Digitized by tine Internet Arcliive
in 2007 witli funding from
IVIicrosoft Corporation
littp://www.arcliive.org/details/antliologyofmoderOOselviala
ANTHOLOGY OF MODERN
SLAVONIC LITERATURE
By the same Author
MODEKN EUSSIAN POETRY :
Texts (Accented) and Translations. Selected
and Translated, with an Introduction,
by P. Selver
KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUBNER & CO. LTD.
ANTHOLOGY OF MODERN
SLAVONIC LITERATURE
IN PROSE AND VERSE
TRANSLATED BY
P. SELVER
With an Introduction and Literary Notes
LONDON
KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUBNER & CO. LTD.
New York : E. P. Dutton & Co.
1919
PREFACE
The bulk of this Anthology has been selected
from translations which have been accumulating
for several years. My aim has been to include
what is most typically racial ; but what is most
typically racial is not always the most adapted
for translation. In making my choice of material,
this was one of the diiflculties I had to deal with.
It was less acute in the prose section ; but on
the other hand, this section presented certain
other obstacles of its own. The first arose from
the need of finding short prose works complete in
themselves. Only twice (with Reymont and
Machar) did I deviate from this principle, and
even in these two cases the reader will find that
each of the extracts chosen, although part of a
longer work, forms an organic whole. The second
obstacle was due to the purely practical diffi-
culty, under present conditions, of obtaining the
necessary books. To take a particular instance,
this accounts for the scanty manner in which
Southern Slav prose is represented. It is hoped,
however, that such gaps as these (and perhaps
vi PREFACE
the many others) may be filled in later when
circumstances are more favourable.
The word " modern " has been interpreted
usually from a chronological point of view. In
many cases its application to style and tendency
followed as a matter of course. There are a
few obvious exceptions. Thus, Presern died in
1S49. Shevtchenko's poems date back more than
half a century. The '' Ode to Slavdom " by
Preradovid was written in 1865. In all these
cases my choice is justified, I think, by the racial
criterion I have mentioned. But for the most
part, the chronological standard has been adhered
to. About three in four of the writers repre-
sented are still alive.
Ever since I began to arrange my material, I
have had the considerable advantage of fre-
quent consultations with Mr. Janko Lavrin.
Indeed, I believe it is due to his suggestion that
this work has assumed its present form. For
that definite service, together with a great deal
of personal encouragement which cannot be
precisely indicated, I here express my gratitude,
although it cannot but fall far short of what
i^ ^^^- P. Selvbr.
London,
April, 1918.
INTRODUCTION
The distribution of the Slavs in Europe is excel-
lently conjectured by Professor Lubor Niederle,
the Czech authority, in the following terms
{" Slovansk/ Sv^t," p. 2) : —
" The primitive Slav race had its nucleus be-
tween the Oder and the Dnieper ; stage by stage,
in prehistoric times, it had reached the Elbe,
the Saale, the Danube, the Niemen and the Baltic.
It had spread itself over this wide area, partly
through the influence of certain geographical
conditions, as, for example, the main water-
courses and mountains, partly through currents
of civilisation, whose effects in the East differed
from those in the West ; partly also, through the
influence of linguistic development. To begin
with, the divisions were three in number. The
first, to the west of the Vistula and the Car-
pathians, spread out in a westerly direction be-
yond the lower Elbe, the Saale and the Bohemian
Forest, resulting in those branches of the Slavs
known as the Polabians, Pomeranians, Poles and
Czechs ; the second, whose primitive headquarters
lay between the Upper Vistula, the Dniester and
the middle Danube, in course of time advanced
vll
viii INTKODUCTION
south of the Carpathians, and while one detach-
ment settled on the Drave, the other, crossing
the Save and Danube, penetrated to the Balkan
regions and developed into the Slovene, Serbo-
Croatian and Bulgarian groups; the third frac-
tion extended in a vast circle from the lower
Dnieper basin, and reached the Gulf of Finland,
the upper Dnieper and the Volga to the north,
the Don to the east, and the lower Danube to the
south. This division formed the Kussian race,
which was further modified within itself under
the influence of varying local conditions."
This account deals feasibly with the difficult
question of origins. It has the additional ad-
vantage of forming a convenient basis upon
which to catalogue the modern Slavs. By re-
taining the three suggested divisions, which may
be designated as Western, Southern and Eastern
(this being the order in which their origins are
dealt with), we arrive at the following statistical
arrangement : —
Western Slavs. — Poles, 20 millions.
Czechs, 7 millions.
Slovaks, 2 millions.
Wends, 150 thousand.
Southern Slavs. — Serbo-Croatians, 9 millions.
Bulgarians, 5 millions.
Slovenes, 1^ millions.
INTRODUCTION ix
Eastern Slavs. — Great Russians, 65 millions.
Little Russians (Malo-Russians,
Ruthenians or Ukrainians),
31 millions.
White Russians, 7 millions.
This results in a total of nearly 150 millions,
but the figures are, of course, very approximate.
It must be remembered, for instance, that politi-
cal conditions have made the census returns in
certain districts somewhat unreliable, and cases
are not unknown where Slav populations help
to increase German or Magyar totals. Slav
authorities themselves have differed greatly, not
only in the question of figures, but also in actual
classification. Thus, Safafik, one of the heralds
of the Czech revival, writing in 1826, estimated
a total of just over 55 million Slavs, among whom
he included what he called Bosniaks, Dalmatians
and Slavonians. The same authority drew no
distinction between the Great and Little Rus-
sians, estimated the Ukrainians in Austria at
only three millions and had very vague ideas
about the Bulgarians. Writing again in 1842,
he increased his estimated total to 78 millions.
Several Slav tribes became extinct at an early
period, although their former abodes are often
revealed in Saxon and Prussian place-names
(Pomerania, Prussia, Leipzig and Berlin are
X INTRODUCTION
examples). Jan Koll^r, one of the poets of the
Czech revival, refers to some of these lost races
in his famous Prologue to *' The Daughter of
S16.va," written in 1824 : —
"Where have ye wandered, dear nation of Slavs, that
formerly dwelt here,
Drinking now of the Saale, now Pomeranian
springs 1
Peaeef ul stock of the Sorbs, and Obotritian offspring,
Where are the Wilzen, and where, grandsons of Uker,
are ye 1 "
The difficulties of classification are almost as
great when we come to consider the Slav
languages. In 1822, Dobrovsk;f, the practical
founder of Slav philology, divided them into 9
different tongues ; SafaMk in 1842 proposed 6
languages with 13 dialects; Schleicher in 1865
proposed 8 ; Miklosich, a prominent Slovene
scholar, decided on 9 ; Jagid, a Croat authority
of European reputation, is in favour of 8. The
reason for this diversity is that some philologists
designate as a language what others will admit
only as a dialect. Thus, many Russian authori-
ties are unwilling to treat Ukrainian as a separate
language (not altogether justly) ; Slovaks such
as Czambel, with the fatal Slav tendency towards
cleavage, insist on a distinct Slovak race (of
Southern Slav origin) with a distinct Slovak
language (again not altogether justly). Even the
INTKODUCTION xi
Wends who live under German rule in parts of
Saxony and Brandenburg, scanty as they are,
claim a division into two varying dialects.
However, making all reasonable allowances,
we may regard the following as an accurate
arrangement : —
( Kussian
Eastern J Little Kussian (Malo-Russian, Ru-
tlienian, Ukrainian).
f
Polish
Western ^ Czech- Slovak
Wendic.
i Serbo-Croat
Slovene
Bulgarian.
Of these languages, Polish, Czech, Croat and
Wendic are written in the Latin alphabet,
adapted to their particular phonetic needs by
the use of various diacritic signs. The remainder
employ the so-called Cyrillic alphabet. This
difference of alphabet is the only real distinction
between Croat and Serbian. It should be noticed
that the Cyrillic alphabet is not identical in the
case of all the languages that use it. Russian,
Ukrainian, Serbian and Bulgarian have the bulk
of the letters in common : but each language has
also a few characters peculiar to itself.
xii INTRODUCTION
As a whole, the Slav languages are dis-
tinguished by striking similarities of structure
and vocabulary. The so-called '' aspects " of the
verb are common to them all ; while the numerous
noun inflections are lacking only in Bulgarian.
This language, it may be added, differs from the
rest also by the use of a definite article, which
is suffixed to the noun. The same construction
exists in two other Balkan, but non-Slav
languages, Albanian and Roumanian.
The following lists will give some idea of
the degrees of affinity between the chief Slav
languages : —
Russian.
Polish
Czech Serbo-Croat Slovene.
polnye (full)
pelny
pln(5^) pun(i)
poln(i)
otyets (father)
ojciec
otec otac
otec
dyen' (day)
dzien
den dan
den (dan)
byeda (woe)
biada
bida bieda
b6da
dolgie (long)
dlugi
dlouhy dug(i)
dolg(i)
These few examples might lead an observer to
deduce a closel* similarity than would be justified
by comparing the languages in the bulk, and
taking into account something more than isolated
words. Many of the Slavs themselves are apt to
exaggerate to the extent to which their languages
resemble each other. M. L6ger tells of a Slovak
who was convinced that his native dialect would
be freely understood in Moscow ; he was soon
disillusioned. V. Hrub^ asserts in his " Com-
INTRODUCTION xiu
parative Handbook of the Slavonic Languages"
that he " often had the opportunity of observing
how Czech, Polish and Russian workmen con-
versed readily in their native idioms with Croat
pedlars for hours at a time." This is, if any-
thing, slightly overstated.
The fact is, that in spite of many cognate words
and constructions, each member of the group has
peculiarities of pronunciation and vocabulary
which distinguish it often very strikingly from
the rest. Thus, Russian with its Tartar elements
(found in several everyday words) and fluctuat-
ing stress, contrasts with Polish where the stress
falls on the penultimate syllable, and where, as in
no other modern Slavonic language, two nasal
sounds have survived from primitive Slavonic.
In Czech again, words have their chief stress on
the first syllable, while the vocabulary as a whole
is more purely Slavonic than that of the previous
two. In general, it will be found that the Slavonic
languages of recent development, such as Czech
and Slovene, contain fewer words of foreign
origin than those whose tradition is more con-
tinuous. The reason is, that on the revival of
these languages during the early part of last
century, the non- Slavonic elements were de-
liberately eliminated. But even in these lan-
guages the native element has, in the last twenty
years or so, been modified by an admixture of
xiv INTRODUCTION
foreign words derived largely from a study of
French literature. This has resulted in numerous
pairs of synonyms, which some native scholars
are inclined to welcome on the ground that they
provide the language with subtler shades of
meaning.
