head on the pillow.

  “By accident or design?” asked he.

  “Rest, old man, rest; it is not permitted thee to talk much. Later I will tell everything.”

  Yosef turned to the wall and sank into silence. At that moment a servant of the hospital entered.

  “Pani Visberg wishes to see you,” said he to Augustinovich.

  Augustinovich went out; in the corridor Pani Visberg was waiting.

  “What has happened?” inquired he, with concern. “Is some one sick?”

  “No, no!”

  “What then?”

  “Lula has gone away!” said Pani Visberg, in a sad voice.

  “Long ago?”

  “Yesterday evening. I should have come here at once, for during the whole week I had not heard from Yosef, but Malinka was so afflicted, and had cried so much that I could not let her come. Lula has gone, she has gone!”

  “Why did she go?”

  “It is difficult to tell. Maybe two weeks from the time that Yosef fell ill, Pelski came again, and soon after proposed to her a second time. She experienced no small suffering from that, for evidently the little man had become attached to her seriously. Still she refused him, giving as cause that she could not marry without attachment. I liked that Pelski well enough. But that is not the point! The honest girl refused him, naturally. How much she suffered during Yosef’s sickness! But that again is not the point. She and Pelski parted without anger, and he undoubtedly found her that place in Odessa. Imagine to yourself my astonishment when a few days ago she came to me and declared that Yosef’s illness was all that had delayed
her departure, that now, when he was better, she would not be a burden on me longer, that she wanted to work for a morsel of bread, and would go. But, my God! was she a burden to me? Malinka became educated and acquired polish in her society; besides, I loved her.”

  Augustinovich thought awhile; only after long silence did he say, —

  “No, kind lady! I understand Lula. When she took lodgings with you she was a spoiled and capricious young girl, who thought that you were receiving her for her coronet, and to be honored yourself; to-day she is quite different.”

  “Do I reproach her with anything?” asked Pani Visberg.

  “That is not a question. I understand how bitter it must have been for you and your daughter to part with her, and it is too bad that you did not let me know of this before. The person whom Yosef was to marry is no longer alive.”

  “No longer alive?”

  “She is not. But except pain for you, this departure will cause no harm. Yosef has not passed examination for his medical degree; he must think of that first of all, for it is his bread. When he recovers and assures a sustenance for himself, he will go to Odessa after her, but for that time is needed. Yosef has changed very much. It is no harm that Lula has done everything that can raise her still more in his esteem.”

  Pani Visberg went away with a straitened heart. Augustinovich stood awhile on one spot, then he shook himself from his meditation and took on a gloomy look.

  “She has rejected Pelski a second time,” thought he; “she wants to work for her living! Oh, Yosef, Yosef! even to go through greater suffering than thine—”

  He did not finish the thought which he had begun; he waved his hand, and went to the chamber.

  “What did Pani Visberg want?” asked Yosef, with an apathetic voice.

  “Lula has gone to Odessa,” answered Augustinovich, abruptly.

  Yosef closed his eyes and remained motionless a long time. At last he said, —

  “It is a pity! That was a good girl — Lula.”

  Augustinovich gritted his teeth and made no answer.

  The time came at last when Yosef left the hospital, and a month later he passed his examination as doctor of medicine. It was a clear autumnal day. The two friends, with their diplomas in their pockets, were returning to the house. Yosef’s face bore on it yet the marks of disease, but otherwise he was perfectly healthy. Augustinovich walked arm in arm with him; along the road they talked of the past.

  “Let us sit here on this bench,” said Augustinovich when they entered the garden. “It is a beautiful day, I like to warm myself in the sun on such a day.”

  They sat down. Augustinovich stretched himself comfortably, drew a long breath, and said with gladsome feeling, —

  “Well, old man! we ought to have had in our pockets for the last three months these wretched rolls which we have received only to-day.”

  “True,” replied Yosef, pushing away with his cane a few yellow leaves that were lying at the side of the bench.

  “The leaves are falling from the trees, and the birds are moving southward,” said Augustinovich. Then lowering his voice and pointing to a flock of wagtails flying above the trees, he added, —

  “But wilt thou not go south after the couriers of the sun?”

  “I? Whither?”

  “To the Black Sea — to Odessa.”

  Yosef bent, and remained silent for a long time, then he raised his head; on his face was depicted something almost like despair.

  “I love her no longer, Adam!” whispered he.

  On the evening of that day Augustinovich said to Yosef, —

  “We put too much energy into chasing after woman’s love; later on that love flies away like a bird, and our energy is wasted.”

  Life and Death and Other Legends and Stories

  Translated by Jeremiah Curtin

  CONTENTS

  LIFE AND DEATH. A HINDU LEGEND

  IS HE THE DEAREST ONE?