CONTENTS
PAGE
Introduction vii
PART I— PROSE
Russian
Anton Chekhov. In a Foreign Land - 3
Dmitri Merezhkovsky. My Life - - 10
Fyodor Sologub. The Tiny Man - - 25
S. N. Sergeyev-Tsensky. The Demigod - 58
Ukrainian
Taras Shevtchenko. Autobiography - 61
Polish
W. Gomulicki. The Ploughman - - 71
Boleslaw Prus. From the Legends of
Ancient Egypt 76
Stanislaw Przybyszewski. Chopin - - 88
W. S. Reymout. In the Old Town at Lodz 111
Czech
J. S. Machar. Sonia (from " The Con-
fessiDUs of an Author ") - - - 117
Jan Neruda. The Vampire - - - 134
Arne Nov4k. The Advent of Spring in
the South 140
Fr^fia Sr^mek. June (play in one act) - 150
XV
xvi CONTENTS
Serbian
Simo Matavulj. The Latin Boy. A Tale
from Montenegro .... 174
PAET II— POETRY
Russian
K.
Balmont. (1) Water - - - -
191
(2) 0 waves of the ocean . .
193
(3) The Magic World
193
V.
BryusoY. (1) Dusk - - - .
194
(2) The Stonehewer -
195
(3) To the Poet -
196
S.
Gorodetsky. Poland - . . .
196
V.
Ivanov. The Maenad - - .
197
D.
Mereshkovsky. Nirvana
199
N.
Minsky. The City Afar -
200
F.
Sologub. (1) Evil dragon . . . -
201
(2) Northern Triolets (i) -
202
(ii) -
202
y, (iii) -
203
Ukrainian
T.
Shevtchenko. (1) Drowsy the waves . . .
204
(2) See fires ablaze . . . -
204
(3) If, lordlings, ye could
only know ...
205
(4) Legacy
207
CONTENTS
xvii
PAGE
Polish
A.
Asnyk. (1) Without Limits
208
(2) The Torrent -
208
J.
Kasprowicz. (1) The wind whips ... -
209
(2) What is life worth . . .?
210
M.
Konopnicka. (1) Now when the
king . . . -
211
(2) Fragment -
212
L.
By del. (1) Centaur and Woman
212
(2) The Syrens
213
(3) Arise, O song ! -
214
L.
Staff. (1) The Strange Shrine -
215
(2) The Goblet of my Heart -
216
L.
Szczepanski. (1) The Artist to the
Woman
216
(2) Weariness
217
K.
Przerwa-Tetmajer. (1) Song of the
Night Mists
218
(2) On the Lonely
Road
219
(3) Czardas
220
Czech
P.
Bezruc. (1) The Pitman -
222
(2) The Hideous Spectre -
224
(3) Vrbice - - . -
226
(4) I (i) and (ii) - - -
227
O.
Bfezina. (1) A Mood - - - -
232
(2) Boundelay of Hearts -
233
(3) The Hands ■
239
2
xviii CONTENTS
PAGE
J.
Kardsek ze Lvovic. (1) The Dream -
244
(2) Beethoven
246
A.
K14sterski^. From the " Ironical
Sicilian Octaves : (1) Art
248
(2) Official Soiree at
Prince X's
248
(3) From a Meeting
of the Common
Council -
249
(4) Funeral Eites -
249
(5) A Question
250
(6) To Czech Poetry
250
J.
S. Machar. (1) Brooding -
251
(2) Autumn Sonnet
251
(3) October Sonnet
252
(4) On Golgotha -
253
(5) Last Will and Testa-
ment
258
A.
Sova. (1) On the Hill-Side
260
(2) Fishponds - - -
261
(3) Smetana's Quartette ''From
My Life"
261
(4) To Theodor Mommsen
264
(5) The River - - - -
268
(6) Songs of the First May-
Tide, V and VI -
272
O.
Theer. (1) City
274
(2) Tempest - - . -
275
CONTENTS
xix
PAGB
J.
Vrchlick^. (1) Eclogue VII
-
276
(2) Evening in Paris
-
277
(3) A I^egend concerning
Moderation
-
277
(4) The Ingle Nook
-
279
(5) Walt Whitman -
-
280
(6) Mournful Stanzas
-
281
(7) Marco Polo
-
282
(8) From " Songs of the
Pilgrim "
-
285
Southern Slav
(a) Serbo-Croatian
J.
Du6i(5. (1) The Poplars -
-
287
(2) My Poetry
-
288
V.
Hid. (1) By the Vardar -
-
288
(2) The Last Guest -
-
289
J.
Kosor. (1) The Magician's Flight
-
291
(2) QuaflBng the Storm -
-
292
L.
Kostid. Syrmia - - - -
-
294
V.
Nazor. Nocturne
-
296
P.
Preradovid. To Slavdom -
-
300
M
. Rakid. The Deserted Shrine -
-
308
S.
Stefanovid. (1) The Song of the Dead
309
(2) The Greatest Joy
-
310
(3) The Impotence
of
Death
-
311
A.
Santid. Dalmatian Nocturne -
-
312
XX CONTENTS
PAGE
(&) Slovene
A. Askerc. (1) A Page from the Chronicle
of Zajc - - - - 313
(2) The Ferryman - - - 317
F. PreSern. From " Sonnets of TJnhap-
piness, (1) and (2) - - - - 319
O. Zupancic. Ascension Day - - - 320
Literary Notes 323
Bibliography 347
PART I.
PROSE.
SLAVONIC ANTHOLOGY
PART I. PROSE
RUSSIAN :
ANTON CHEKHOV : IN A FOREIGN LAND.
It is Sunday, at noon. Kamyshev, a landed pro-
prietor, is sitting at home in his dining-room, at
a sumptuously appointed table, and is slowly
breakfasting. His meal is shared by Monsieur
Champune, a dapper, clean-shaven old French-
man. This Champune was once employed by
Kamyshev as a tutor; he taught his children
deportment, good pronunciation, and dancing.
Later on, when Kamyshev' s children had grown
up and become lieutenants, Champune remained
something in the nature of a masculine governess.
The duties of the whilom tutor are not onerous.
He has to dress decently, reek of scents, listen to
Kamyshev's empty chatter, eat, drink, sleep, —
and beyond that, apparently, nothing. In return,
he receives board, lodging, and an indefinite
salary.
Kamyshev is eating and, as usual, babbling
vapidly. " Confound it !'' says he, wiping away
4 ANTON CHEKHOV
the tears which he has provoked through eating a
morsel of ham, thickly smeared with mustard.
'* Whew ! It's got into my head and all my joints.
Your French mustard couldn't do that, not even
if you swallowed a whole pot of it."
'^ Some like French mustard, and some Rus-
sian," remarks Champune mildly.
" Nobody likes French mustard, except the
French. But give what you like to a Frenchman,
— he'll eat it all up ; frogs and rats and cock-
roaches. Ugh ! For instance, you don't like this
ham because it's Russian ; but give you roasted
glass and say it's French, and you'll begin to eat
and smack your lips. Your idea is, that all
Russian things are rotten."
'' I don't say so!"
" All Russian things are rotten, but French, —
oh, c^est tres joli ! Your idea is, that there's no
better country than France, but my idea is, — well,
what is France, honestly speaking? A chunk of
earth ! Send our local police of&cial there, and
within a month he'll ask to be transferred; no
room to move ! You can travel through all your
France in a single day, but in our country you go
out of the gate, — no end to be seen. You travel
and travel
'' Yes, monsieur, Russia is a tremendous
country."
'' That it is ! Your idea is, that there's no
better people than the French. An educated,
IN A FOREIGN LAND 5
intelligent nation ! So civilised ! I'll grant you,
the French are all educated, good-mannered.
Quite so. A Frenchman will never lapse into
boorish behaviour. He'll bring a lady a chair at
the proper moment, he won't eat crabs with a
fork, he won't spit on the floor, but he hasn't that
spirit No, that spirit isn't in him.
I can't make it clear to you, but, — how shall I
put it? — a Frenchman is lacking in something or
other. . . ." (the speaker waves his fingers
about) ** something or other . . . something
juristic. I remember reading somewhere that
you've all got an acquired intelligence from books,
while our intelligence is innate. If you instruct
a Russian properly in the sciences, there's not one
of your professors can equal him."
" That may be " says Champune, as though
against his will.
'' No, not may be, but it is so ! It's no good
scowling about it, I'm speaking the truth. Rus-
sian intelligence is an inventive intelligence.
Only, of course, they don't give him free play,
and he's not good at bragging. He invents some-
thing and smashes it up or gives it to the children
to play wi€h, while your Frenchman invents some
rubbish and shouts it from the housetops. Just
lately our coachman Yona carved a man out of
wood ; you pull this man by a thread, and it does
something indecent. But Yona doesn't brag
about it. In general, I don't care for the French.
6 ANTON CHEKHOV
I'm not speaking about you, but in general. An
immoral nation. From the outside, they are just
like men, but they live like dogs. Take, for
example now, marriage. If a man here gets
married, he sticks to his wife and there's an end
of the matter. But the Lord only knows what
you do. The man sits all day in the cafe, and his
wife crams the house full of Frenchmen and then
for the cancan.
" That's untrue !" Champune cannot keep
himself from saying. '' In France domestic life
is very highly esteemed."
'' We know all about that domestic life ! You
ought to be ashamed of yourself for defending it.
But it must be said in all fairness : A swine re-
mains a swine. All thanks to the Germans for
having beaten them. My goodness me, thanks to
them. God prosper them for it."
" If that is so, monsieur, I don't understand,"
says the Frenchman, leaping up with his eyes
flashing, '' if you hate the French, why you keep
me here."
'^ Where am I to put you, then?"
" Dismiss me, and I'll go back to France."
" Wha-a-t? Do you think they'd let you into
France now? Why, you're a traitor to your
country. Sometimes you call Napoleon a great
man, sometimes Gambetta. The devil himself
couldn't make you out."
" Monsieur !" says Champune in French, splut-
IN A FOREIGN LAND 7
tering and crumpling his serviette in his hands,
" A greater insult than you have just flung upon
my feelings, not even my enemy could think of.
We are done with each other." And striking up
a tragic attitude, the Frenchman daintily throws
his serviette upon the table and departs in a
dignified manner.
About three hours later, the table is laid afresh,
and the dinner is served. Kamyshev sits down
alone to dinner. After his preliminary glass of
spirits, he is seized with a craving for vapid chat-
ter. He wants to gossip and he has no auditor.
''What is Alphonse Ludovicovitch doing?" he
asks the flunkey.
" He's packing his trunk, sir."
*' What tomfoolery. Heaven help us !" says
Kamyshev, and goes to the Frenchman.
Champune is sitting in the middle of his room
on the floor, and with trembling hands is packing
his trunk with washing, scent-bottles, prayer-
books, braces, neckties. His whole air of respect-
ability, the trunk, the bed, and the table give the
impression of something elegant and womanish.
From his big blue eyes large tears are falling on
to the trunk.
* 'Where are you off to?" asks Kamyshev, after
looking on a little.
The Frenchman is silent.
" Do you want to go away?" continues Kamy-
shev. " Well, just as you please. I won't stop
8 ANTON CHEKHOV
you. But there's one curious thing ; how can yoti
get along without a passport? That's what
puzzles me. You know, I've lost your passport.
I put it away somewhere among some papers, and
it's got lost. And they're strict about passports
here. You won't manage to go five versts before
they'll collar you."
Champune lifts up his head and looks at Kamy-
shev mistrustfully.
" Oh, yes. You'll see. They'll tell by your
face that you've got no passport, and they'll want
to know at once who you are, Alphonse Cham-
pune? We know these Alphonse Champunes.
Would you mind stepping this way for a short
journey?"
" You're joking."
" What should I joke for? A lot of good it
would be to me ! But just notice this one thing.
Please don't whine afterwards and write letters.
I won't lift a finger, when they lead you past here
in manacles."
Champune jumps up, and pale, with eyes wide
open, he begins to pace across the room.
" Why do you treat me like this?" he says,
clutching at his head in desperation. " Good
Heavens ! Oh, cursed be the hour in which the
pernicious idea entered by mind to leave my
native land !"
" Come, come, come ! It was only a little joke
on my part!" remarks Kamyshev, mitigating his
IN A FOREIGN LAND 9
tone. " What a queer chap, not to understand a
joke. There's no talking to you."
" My dear friend," whimpers Champune,
pacified by Kamyshev's tone, " I swear to you, I
am attached to Russia, to you, and to your
children. To leave you would be as hard for me
as to die. But every word of yours cuts into my
heart."
*' Oh, you queer fellow ! If I abuse the French,
why on earth should you feel insulted? There are
heaps of people we abuse, and supposing all of
them were to feel insulted? You are a queer
fellow, really ! Just follow the example of Lazar
Isakitch, my tenant. Sometimes I call him this,
sometimes that, Jew one day, scab another, and
make a pig's ear with my coat-tail, and pull him
by the earlocks. He doesn't feel insulted."
" But what a servile creature he is. For a
kopeck he'll put up with any degradation."
'* Well, well, well . . . Nevermind. Let's
go in to dinner. Peace and harmony !"
Champune powders his tear-stained face and
follows Kamyshev into the dining-room. The
first course is served in silence ; after the second,
the same performance begins again, and thus
Champune's tribulations have no end.
10 DMITKI MEREZHKOVSKY
DMITRI MEREZHKOVSKY : MY LIFE.
My father, who is now dead, told me that my
great-grandfather, Fyodor Merezhky, was a
major in the Cossack army at Glukhov, in Little
Russia. My grandfather, Ivan Fyodorovitch,
came to Petrograd towards the end of the 18th
century in the reign of Paul I., and being a man
of title, was admitted into the Ismailov regiment
of the guards. It was probably about that time
that he changed his Little Russian name
Merezhky for the Great Russian Merezhkovsky.
Later on my grandfather was transferred from
Petrograd to Moscow, and took part in the war of
1812.
My father, Sergey Ivanovitch, was born at
Moscow, in 1821, being the son of Ivan Fyodoro-
vitch, and his second wife, nee Kurbskaya. He
was educated at a private school owned by a
Madame Liebermann. In 1839 he entered the
Civil Service. He served first with Talysin,
Governor of Orenburg, as assistant to the head of
a department, then in a similar capacity with
Count Shavalov, marshal of the Emperor's house-
hold, and finally as head of a department in the
Court Chancery. He held this position under the
minister. Count Adlerberg, during the whole
reign of Alexander II. In 1853 he married Var-
MY LIFE 11
vara Vassilyevna Tchesnokova, a daughter of the
chief of the Central Police Bureau at Petrograd.
I came into the world on August 2nd (14th)
1865, at Petrograd, on the Yelagin Island, in an
official building belonging to the castle, where my
parents used to spend the summer, I still love
the melancholy thickets and the ponds in the
marshy Yelagin Park, where we children, under
the influence of Mayne-Keid and Cooper, used to
play at " Indians." The pine-tree in which,
hovering like a bird in the airy heights, I used to
read and dream, and, far from all mankind, felt
like a free *' savage," is there to this very day. I
can still remember how we would explore the
gloomy cellars of the castle, where the stalactites
hanging from the damp ceiling sparkled in the
candle-light ; or how we mounted to the flat green
dome of the castle from which we had a view of
the sea ; and also, how we went boating, and, on
the sandy shore of the Krestovsky Island we
would light a fire and bake potatoes, and feel
more like " savages " than ever.
In winter we used to stay in the old Bauer
House, which was built as long ago as the days of
Peter the Great. It stands at the corner of the
Neva and the Fontanka, by the Pratcheshny
Bridge, opposite the Summer Garden. On one
side we had the summer palace of Peter I., on the
other his " cottage " and the oldest church in
Petrograd, the wooden Trinity Cathedral. My
12 DMITRI MEREZHKOVSKY
father's huge, two-storied official residence had
any number of rooms, both for use and for show.
They were large and gloomy, the windows faced
towards the north, and the decorations were dull
and pompous. My father could not bear the
children to make a noise and disturb him in his
work; we always crept past his study door on
tiptoe.
I now believe that my father had many good
qualities. But, always morose and harassed by
the heavy official duties of those old days, he was
a man who never managed to lead a real family
life. There were nine of us, six boys and three
girls. As children we lived on fairly good terms
with each other, but later, each went his own way,
for we lacked the spiritual ties which always
come from the father.
I was the youngest boy and my mother loved me
more than her other sons. If there is any good in
me at all, I have to thank her for it. When I was
7 or 8, I nearly died of diphtheria ; I owe my life
to my mother's devoted care.
My father used to go on long official journeys
abroad, and to Livadia in the Crimea, where the
invalid Empress was then residing, and he left us
children in the care of Amalia Christianovna, the
old housekeeper, a German woman from Reval.
She was a good-natured, but narrow-minded and
shy sort of person. What I felt for her was not
so much love, as childlike pity. I also had an
MY LIFE 13
old nurse who used to tell me Kussian folk-tales
and legends of the saints. Even now I can re-
member the dark corner with the eikon and a
lamp burning in front of it, and the never-
returning joy of childish prayer. I did not really
like going to church ; the priests in their ornate
dress made me feel afraid.
Sometimes, to please my mother, my father took
me with him to the Crimea, where we owned a
small estate close to the waterfall of Utchan-Su.
It was there that I first became acquainted with
the beauty of the south. I still remember the
splendid castle at Oreanda, that now lies in
ruins. The white marble pillars by the blue sea
form my imperishable symbol of ancient Greece.
I was educated at the 3rd High School. It was
at the end of the seventies and the beginning of
the eighties, during the dull period of strictest
classicism. There was no trace of education, —
nothing but cramming and drill. Our head-
master, a half-crazy old German, was called
Lemonius, and the name suited him well. The
teachers were all insignificant place-hunters. I
have no pleasant memories of any of them, except
Kessler, the old Latin master, author of the well-
known grammar. Although he did not do us
much good, he did at least have a kindly glance
for us.
I rarely mixed with my schoolfellows, for I was
shy and unsociable. The only one with whom I
•3
14 DMITRI MEREZHKOVSKY
was at all intimate was Evgeni Solovyov, who
became a journalist and critic (he is no longer
alive) ; the tie between us, however, was not the
similarity, but the divergency of our views; he
was a sceptic, and I already had mystical
leanings.
At the age of 13 I began to write. My first
poem opened thus :
" The clouds were scattered, and the heavens
Gleamed joyously, and bright and blue. . . ."
It was an imitation of Pushkin's " Fountain of
Bakhtchisarai." It was about this time that my
first critical treatise was produced, — a set essay
on the Legend of Igor, for which Mokhnatchov,
m}^ Russian teacher, gave me full marks. I was
prouder of this success than I have ever been in
the whole subsequent course of my literary career.
On March 1st, 1881, 1 was walking up and down
in our dining-room composing a poem on a subject
from the Koran. The servant-girl came running
in from the street, and spoke of a dreadful
explosion which she had just heard. Later, my
father came home to lunch direct from the castle.
He was terribly upset, tear-stained and pale, and
told us of an attempt upon the Emperor's life.
" There you have the fruits of Mhilism," he
said. ''What more do these monsters want?
They have not spared even such an angel as
that . . ."
MY LIFE 15
My eldest brother, Constantine, a science
student (later a well-known biologist), a pas-
sionate nihilist, attempted to defend the
*' monsters." My father flew into a rage, stamped
his feet, cursed his son, and drove him out of the
house. My mother implored forgiveness for her
son, but my father would not hear of it.
This quarrel lasted several years. My mother
became ill through fretting about it. About that
time she contracted the liver trouble of which she
subsequently died. She lives in my memory as a
martyr and mediator for her children, but
especially for her two favourite sons, — me and my
eldest brother.
In the upper classes at school I became a warm
admirer of Moliere, and founded a '^ Moliere
Society." We pursued no political aims, but this
did not prevent the political police from summon-
ing us one fine day. An enauirv was instituted,
and we lads of 16 and 17 were credited with
nothing less than the intention to ^' overthrow the
existing order." It was only my father's position
that prevented me from being arrested and
expelled. My mother, moreover, had managed
to keep the whole affair from reaching my father's
ears.
I went on writing verses. My father was very
proud of them, had numerous copies made, and
showed them to all his acquaintances. In 1879,
if I am not mistaken, when I was 14 years old, he
16 DMITRI MEREZHKOVSKY
once took me to Alupka, to see the 70-year-old
Countess, Elisabeth Vorontsov. I did not know
then that I had the honour to kiss a hand which
had been kissed half a century before by Pushkin.
In 1880, at the house of Countess Tolstoy, the
widow of the poet, my father made the acquaint-
ance of Dostoyevsky, and thereupon he took me to
see him. I still remember the little apartment in
Kolokolnaya Street, the narrow ante-room which
was filled with copies of '' The Brothers Kara-
mazov," and the equally narrow study where
Fyodor Mikhailovitch was sitting and correcting
proofs. Turning red and pale, and stammering,
I read him my wretched verses. He listened to
me in silent annoyance. We had probably dis-
turbed him in his work.
" Bad, very bad ! Beneath all criticism !" he
said at length. " To write well it is first neces-
sary to endure much, to suffer much."
'' Then he had better not write; I do not want
him to suffer," replied my father.
I can still remember the penetrating glance of
Dostoyevsky's transparent, pale-blue eyes, and
the pressure of his hand when we left. I never
saw him again, and soon after that meeting I
heard of his death. About the same time I made
the acquaintance of an ensign at the military
academy, who later was to become the famous
poet Semyon Nadson. I loved him like a brother.
Even then, he had consumption and was always
MY LIFE 17
speaking about death. We had many arguments
on religious questions ; he denied and I affirmed.
It was Nadson who introduced me to the poet
Pleshtcheyev, editorial secretary of the *' National
Annals." I can still see the gaunt and narrow
shoulders wrapped in a plaid, and I can hear the
hoarse, hollow cough, and the bellowing voice of
Saltykov Shtchedrin, whose quarters were in the
editorial sanctum.
My first appearance in public was, if I am not
mistaken, in the year 1882, with a poem which
was printed in the '' Illustrated Review," under
the management of Scheller-Mikhailov. My
subsequent works were issued in the " National
Annals." After I had passed out of the High
School in 1884, I entered the historical-philo-
logical faculty of Petrograd University. I am
scarcely more indebted to the University than to
the High School. So that really I grew up with-
out any schooling as well as without fatherly
guidance.