  A LEGEND OF THE SEA

  THE CRANES

  THE JUDGMENT OF PETER AND PAUL ON OLYMPUS

  HOUSE PRESENTED TO HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ BY THE POLES: Mr. Sienkiewicz and Mr. Curtin in the foreground

  PREFACE

  “Is He the Dearest One?” was produced under the following circumstances: About fourteen years ago there was a famine, or at least hunger, in Silesia. Though that land is a German possession at present, it was once a part of the Polish Commonwealth, and there are many un-Germanized Poles in it yet.

  The mother in this sketch is Poland. Yasko, the most unfortunate of her sons, is Silesia. Poor, ill-fated, he neglects his own language, forgets his mother; but she does not forget him, as was shown on the occasion of that hunger in Silesia. The Poles of Russian Poland collected one million marks and sent them to Yasko.

  The ship “Purple” represents Poland and its career, and is a very brief summary of the essence and meaning of Polish history. Like some of the author’s most beautiful short productions, it was written for a benevolent object, all the money obtained for it being devoted to that object.

  All persons who have read “Charcoal Sketches,” in Sienkiewicz’ “Hania,” will be interested to learn the origin of that striking production. It was written mainly and finished in Los Angeles, Cal., as Sienkiewicz told me in Switzerland six years ago, but it was begun at Anaheim Landing, as is described in the sketch printed in this volume, “The Cranes.” Besides being begun at Anaheim Landing, the whole plan of “Charcoal Sketches” was worked out there. “The Cranes” appeared in Lvov, or Lemburg, a few years ago, in a paper which was published for one day only, and was made up of contributions from Polish authors who gave these contributions for a benevolent purpose. The Hindu legend, “Life and Death,” to be read by Sienkiewicz at Warsaw in January, is his latest work.

  JEREMIAH CURTIN.

  Torbole, Lago di Garda, Austria,

  December 18, 1903.

  LIFE AND DEATH. A HINDU LEGEND

  There were two regions lying side by side, as it were two immense plains, with a clear river flowing between them.

  At one point the banks of this river sloped gently to a shallow ford in the shape of a pond with transparent, calm water.

  Beneath the azure surface of this ford could be seen its golden bed, from which grew stems of lotus; on those stems bloomed white and rose-colored flowers above the mirror of water. Rainbow-hued insects and butterflies circled around the flowers and among the palms of the shore, while higher up in the sunny air birds gave out sounds like those of silver bells. This pond was the passage from one region to the other.

  The first region was called the Plain of Life, the second the Plain of Death.

  The supreme and all mighty Brahma had created both plains, and had commanded the good Vishnu to rule in the Region of Life, while the wise Siva was lord in the Region of Death.

  “Do what ye understand to be best,” said Brahma to the two rulers.

  Hence in the region belonging to Vishnu life moved with all its activity. The sun rose and set; day followed night, and night followed day; the sea rose and fell; in the sky appeared clouds big with rain; the earth was soon covered with forests, and crowded with beasts, birds, and people.

  So that all living creatures might increase greatly and multiply, the kindly god created Love, which he made to be Happiness also.

  After this Brahma summoned Vishnu and said to him:

  “Thou canst produce nothing better on earth, and since heaven is created already by me, do thou rest and let those whom thou callest people weave the thread of life for themselves unassisted.”

  Vishnu obeyed this command, and henceforward men ordered their own lives. From their good thoughts came joy, from their evil ones, sorrow; and they saw soon with wonder that life was not an unbroken rejoicing, but that with the life thread which Brahma had mentioned they wove out two webs as it were with two faces, — on one of these was a smile; there were tears in the eyes of the other.

  They went then to the throne of Vishnu and made compl
aint to him:

  “O Lord! life is grievous through sorrow.”

  “Let Love give you happiness,” said Vishnu in answer.

  At these words they went away quieted, for Love indeed scattered their sorrows, which, in view of the happiness given, seemed so insignificant as to be undeserving of notice.

  But Love is also the mighty mother of life, hence, though the region which Vishnu ruled was enormous, it was soon insufficient for the myriads of people; soon there was not fruit enough upon trees there, nor berries enough upon bushes, nor honey enough from cliff bees.

  Thereupon all the men who were wisest fell to cutting down forests for the clearing of land, for the sowing of seed, for the winning of harvests.

  Thus Labor appeared among people. Soon all had to turn to it, and labor became not merely the basis of life, but life itself very nearly.

  But from Labor came Toil, and Toil produced Weariness.

  Great throngs of people appeared before Vishnu a second time.

  “O Lord!” exclaimed they, stretching their hands to him, “toil has weakened our bodies, weariness spreads through our bones, we are yearning for rest, but Life drives us always to labor.”

  To this Vishnu answered:

  “The great and all mighty Brahma has not allowed me to shape Life any further, but I am free to make that which will cause it to halt, and rest will come then to you.”

  And Vishnu made Sleep.

  Men received this new gift with rejoicing, and very soon saw in it one of the greatest boons given by the deity thus far. In sleep vanished care and vexation, during sleep strength returned to the weary; sleep, like a cherishing mother, wiped away tears of sorrow and surrounded the heads of the slumbering with oblivion.