During my time as a student I was a warm
adherent of positivism — Spencer, Comte, Mill,
Darwin. But as from my childhood I had been
religious, I had a dark inkling that positivist
philosophy was unsound, I sought a solution, but
found none, and was consumed by grief and
doubt.
In the students' Historical Society, I debated
with the convinced positivist Vodovosov, and
18 DMITKI MEKEZHKOVSKY
endeavoured to prove that a conception of the
world which is to assign a meaning to life cannot
possibly be based upon the " impenetrable " of
Spencer. 1
Through Pleshtcheyev I became a visitor at
Madame Davydov's, the wife of the famous
musician and director of the Petrograd Conserva-
toire. In her house I met Gontcharov, who was
already a blind old man, and the poets Maikov
and Polonsky, and later Korolenko, Garshin,
Mikhailovsky, and Uspensky, who were contri-
butors to the " Northern Messenger," founded
by Madame Yevreinovna. I also wrote for this
review, and in it I published ''' Silvia," a dread-
fully long and clumsy dramatic poem, together
with a sympathetic essay on Chekhov, who first
appeared about that time, but had not yet
attracted anyone^ s attention.
Mikhailovsky had a great influence on me, not
only through his works, which I fairly devoured,
but also through his whole noble personality.
He commissioned me to write an essay on " The
Peasant in French Literature " ; when the work
was completed, he rejected it ; it was too feeble
and did not harmonise with the tone of the paper.
Mikhailovsky and Uspensky were my first real
teachers. I once visited Glyeb Uspensky at
Tchudovo, and talked with him all night on ques-
tions about which I was most deeply concerned ;
about the religious meaning of life. He declared
MY LIFE 19
that this meaning was to be sought in the concep-
tion of life held by the lower classes. He gave me
the addresses of various people who were closely
acquainted with the life of the people, — village
schoolmasters and statisticians, and he advised
me to visit these persons. In the summer of the
same year I travelled through the Volga and
Kama districts, the governments of Ufa and
Orenburg, went on foot through the villages, had
conversations with the peasants and made notes
of my impressions. In the government of Tver I
visited the peasant Vassala Syutayev, the founder
of a religious sect which has many similarities to
the teaching of Tolstoy. Tolstoy had visited
Syutayev only a short time before I did, and the
peasant told me a great deal about the writer.
The '' Confession " of Tolstoy which appeared
about that time made a tremendous impression
on me. There arose in me a dim suspicion that
the positivist nationalism was, after all, not the
final truth. For all that, I had the intention,
after leaving the University, to go among the
people and to become a village schoolmaster.
Nikolay Minsky made fun of me and even offered
to bet that I would never carry out my intention.
Of course, he won the bet.
In my nationalism there was a large admixture
of childish folly, but it was entirely sincere, and I
am glad that there was such a period in my life,
and that it did not pass away without leaving any
traces.
20 DMITKI MEREZHKOVSKY
It was somewhere about the same time that,
under the influence of Dostoyevsky and certain
foreign poets such as Baudelaire and Edgar Allan
Poe, that I began to be an enthusiastic admirer
of modernism, but less of the decadents than of
the symbolists (even then I kept the two
separate). A volume of my poems which appeared
at the beginning of the nineties, received the title
" S^^mbols" ; I believe that I was the first who
introduced this word into Russian literature.
" What symbols? What are symbols?" I was
asked at every turn.
After leaving the University, T Vent in the
summer to the Caucasus. At Borshom, quite by
chance, I made the acquaintance of Zinaida
Nikolayevna Hippius, and soon afterwards I
made her a proposal of marriage. In the follow-
ing winter I married her at Tiflis, and returned
with her to Petrograd.
I will make the rest of this briefer, for I am not
writing memoirs, but only an autobiographical
sketch. I have neither the intention nor the
ability to depict the course of my inner develop-
ment, which, I believe, is not yet completed.
In the spring after my marriage, my mother
died. The death of my mother, a severe illness of
my wife, and several other crises in my private
life, were the causes of the religious change
through which I passed. I am often reproached
with having derived my religious ideas schemati-
MY LIFE 21
cally and from books. This opinion is false, and
is perhaps due to defects in my literary ability.
I can assert with a clear conscience : All
religious ideas expressed by me, come neither
from books nor from foreign influences, but from
my own experiences, for I have experienced them
all myself.
In my first collection of critical essays : *' On
the causes of the decay and on the new tendencies
in Russian literature," I endeavoured to establish
the doctrines of symbolism not so much from an
aesthetic as from a religious point of view.
In the following years I travelled a great deal.
I lived for some time in Rome, Florence and
Taormina, besides going to Athens and Con-
stantinople. My second collection of essays,
" The Eternal Companions," dates back to this
period. I also translated a series of Greek
tragedies.
In the year 1893 I began the trilogy '' Christ
and Anti-Christ," at which I worked for nearly
12 years. For a long time I could nowhere dis-
pose of " Julian the Apostate" ; no editor would
take it. At last, with great diflQculty, I had it
accepted by the " Northern Herald" ; they really
took the novel out of pity. Altogether I had an
unfriendly reception in Russian literature, and
even to-day I have to put up with many hostili-
ties. I might celebrate a 25 j^ars' anniversary
of pitiless persecutions on the part of the Rus-
sian critics.
22 DMITRI MEREZHKOVSKY
Between " Leonardo " and * 'Peter and Alexey'^
I wrote my study of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky.
For a long time I could not get this work accepted
anywhere, either. I was on the point of despair-
ing, when finally it was taken hj the " Art
World," that refuge for all the " persecuted and
rejected."
In order to make the preliminary studies for
" Peter and Alexis," I undertook a journey to
the sectarians and old believers beyond the Volga
to Kershets, Semyonov, and to the " Clear Lake,"
where the legendary " Invisible Town " of Kitesh
is situated. In the woods by the shore of the lake
I spent St. John's Eve in conversation with the
pilgrims and preachers, who on that night flock
together there from the whole of Russia. Later
I was told that many of them look, back with
pleasure to their meeting with me.
At the end of the nineties we founded the
Religious- philosophical Union. I may mention
that the first stimulus proceeded from Zinaida
Hippius. She also founded the periodical entitled
" The New Path."
When the Union was suspended by Pobyednost-
sev, I visited the Archbishop Antonius (he died
quite recently), to appeal for his help in our
undertaking. He refused the request, because he
said he could undertake nothing against the
temporal authority.
During my visit to the archbishop's monastery ^
MY LIFE 23
I slipped on a dark staircase and fell through a
glass roof into a ventilator. I sustained a few
injuries, but I might easily have broken my neck.
1 saw a symbolical meaning in this fall. I
realised that my overtures towards the orthodox
church could not lead to any good results.
In the summer of 1904 I travelled with my wife
to Yasnaya Polyana. Tolstoy received us in a
\ery friendly manner. We stayed with him over-
night and discussed religious questions at great
length. When we took our leave, he looked at
me searchingly with his good-natured, rather
uncanny little bear-like eyes, the eyes of the forest
man. Uncle Yeroshka, and said : '* I have heard
that you do not like me. I am glad that it is not
so. . . ."
I already had a feeling that I had not been quite
fair to him in my book, and that in spite of the
radical variance of our opinions, I am, after all,
more fond of Tolstoy than of Dostoyevsky.
Everything that I reflected upon, and above all,
that I experienced, in the revolutionary years of
1905-06, was of critical importance in its effect on
the course of my inner development. I realised,
and, once again, not abstractly, but with body
and soul, that in Kussia, orthodoxy and the exist-
ing order of things are inseparably united, and
that before both — autocracy and orthodoxy — are
rejected together, a new conception of Christi-
anity must first be arrived at.
24 DMITRI MEREZHKOVSKY
After the Moscow revolt I moved with my wife
to Paris. Here, coniointlv with Dmitri Filoso-
fov, we published the volume '* Tsar and Revolu-
tion " in French. My drama, " Paul I.," which
was composed at Paris in 1908, was confiscated
immediately on its appearance. It was not until
four years later that the charge against me of
" insolent contempt of the Tsar's authority " was
dropped. My acquittal was due only to a lucky
chance.
In the same year, on my return to Russia, the
manuscript of my novel, " Alexander I." was
taken away from me at the frontier station of
Wirballen.
In Paris I became closely acquainted with
several Russian revolutionaries. I was, and still
am, of the opinion that they are the best of all the
Russians whom I have ever seen in my life. Our
mutual advances were based not merely upon
political, but also upon religious considerations.
In my intercourse with them I saw clearly before
my eyes, and touched, as it were, with my hands,
the connection between religion and the Russian
revolution, and I experienced what I afterwards
repeated so often : the possibility of a new
religious order of society, the intimate connection
between the political liberation of Russia and its
religious destinies.
THE TINY MAN 25
FYODOR SOLOGUB : THE TINY MAN.
I.
Yakov Alexeyevitch Saranin scarcely reached
medium size ; his wife, Aglaja Nikif orovna, who
came of trades-folk, was tail and capacious.
Even now, in the first year after their marriage,
the twenty-year-old woman was so corpulent that
beside her tiny and lean husband, she seemed a
very giantess.
*' What if she gets still bigger?" thought Yakov
Alexeyevitch. He thought this, although he had
married for love — of her and of the dowry.
The difference in the size of husband and wife
not seldom evoked derisive remarks from their
acquaintances. These frivolous jests poisoned
Saranin 's peace of mind and embarrassed Aglaya
Nikiforovna.
Once, after an evening spent with his col-
leagues, when he had to hear no small amount of
banter, Saranin returned home thoroughly out of
temper.
Lying in bed beside Aglaya, he growled and
began wrangling with his wife. Aglaya lazily
and unwillingly replied in a drowsy voice :
" What am I to do? It's not my fault."
26 FYODOE SOLOGUB
She was of a very placid and peaceful temper.
Saranin growled : " Don't gorge yourself with
meat, and don't gobble up so much floury food ;
the whole day you're stuffing yourself with
sweets."
" Then I can't eat anything, if I*ve got a good
appetite," said Aglaya. " When I was single, I
had a better appetite still !"
'' So I should think ! Why, you ate up an ox
at one go, didn't you?"
" It's impossible to eat up an ox at one go,"
replied Aglaya, placidly.
She quickly fell asleep, but Saranin could not
get to sleep in this strange autumn night.
For a long time he tossed about from side to
side.
When a Russian cannot sleep, he thinks about
things. Saranin, too, devoted himself to that
activity, which was so little peculiar to him at
any other time. For he was an official, — and so
had little reason to think about this and that.
'' There must be some means or other," pon-
dered Saranin. " Science makes marvellous dis-
coveries every day ; in America they make people
noses of any shape they like, and put a new skin
on their faces. That's the kind of operations
they perform, — they bore holes in the skull, they
cut into the bowels and the heart, and sew them
up again. Can't there be a way of making me
grow, or else of reducing Aglaya's size? Some
THE TINY MAN 27
secret way or other? But how to find it? How?
You won't find it by lying here. Even water won't
flow under a stone at rest. But to look for this
secret remedy. ... It may be that the inventor
is actually walking the streets and looking for a
purchaser. Yes, of course. He can't advertise
in the papers. . . . But in the streets hawking
things round, selling what he likes from under
his coat, — that's quite possible. He goes round
and offers it on the quiet. If anyone wants a
secret remedy, he doesn't stay tossing about in
bed."
Having arrived at this conclusion, Saranin
began to dress quickly, mumbling to himself :
'' Twelve o'clock at night. . ."
He was not afraid that he would wake his wife.
He knew that Aglaya slept soundly.
" Just like a huxter," he said aloud. — '' Just
like a clod-hopper," he thought to himself.
He finished dressing and went into the street.
He had not the slightest wish for slumber. His
spirits were light, and he was in the mood
peculiar to a seeker of adventure when he has
some new and interesting experience before him.
The law-abiding official, who had lived quietly
and colourlessly for the third of a century, sud-
denly felt within him the spirit of a venturesome
and untrammelled hunter in wild deserts, — a
hero of Cooper or Mayne-Reid.
But when he had gone a few steps along his
28 FYODOK SOLOGUB
accustomed road, — towards his office, he stopped
and reflected. Wherever was- he to go? All was
still and peaceful, so peaceful that the street
seemed to be the corridor of a huge building,
ordinary, free from danger, shut off from all that
was external and abrupt. The house-porters
were dozing by the doors. At the cross-roads, a
constable made his appearance. The street lamps
glimmered. The paving-stones and the cobbles
in the road shone faintly with the dampness of
rain that had recently fallen.
Saranin considered, and in his unruffled hesi-
tance he turned to the right and walked straight
ahead.
II.
At a point where two streets crossed, in the
lamp-light, he saw a man walking towards him,
and his heart throbbed with a joyful foreboding.
It was an odd figure. A gown of bright colours,
with a broad girdle. A large speckled cap, with
a pointed tip. A saffron-coloured tuft of beard,
long and narrow. White, glittering teeth. Dark,
piercing eyes. Slippered feet.
" An Armenian !" thought Saranin at once.
The Armenian came up to him and said :
" My dear man, what are you looking for at
this hour of the night? You should go and sleep,
THE TINY MAN 29
or else visit the fair ladies. If you like, I will
guide you there.'*
" No, my own fair lady is ample enough for
me," said Saranin.
And confidingly he acquainted the Armenian
with his trouble.
The Armenian showed his teeth and made a
neighing sound.
'* Big wife, tinj' husband, — to kiss, put up a
ladder. Phew, not good !"
** What would be good for it, then?"
** Come with me. I will help a good man."
For a long time they went through the quiet,
corridor-like streets, the Armenian in front,
Saranin behind.
From lamp to lamp the Armenian underwent
an odd change. In the darkness he grew, and the
farther he went from the lamp, the hugher did he
become. Sometimes it seemed as if the sharp tip
of his cap rose up higher than the houses into the
cloudy sky. Then, as he approached the light,
he became smaller, and by the lamp he assumed
his former dimensions, and seemed a simple and
ordinary hawker of gowns. And, strange to say,
Saranin felt no astonishment-at this phenomenon.
He was in such a trustful mood that the gaudy
wonders of the Arabian Nights themselves would
have seemed ordinary to him, even as the tedious
passage of workaday drabness.
At the door of a house, quite an ordinary five-
4
30 FYODOR SOLOGUB
storied yellow building, they stopped. The lamp
at the door clearly outlined its unpretentious
sign, Saranin noticed :
" No. 41."
They entered the courtyard. To the staircase
of the back wing. The staircase was in semi-
darkness. But on the door before which the
Armenian stopped, fell the light of a small dim
lamp, and Saranin distinguished the figures :
''No. 43."
The Armenian thrust his hand into his pocket,
drew from thence a tiny bell, of the kind that is
used in country-houses to summon the servants,
and rang it. Clear and silvery was the sound of
the little bell.
The door opened immediately. Behind the door
stood a bare-footed lad, well-favoured, brown-
skinned, with very full-coloured lips. His white
teeth glistened because he kept smiling, now joy-
fully, now mockingly. And it seemed that he
was smiling the whole time. The comely lad's
eyes gleamed with a greeny lustre. He was all
lithe as a cat and blurred as the phantom of a
peaceful nightmare. He looked at Saranin and
smiled. Saranin felt uneasy.
They entered. The lad closed the door, bend-
ing forward lithely and adroitly, and went before
them into the passage, bearing a lamp in his hand.
He opened a door, and again that blurred move-
ment and mirth.
THE TINY MAN 31
An uncanny, dark narrow room, along the
walls of which were arranged cupboards with
certain alembics and phials. There was a
strangely irritating and perplexing odour.
The Armenian lit the lamp, opened a cupboard,
fumbled about there and fetched down an alembic
with a greenish liquid.
^' Good droplets," he said ; " you give one drop
in a glass of water, go to sleep quietly, and not
wake up."
" No, I don't want that," said Saranin,
vexedly. " You don't think I've come for that !"
'* My dear man," said the Armenian in a
wheedling voice, " you will take another wife,
after your own size, very simple matter."
" I don't want to," cried Saranin.
" Well, don't shout," the Armenian cut him
short. '' Why are you getting angry, dear man?
You are spoiling your temper for nothing. You
don't want it, then don't take it. I'll give you
other things. But they are dear, ah, ah, dear."
The Armenian, squatting down on his
haunches, which gave his long figure a comical
appearance, fetched out a square-shaped bottle.
In it glittered a transparent liquid. The
Armenian said softly, with a mysterious look :
" You drink one drop, you lose a pound ; you
drink forty drops, you lose forty pounds' weight.
A drop, a pound. A drop, a rouble. Count the
drops, give the roubles."
32 FYODOK SOLOGUB
Saranin was inflamed with joy.
"How much shall I want, now?" pondered
Saranin. " She must be about two hundred
pounds, for certain. If she loses a hundred and
twenty pounds, she'll be quite a tiny little
woman. That will be fine!"
" Give me a hundred and twenty drops."
The Armenian shook his head.
*' You want a lot, that will be bad !"
Saranin flared up.
'' Well, that's my business."
The Armenian looked at him searchingly.
" Count out the money."
Saranin took out his pocket-book.
*' All to-day's winnings, and you've got to add
some of your own as well," he reflected.
The Armenian in the meantime took out a cut-
glass phial, and began to count out the drops.
A sudden doubt was enkindled in Saranin's
mind.
A hundred and twenty roubles, a tidy sum of
money. And supposing he cheats.
" They really will work?" he asked, un-
decidedly.
" We don't sell a pig in a poke," said the
master of the house. *' I'll show you now how it
works. Caspar — " he shouted.
The same bare-footed lad entered. He had on
a red jacket and short blue trousers. His brown
legs were bare to above the knees. They were
THE TINY MAN 33
shapely, handsome, and moved adroitly and
swiftly.
The Armenian beckoned with his hand.
Gaspar speedily threw aside his garments. He
went up to the table.
The lights dimly shone upoo his yellow body,
shapely, powerful, beautiful. His smile was
subservient, depraved. His eyes were dark, with
blue marks under them.
The Armenian said :
^' Drink the pure drops, and it will work at
once. Mix with water or wine, and then slowry,
you will not notice it with your eyes. Mix it
badly, and it will act in jerks, not nicely."
He took a narrow glass with indentations,
poured out some of the liquid and gave it to
Gaspar. Gaspar, with the gesture of a spoilt
child who is being given sweets, drank the liquid
to the dregs, threw his head backwards, licked
out the last sweet drops with his long, pointed
tongue which was like a serpent's fangs, and
immediately, before Saranin's eyes, he began to
get smaller. He stood erect, looked at Saranin,
laughed, and changed in size like "d puppet bought
at a fair, which shrivels up when they remove the
wind from it.
The Armenian took him by the elbow and
placed him on the table. The lad was about the
size of a candle. He danced and performed
antics.
34 FYODOE SOLOGUB
'' What will happen to him now?" asked
Saranin.
'' My dear man, we will make him grow again,"
replied the Armenian.
He opened a cupboard and from the top shelf
he took another vessel likewise of strange shape.
The liquid in it was green. Into a tiny goblet,
the size of a thimble, the Armenian poured a little
of the liquid. He gave it to Gaspar.
Again Gaspar drank it, just as the first time.
With the unwavering slowness of water filling
a bath, the naked lad became bigger and bigger.
Finally, he reached his previous dimensions.
The Armenian said :
" Drink with wine, with water, with milk,
drink it with whatever you please, only do not
drink it with Russian kvas, or you will begin to
moult badly."
III.
A few days elapsed.
Saranin beamed with joy. He smiled mysteri-
ously.
He was waiting for an opportunity.
He was biding his time.
Aglaya complained of a headache.
" I have a remedy," said Saranin. '' It acts
wonderfully."
THE TINY MAN 35
" No remedies are any good," said Aglaya,
with a sour grimace.
" No, but this one will be. I got it from an
Armenian."
He spoke so confidently that Aglaya had faith
in the efficacy of the Armenian's medicine.
'' Oh, all right then ; give it me."
He produced the phial.
"Is it nasty?" asked Aglaya.
''It's delightful stuff to taste, and it acts
wonderfully. Only it will cause you a little
inconvenience."
Aglaya made a wry face.
"Drink, drink."
" Can it be taken in Madeira?"
"Yes."
" Then you drink the Madeira with me," said
Aglaya, prompted by caprice.
Saranin poured out two glasses of Madeira,
and into his wife's glass he poured the admixture.
" I feel a bit cold," said Aglaya softly and
sluggishly. " I should like my wrap."
Saranin ran to fetch the wrap. When he
returned, the glasses stood as before. Aglaya
sat down and smiled.
He laid the wrap round her.
" I feel as if I were better," said she. " Am I
to drink?"
" Drink, drink," cried Saranin. " Your
health !"
36 FYODOE SOLOGUB
He seized his glass. They drank.
She burst out laughing.
*' What is it?" asked Saranin.
" I changed the glasses. You'll have the
inconvenience, not me."
He shuddered. He grew pale.
'^ What have you done?" he shouted in des-
peration.
Aglaya laughed. To Saranin her laughter
seemed loathsome and cruel.
Suddenly he remembered that the Armenian
had an antidote.
He ran to find the Armenian.
^' He'll make me pay dearly for it," he thought,
gingerly. " But what of the money ! Let him
take all, if only he saves me from the horrible
effects of this nostrum."
IV.
But obviously an evil destiny was flinging
itself upon Saranin.
On the door of the lodging where the Armenian
lived, there hung a lock. In desperation Saranin
seized the bell. A wild hope inspirited him. He
rang desperately.
Behind the door the bell tinkled loudly,
distinctly, clearly, with that inexorable clearness
THE TINY MAN 37
peculiar to the ringing of bells in empty lodgings.
Saranin ran to the house-porter. He was
pallid. Small drops of sweat, exceedingly small,
like dew on a cold stone, broke out on his face
and specially on his nose.
He dashed hastily into the porter's lodge and
cried :
" Where is Khalatyantz?"
The porter in charge, a listless, black-bearded
bumpkin, was drinking tea from a saucer. He
eyed Saranin askance. He asked with unruffled
calm :
" And what do you want of him?"
Saranin looked blankly at the porter and did
not know what to say.
*' If you've got any business with him," said
the porter, looking at Saranin suspiciously,
*' then, sir, you had better go away. For as he's
an Armenian, keep out of the way of the police."
'* Yes, but where is the cursed Armenian?"
cried Saranin, in desperation. '' From number
43?"
*' There is no Armenian," replied the porter.
*' There was, it's true, I won't deny it, but there
isn't now."
'' Where is he, then?"
'' He's gone away."
'' Where to?" shouted Saranin.
*' Who can say?" replied the porter, placidly.
" He got a foreign passport and went abroad."
38 FYODOR SOLOGUB
Saranin turned pale.
" Understand," he said in a trembling voice,
" I must get hold of him, come what may."
He burst out crying.
The porter looked at him sympathetically. He
said :
" Why, don't upset yourself, sir. If you do
want the cursed Armenian so badly, why then,
take a trip abroad yourself, go to the registration
office there, and you'll find him by the address."
Saranin did not consider the absurdity of what
the porter said. He became cheerful.
He at once rushed home, flew like a hurricane
into the local office, and requested the man in
charge to make him out a foreign passport with-
out delay. But suddenly he remembered :
" But where am I to go?"
V.
The cursed nostrum did its evil work with
fateful slowness, but inexorably. Saranin be-
came smaller and smaller every day. His clothes
dangled round him like a sack.
His acquaintances marvelled. They said :
''How is it that you seem a bit smaller. Have
you stopped wearing heels?"
'' Yes, and a bit thinner."
THE TINY MAN 39
" You're working too hard."
*' Fancy taking it out of yourself like that!"
Finally, on meeting him, they would sigh :
" Whatever is the matter with you?"
Behind his back, Saranin's acquaintances
began to make fun of him.
" He's growing downwards."
" He's trying to break the record for small-
ness."
His wife noticed it somewhat later. Being
always in her sight, he grew smaller too gradually
for her to see anything. She noticed it by the
baggy look of his clothes.
At first she laughed at the queer diminution in
size of her husband. Then she began to lose her
temper.
'^ This is going from bad to worse," she said.
" And to think that I actually married such a
midget."
Soon all his clothes had to be re-made, — all the
old ones were dropping off him; his trousers
reached his ears, and his hat fell on to his
shoulder.
The head porter happened to go into the
kitchen.
" What's up here?" he asked the cook, sternly.
" Is that any business of mine?" the plump
and comely Matrena was on the point of shouting
irascibly, but she remembered just in time and
said :
40 FYODOK SOLOGUB
** There's nothing up here at all. Everything's
as usual."
'' Why, your master's beginning to carry on
like anything. By rights he ought to report
himself to the police," said the porter very
sternly.
The watch-chain on his paunch heaved in-
dignantly.
Matrena suddenly sat down on a box and burst
out crying.
''Don't talk about it, Sidor Pavloyitch," she
began. " We've really been wondering what's
the matter with him, — we can't make it out."
" What's the reason? What's the cause?"
exclaimed the porter, indignantly. " Can such
things be?"
" The only comfort about it," said the cook,
sobbing, " is, that he eats less."
The longer he lived, the smaller he got.
And the servants, and the tailors, and all with
whom Saranin had to come in contact, treated
him with unconcealed contempt. He would race
along to business, tiny, hardly managing to lug
his huge portfolio with both hands, and behind
him he heard the malicious laughter of the hall-
porter, the door-keeper, cabmen, urchins.
" Little shrimp," the head porter would
remark.
Saranin had to swallow many a bitter draught.
THE TINY MAN 41
He lost his wedding ring. His wife made a fuss
about it. She wrote to her parents in Moscow.
** Curse that Armenian !" thought Saranin.
Often he called to mind the Armenian counting
the drops, pouring them out.
''Whew !" exclaimed Saranin.
''Never mind, my dear, it was my mistake, I
won't do anything for it."
Saranin also went to the doctor, who examined
him with jocular remarks. He found nothing
wrong.
Saranin would go to visit somebody or other, —
the porter did not let him in at once.
" Who may you be?"
Saranin told him.
" I don't know," said the porter. " Mr.
So-and-so don't receive such people."
VI.
At business, in his department, they began by
eyeing him askance and jeering. Especially the
younger men.
Then they started murmuring, expressing
disapproval.
The hall-porter began to remove Saranin's
overcoat with open repugnance.
" There's a weedy little official for you," he
42 FYODOR SOLOGUB
muttered. " What sort of Christmas box are vou
likely to get from him?"
And to keep up his prestige, Saranin was com-
pelled to give bigger and more frequent tips than
before. But that availed little. The porters
took the money, but they looked at Saranin
suspiciously.
Saranin explained to someone among his col-
leagues that an Armenian had landed him in this
mess. The rumour of the Armenian affair
rapidly spread throughout the department. It
found its way into other departments as well. . .
On one occasion the manager of the department
ran up against the tiny official in the passage.
He looked at him in amazement. He said
nothing. He went into his room.
Then they considered that they had better
inform him. The manager asked :
'' Has this been going on long?"
The assistant manager wavered.
** It's a pity you didn't draw attention to it at
the time," said the manager, sourly, without
waiting for an answer. " Strange that I knew
nothing about it. I'm greatly put out."
He sent for Saranin.
When Saranin reached the manager's room, all
the officials looked at him in severe condemnation.
With a beating heart Saranin entered the
superintendent's room. He still clung to a faint
hope, the hope that His Excellence intended to
THE TINY MAN 43
give him a particularly flattering order, availing
himself of his small size. He might detail him
for the Universal Exhibition, or some secret duty
or other. But at the very first sound of the
departmental manager's voice, this hope dis-
persed like smoke.
*' Sit down here," said His Excellency, point-
ing to a chair.
Saranin clambered up as best he could. The
manager irately gazed at the ofiiciaPs legs
dangling in the air. He asked :
" Mr. Saranin, are you acquainted with the
Civil Service regulations as defined by the Gov-
ernment?"
'' Your Excellency," stammered Saranin, lay-
ing, as in prayer, his little hands upon his breast.
*' Why have you done this?" asked the
manager.
*' Believe me. Your Excellency. . . "
" Why have you done this?" repeated the
Manager.
But Saranin could not say another word. He
burst into tears. He had become very lachrymose
latterly.
The manager looked at him. He shook his
head. He began very sternly :
" Mr. Saranin, I have summoned you in order
to inform you that your inexplicable conduct is
to be regarded as thoroughly insufferable."
** But, Your Excellency, I think I've always
44 FYODOR SOLOGUB
properly. . ." stammered Saranin, *' and as for
my stature ..."
" Yes, that's just it,"
"But I am not responsible for this misfortune."
"I cannot judge to what extent this strange and
unseemly occurrence has come upon jon through
misfortune, and to what extent you are not re-
sponsible for it, but I am bound to tell you, that
as far as the department in my charge is concern-
ed, your extraordinary diminution in size has be-
come positively scandalous. The most equivocal
rumours are already circulating in the town. I
cannot judge of their accuracy, but I know that
these rumours explain your conduct by associat-
ing it with agitations for Armenian indepen-
dence. You will admit that the department can-
not be turned into a headquarters for developing
Armenian intrigues, directed towards the
diminution of the Russian Empire. We cannot
keep officials who conduct themselves so
strangely."
Saranin leaped up from his chair, and
tremblingly whimpered :
" A freak of nature. Your Excellency."
"It is peculiar, but the interests of ohe
service ..."
And again he repeated the same question :
" Why have you done this?"
" Your Excellency, I myself do not know how
it has come to pass."
THE TINY MAN 45
" What instincts ! You are flaunting the
smallness of your stature, when you could easily
hide it under any lady^s skirt, if I may be allowed
to say so. This cannot be tolerated."
*' I never did this," wailed Saranin.
But the manager did not hear. He went on :
*' I even heard that you are doing this out of
sympathy for the Japanese. But a limit must be
recognised in all things."
" How could I ever do that, Your Excellency?"
" I do not know. But I beg of you to desist.
You can be retained in the service, but only in
the provinces, and this will be immediately can-
celled, if you do not resume your customary
dimensions. For the purpose of recruiting your
health, you are granted four months' leave. I
must request you not to make your appearance in
the department any more. Any papers that are
indispensable to you will be sent to your house.
Good morning."
" Your Excellency, I am capable of working.
Why this leave?"
" You will take it because of illness."
'' But, Your Excellency, I am quite well."
" No more, if you please."
They gave Saranin leave for four months.
46 FYODOR SOLOGUB
VII.
Before long, Aglaya's parents arrived. It was
after lunch. During lunch, Aglaya had waxed
very merry at her husband's expense. Then she
went off to her room.
He went timidly into his study, — it seemed
huge to him now, — scrambled up on to the
ottoman, curled himself up in a corner and began
crying. Burdensome perplexities tormented
him.
Why should just he be overwhelmed bv such a
misfortune? It was dreadful, unheard of.
What utter folly.
He sobbed and whispered despairingly :
" Why, oh, why did I do it?"
Suddenlj^ he heard familiar voices in the front
room. He shook with horror. On tiptoe he
crept to the washing-stand, — they should not see
his tear-stained eyes. Even to wash himself was
difficult, — he had to stand on a chair.
The guests had already entered the drawing-
room. Saranin received them. He bowed, and
in a piping voice made some unintelligible
remark. Aglaya's father looked at him blankly
with wide-open eyes. He was big, stout, bull-
necked and red-faced. Aglaya was at his heels.
He stood still before his son-in-law, and with
legs wide apart, he eyed him attentively ; he took
THE TINY MAN 47
Saranin's hand cautiously, bent forward and
said, lowering his voice :
'' We have come to see you."
It was obvious that his intention was to behave
himself tactfully. He fidgeted with his feet on
the floor.
From behind his back, Aglaj'a's mother, a lean
and malicious person, pushed forward. She ex-
claimed shrilly :
'' Where is he, where? Show him to me,
Aglaya, show me this Pygmalion."
She looked over Saranin's head. She purposely
did not notice him. The flowers on her hat
waggled strangely. She went straight up to
Saranin. He squeaked and hopped on one side.
Aglaya began to cry and said :
'' There he is, mama."
'' I'm here, mama," squeaked Saranin, and
shuffled his feet.
" You villain, what have you done to yourself?
Why have you shrivelled up so?"
The servant-girl giggled.
" Don't you giggle at your master, my good
girl."
Aglaya reddened.
'' Mama, let's go into the drawing-room."
" No ; tell me, you villain, for what purpose
you've got so small?"
"Now then, mother, wait a bit," the father
interrupted her.
48 FYODOR SOLOGUB
She turned on her husband as well.
'' Didn't I tell you not to let her marry a man
without a beard. See, it's turned out just as I
said."
The father looked cautiously at Saranin and
did his utmost to change the conversation to
politics.
" The Japanese," he said, '' are of no great
size to speak of, but to all appearance they are a
brainy race, and even, you might almost say,
enterprising."
VIII.
And Saranin grew tinier and tinier. He could
now walk freely under the table. And each day
he became smaller still. He had not yet taken
complete advantage of his leave, but he did not go
to the office. They had not yet made prepara-
tions to travel anywhere.
Aglaya sometimes made fun of him, sometimes
she cried and said :
'' Where shall I take you ih that state? The
shame and disgrace of it !"
To pass from the study to the dining-room had
become a journey of quite respectable propor-
tions. And to climb up on a chair in the
bargain. . .
THE TINY MAN 49
Still, weariness was in itself agreeable. It
resulted in a good appetite and the hope of
growing. Saranin now pinned all his faith upon
food. The amount he consumed was out of all
proportion to his diminutive dimensions. But he
did not grow. On the contrary, — he decreased
and decreased in size. The worst of it was that
this decrease in size sometimes proceeded in jerks
and at the most inopportune times. As if he
were performing tricks.
Aglaya thought of passing him off as a boy, and
entering him at a school. She made her way to
the nearest one. But the conversation she had
with the Headmaster discouraged her.
They demanded documents. It turned out that
the plan was impracticable.
With an expression of extreme perplexity the
Headmaster said to Aglaya :
'' We cannot take a court councillor as pupil.
What could we do with him? Suppose the
teacher told him to stand in the corner, and he
said : I am a Knight of St. Anne. It would be
very awkward."
Aglaya assumed a pleading expression and
began to implore.
The Headmaster remained inexorable.
" No," he said stubbornly, " we cannot take
an official into the school. There is nowhere a
single clause in which such a case is provided for.
And it would be extremely awkward to approach
50 FYODOR SOLOGUB
the authorities with such a proposition. They
wouldn't hear of it. It might lead to consider-
able unpleasantness. No, it can't be done at all.
Apply to the controller, if you so desire."
But Aglaya could not make up her mind to go
to the authorities.
IX.
One day Aglaya received a visit from a young
man, whose hair was combed back with very
shiny smoothness. He made an extremely gallant
curtsey. He introduced himself thus :
** I represent the firm of Strigal and Co. A
first-class store at the very smartest centre oi
aristocratic shopping in the West End. We have
a huge quantity of clients in the best and highest
society."
With a view to all emergencies, Aglaya made
eyes at the representative of the illustrious firm.
With a languid gesture of her plump arm she
invited him to take a chair. She sat with her
back to the light. Leaning her head on one side,
she made ready to listen.
The young man with the shinily combed hair
continued :
"We have been informed that your husband has
vouchsafed to display originality in his choice
THE TINY MAN 51
of a diminutive size for himself. For this reason,
the firm, anticipating the very latest movements
in ladies' and gentlemen's fashions, has the
honour, madam, of proposing, as an advertise-
ment, to provide the gentleman free of charge
with suits cut according to the very finest
Parisian model."
^* For nothing?" asked Aglaya, listlessly.
" Not only for nothing, madam, but even with
payment to your own advantage, only under one
trifling condition which can easily be fulfilled."
In the meantime, Saranin, hearing that he was
the subject of the discussion, betook himself into
the drawing-room. He strolled round the young
man with the shinily arranged hair. He coughed
and clattered with his heels. He was very
annoyed that the representative of the firm of
Strigal and Co. paid not the slightest attention
to him.
At last he darted up to the young man and
squeaked loudly :
'*I suppose they didn't tell you I was at home?"
The representative of the illustrious firm stood
up. He gave a gallant curtsey. He sat down
again, and, turning to Aglaya, said :
** Only one trifling condition."
Saranin snorted contemptuously. Aglaya
burst out laughing. Her eyes sparkled m-
quisitively, and she said :
'' Well, tell me, what is the condition?"
52 FYODOR SOLOGUB
'' Our condition is that the gentleman would
consent to sit in the window of our store in the
capacity of a living advertisement.'^
Aglaja gave a malicious laugh.
'' Splendid! At any rate, he'll be out of my
sight."
" I won't consent," squeaked Saranin, in a
piercing voice. '' I cannot agree to such a thing.
I, — a court councillor and a knight, sitting in a
shop-windo\\' as an advertisement, — why, I think
it's absolutely ridiculous."
" Be quiet," shouted Aglaya, ''it's not yon
they're asking."
'' What, not asking me?" wailed Saranin.
" How much longer am I to put up with
strangers?"
"Oh no, sir, you're making a mistake!"
chimed in the young man amiably. '' Our firm
has no connection with aliens. Our employees
are all either orthodox or Lutherans from Riga.
And we have no Jews."
" I don't want to sit in the window" screamed
Saranin.
He stamped his feet. Aglaya seized him by
the arm. She pulled him towards the bed-room.
" Where are you dragging me?" screamed
Saranin. " I don't want to, leave go."
" I'll quieten you," shouted Aglaya.
She locked the door.
THE TINY MAN 53
'' I'll give you a sound beating " she said
through her teeth.
She started striking him. He wriggled power-
lessly in her mighty arms.
'' I've got you in my power, you pigmy. What
I want I'll do. I can shove you into my pocket,
— how dare you oppose me ! I don't care for
your rank, I'll thrash you within an inch of your
life."
'' I'll complain about it," squeaked Saranin.
But he soon realised the uselessness of resist-
ance. He was so very small, and Aglaya had
clearly resolved to put her whole strength into it.
" All right then, all right," he wailed, '' I'll
go into Strigal's window. I'll sit there, — and
bring disgrace on you. Til put on all my
decorations."
Aglaya laughed.
" You'll put on what Strigal gives you," she
shouted.
She lugged her husband into the drawing-
room. She threw him before the young man and
shouted :
" Take him ! Carry him off this very moment.
And the money in advance. Every month !"
Her words were hysterical outcries.
The young man produced a pocket-book. He
counted out two hundred roubles.
*' Not enough !" shouted Aglaya.
54 FYODOR SOLOGUB
The young man smiled. He took out a
hundred rouble note in addition.
" More than this I am not authorised to give,"
he remarked, amiably. '' At the end of a month,
pray receive the next instalment."
Saranin ran about the room.
'* In the window! In the window!" he kept
screaming. " Cursed Armenian, what did you
do to me?"
And suddenly at that very moment he shrank
bv about three inches.
X.
Useless were Saranin' s tears and his lamenta-
tions?— what did Strigal and his associates care
about them?
They paid. They effectuated their rights. The
ruthless rights of capital.
The power of capital provides even the court
councillor and knij^ht with a position completely
in accordance with his precise dimensions, but
not in the least harmonising with his pride.
Dressed up in the latest fashion, the pigmy runs
to and fro in the window of the f ashioii emporium,
— now feasting his gaze on the fair ladies of such
colossal size! — now spitefully threatening the
gleeful children with his fists.
THE TINY MAN 55
There was a mob round the windows of Strigal
and Co.
The assistants in Strigal and Co.'s store trod
on each other's toes.
Strigal and Co.'s workshop was flooded with
orders.
Strigal and Co. attain renown.
Strigal and Co. extend their workshops.
Strigal and Co. are rich.
Strigal and Co. buy up houses.
Strigal and Co. are magnanimous; they feed
Saranin right royally, they do not stint his wife
for money.
Aglaya is already receiving a thousand a
month.
More income still has fallen to Aglaya' s share.
And acquaintances.
And lovers.
And brilliants.
And carriages.
And a mansion.
Aglaya is merry and contented. She has grown
still larger. She wears high- heeled shoes. She
selects hats of gigantic proportions.
When she visits her husband^ she fondles him
and feeds him from her hand like a bird.
Saranin in a stumpy-tailed dress-suit trots about
with tiny steps on the table in front of her and
squeaks something. His voice is as penetrating
as the squeak of a gnat. But the words are not
audible.
56 FYODOR SOLOGUB
Tiny little folk can speak, but their squeaking
is not audible to people of large proportions, —
neither to Aglaya, nor to Strigal, nor to any of
the company. Aglaya, surrounded by shop-
assistants, hears the mannikin's whining and
squeaking. She laughs and goes away.
They carry Saranin into the window, where, in
a nest of soft materials, a whole lodging is
arranged for him, with the open side turned
towards the public.
The street urchins see the mannikin sitting
down at the table and preparing to write his
petitions. His tiny little petitions for his rights,
which have been violated by Aglaya, Strigal and
Co.
He writes. He knocks against the envelope.
The urchins laugh.
In the meanwhile, Aglaya is sitting in her
splendid carriage. She is going for a jaunt
before lunch.
XL
Neither Aglaya, nor Strigal and Co. thought
how it would all end. They were satisfied with
the present. It seemed as if there would be no
end to the golden shower which flowed down upon
THE TINY MAN 57
them. But the end came. Of the most ordinary
kind. Sucb as might have been expected.
Saranin diminished continually. Every day
they dressed him in new suits, — always smaller.
And suddenly, in the eyes of the marvelling
shop-assistants, just as he was putting on some
new trousers, he became excessively minute. He
tumbled out of the trousers. And he had already
become like a pin's head.
A slight draught was blowing. Saranin,
minute as a grain of dust, was lifted up in the
air. He was twirled round. He mingled with
the cloudlets of dust gamboling in the sunbeams.
He disappeared.
All search was in vain. Saranin could no-
where be found.
Aglaya, Strigal and Co., the police, the clergy,
the authorities, — all were in the greatest
perplexity.
How was the disappearance of Saranin to be
formulated?
At last, after communication with the Academy
of Sciences, they decided to reckon him as
dispatched on a special mission for scientific
purposes.
Then they forgot about him.
Saranin was finished with.
58 N. S. SERGEYEV TSENSKY
N. S. SERGEYEV TSENSKY : THE
DEMIGOD.
At wealthy Corinth, in the house of Megacles,
the highly revered, the minstrels stood and
chanted their melodies.
There were two of them — a youth and an old
man.
At first the old man sang in a quavering and
feeble voice, and the youth accompanied him
sadly upon a seven -stringed lyre.
What can the old man be singing about? He
sang about the olden time when the sun glowed
more ardently, when fruits grew more amply,
when wine was more intoxicating. He sang
about the olden time, when heroes lived whose
places none had come to take. He sang how in
the gloomy chasms of Hades rove the mournful
shadows of mortals.
A feast was being held in the house of Megacles.
On the long couch behind the table the guests
reclined and drank thick Cyprus wine from
costly goblets.
And none listened to the old man.
But he ceased, and the youthful minstrel began
to sing. In a sonorous and powerful voice he
sang melodies which no man had hitherto heard.
THE DEMIGOD 59
The melodies had been fashioned by a mighty
master, and they celebrated the praises of the
proud mind of man.
" Man is a demigod," ran the words of them.
*' but the time will come when he shall be a god."
'' Man is plunged in dreams," ran the words of
them, " but the time will come when the dreams
shall be reality."
" Yonder, amid the glimmering depths of
future ages, his gaze is fixed, as if it were riveted
there."
" The time will come when even the young men
shall not stammer about what has been."
'* Utterly filled with the present, utterly the
creator of the future, unsubmissive and holding
sway over all, man shall stand upon earth van-
quished by him."
''And when he has gained sway over all, he
shall be a god."
The final cadences of his voice and the strains
of the lyre were just resounding, when the guests
of Megacles rose up from the table to gaze upon
the minstrel.
And he stood there youthful and comely, with
black tresses and a proud glance.
" Who fashioned these melodies?" the gaests
Inquired.
" I heard them," replied the minstrel, *' when
I was yet a lad, in my native Eanthus, from
Demades, an exile from Athens."
60 N. S. SERGEYEV-TSENSKY
On the next day, three rich youths journeyed
across the Gulf of Corinth to tiny Eanthus, that
they might reverence Demades, even as a demi-
god.
'* He must be tall as this mast !" said one of
them, with eyes flashing.
•' He must be mighty as this sea during a tem-
pest !" said the second.
" He must be beautiful as the evening star in
yonder sky V said the third dreamily.
In tiny Eanthus, Demades the exile from
Athens, was pointed out to them.
On a dirty mat in a courtyard sat a decrepit
cripple. His head was grey with the remains of
dishevelled, matted hair.
With lean and grimy hands he was intently and
eagerly searching for vermin in his tattered tunic.
UKRAINIAN :
SHEVTCHENKO'S AUTOBIOGKAPHY.
Being a letter to the Editor of Narodnoe Chtenye
(Beading for the People)
I FULLY appreciate jour wish to acquaint the
readers of the N.C. with the biographies of those
men who through their capabilities and achieve-
ments have worked their way upwards from the
obscure and inarticulate ranks of the common
people. Narratives of this kind — so it seems to
me — might rouse many to a realisation of their
human dignity, without which all chances of a
general development among the lower classes in
Russia appear to me impossible. My own destiny,
presented in the light of truth, may lead to
deeper contemplation, not only on the part of
the common man, but also those from whom the
masses are so completely dependent; and this
should be of profit to both sides. Such, then, is
the reason why I propose to reveal in public a
few sad facts concerning my life. I should have
6i 6
62 SHEVTCHENKO
desired to present them with the same complete-
ness as that shown by the late. S. T. Aksakov in
his account of his childhood and youth — all the
more so, since the history of my life forms, in
part, the history of my native place. But I lack
the enterprise to go into all the details. That
could be accomplished only by a man who is in
possession of inner calm and, as is usual with
such men, has become reconciled with the
external conditions of his life. All, however,
that I can do now to fulfil your wish is to give a
concise account of the actual course of my life.
When you read these lines, then, I hope you will
realise those feelings which oppress my heart and
afflict my spirit.
I am the son of G rigor Shevtchenko, villager
and serf. I was born on February 25, 1814, at
Kerelovyetz, a village in the district of Zveni-
gorod, government of Kiev, upon the estate of a
landed proprietor. In my eighth (?) year I lost
father and mother, and found shelter with the
parish sacristan as a servant-pupil. Such pupils
bear the same relationship to the sacristans as the
lads who have been apprenticed to craftesmen by
their parents or some other authority do to their
masters. The master's power over them has no
definite limits — they are actually his slaves.
They have to perform unmurmuringly all
domestic duties, and fulfil every possible caprice
on the part of the master himself and the members
AUTOBIOGRAPHY 63
of his household. I leave it to your imagination
to conjecture what a sacristan — a sorry drunkard,
pray consider — could demand of me, and the
things that with slavish humility I had to do,
not possessing a single being in the world who
troubled or could be expected to trouble about my
condition. In spite of all this, in the course of
two hard years in a so-called school, I had been
through the grammar (spelling-primer), the
sum-book, and, finally, the psalter. Towards
the end of my school course, the sacristan used to
send me in his stead to read the psalter for the
souls of departed serfs, and was so gracious as to
reward me, by way of encouragement, with every
tenth kopeck. My help made it possible for my
harsh teacher to devote himself, in a higher
degree than before, to his favourite occupation, in
the company of his friend Jonas Limar, so that
on my return from my exploits as precentor I
nearly always found the pair dead-drunk. My
sacristan treated not only me, but also the rest of
the pupils, with harshness, and we all hated him
terribly. His senseless truculence caused us to
be crafty and revengeful towards him. We used
to deceive him on every occasion that offered, and
did him all possible mischief. This was the first
despot I ever met, and my whole life long he filled
me with loathing and contempt for every kind of
coercion practised by one man upon another.
My childish heart was injured a thousand times
64 SHEVTCHENKO
by the products of such a despotical schooling,
and I concluded, even as defenceless people are
wont to conclude, when their patience is finally
broken — with revenge and flight. When I came
upon him one day in a state of complete drunken-
ness I turned upon him his own weapon, the rod,
and as far as my childish strength permitted 1
got even with him for all his cruelty. Among all
the chattels of this drunken sacristan, the most
precious thing always seemed to me a certain
little book with pictures, that is, engravings,
truly of wretched workmanship. Whether it was
that I could not reckon it a sin, or whether 1
could not resist the temptation to purloin this
rarity, I took it, and ran away by night to the
township of Lesj^anka.
There I found a new teacher in the person of a
painter- deacon, who, as I very soon discovered,
differed in his principles and habits very little
from my former master. Three days I patiently
dragged buckets of water uphill from the river
Teketch, and crunched copper dye on an iron
disc. On the fourth day I lost patience and ran
away to the village of Tarasovka to a sacristan
painter who had gained renown in the locality
by his effigies of the great martyrs Mikita and
Ivan Voyin. To this Apelles I now turned with
the firm resolution to overcome all the trials of
destiny which at that time seemed to me insepar-
able from study. I fervently wished to acquire
AUTOBIOGEAPHY 65
his skill, if only in a tiny degree. But, alas!
Apelles observed my left hand attentively and
refused my request point-blank. He informed
me, to my bitter sorrow, that I had no aptitude
for anything, not even for cobbling or coopering.
So I lost all hope of ever becoming even a
medium painter, and with a saddened heart I re-
turned to my native village. I had in view a
modest destiny, which, however, my imagination
endued with a certain artless bliss. I wished to
become, as Homer puts it, the herdsman of stain-
less flocks, intending, as I roamed on behind the
assembled drove, to read at leisure my beloved
stolen picture-book. But in this, too, I was
unlucky. M}' estate-owner, who had just come
into his paternal heritage, needed a smart lad,
and so the ragged scholar-vagrant, having donned
just a twill jacket with trousers to match, became
a full-blown page-boy.
The discovery of such page-boys is due to the
Poles, the civilisers of the Ukraine beyond the
Dnieper. The landed proprietors of other na-
tionalities adopted, and still do adopt, from them
these page-boys — undeniably an ingenious
device. To train up a handy lackey from very
childhood means as much in this whilom Cossack
region as the subjugation to man^s will of the
swift-footed reindeer in Lapland. The Polish
estate-owners of a former age kept these so-called
" Kozatchki " not only as lackeys, but they made
66 SHEVTCHENKO
use of them also as musicians and dancers. . .
The modern representatives of the illustrious
szlachta (Polish nobility), proudly conscious that
they are thus enhancing culture, call this their
patronage of the Ukrainian national spirit — a
proceeding in which, so they allege, their ances-
tors always distinguished themselves. My
master, being a Russianised German, looked at
the aifair in a more practical way, and patronised
my national spirit in his own manner, by assign-
ing me a post in the corner of the ante -chamber
and enjoining me to motionless silence, until he
should lift his voice and order me to hand him
his pipe which stood quite close to him, or to fill
a glass with water before his nose. Owing to
my innate unruliness I transgressed my master's
order by singing melancholy bandit songs in a
barely audible voice, or on the sly copying the
pictures in the old Russian style, with which my
master's rooms were embellished.
My master was a restless man. He was con-
tinually travelling, now to Kiev, now to Vilna or
St. Petersburg, and he always dragged me in his
train, so that I might sit in the ante-chamber to
hand him his pipe and other necessaries. I can-
not say that I then felt my position in life as
burdensome to me; only now does it fill me with
horror and appears to me like some wild,
incoherent dream. Probably many of those who
belonged to the Russian nation will be disposed
AUTOBIOGRAPHY 67
some day to regard my past life with my eyes.
As I roved with my master from one house of
call to another, I took advantage of every oppor-
tunity to filch a woodcut from the wall, and in
this way I brought together a valuable collection.
To my particular favourites belong the historical
heroes such as Solovey Rozboynik, Kulnev,
Platov the Cossack, and others. I should add
that it was not the craze for collecting which led
me to this, but the invincible desire to produce
the most faithful copies possible of these
drawings.
One day, at the time of our sojourn in Vilna,
December 6, 1829, my master and his wife had
gone to a ball at the so-called ressources (gather-
ings of the szlachta) to celebrate the name-day
of His Majesty Nikolai Pavlovitch, now resting
in God. The house was completely wrapped in
slumber. I lit a candle in my solitary room,
spread out my stolen treasures, and, selecting
Platov the Cossack, began to copy with devotion.
The time passed by unnoticed. I had just got to
the Cossack offspring who romp about the mighty
hoofs of the generaPs horse, when behind me the
door opened, and my master, returning from the
ball, entered. He seized me by the ears and gave
me a few cuffs — not because of my artistic
endeavours (no! to art he paid no attention),
but because I might have set fire not only to the
building, but to the whole town. On the next
G8 SHEVTCHENKO
day he ordered the coachman Sidor to give me a
sound hiding, and this was carried out with all
due zeal.
In the spring of 1832 1 completed my eighteenth
year. As the hopes which my master had placed
in my ability as a lackey had not been justified,
he gave in to my unceasing requests and hired me
by contract for a period of four years to a guild-
master of painting, a certain Shiryayev in St.
Petersburg. This Shiryayev united within him-
self the qualities of the Spartanic sacristan, the
painter-deacon, and the other sacristan, the
cheiromant. Regardless of the pressure which
proceeded from his threefold genius, I spent the
clear spring nights in the Summer Garden
(Lyetny Sad) at St. Petersburg, and made draw-
ings of the statues which embellish that recti-
linear structure of Peter the Great. At one of
these seances I made the acquaintance of the
artist Ivan Maximovitch Soshenko, with whom I
still maintain the most sincerely fraternal
relations. On the advice of Soshenko, I began
to try my hand at water-colour studies from
Nature. During my numerous early and smudgy
attempts I had a model in the person of Ivan
Netchyporenko, a Cossack, another fellow-
countryman and friend of mine, and one of our
estate-owner's farm-servants. One day the
estate-owner noticed my work in Netchyporenko's
possession, and it pleased him so much that he
AUTOBIOGRAPHY 69
employed me to paint portraits of his mistresses,
for which he now and then rewarded me with a
whole silver rouble.
In 1837 Soshenko introduced me to V. I.
Grigorovitch, secretary' of the Academy of Fine
Arts, begging him to liberate me from my un-
happy lot. Grigorovitch conveyed this request
to V. A. Zhukovsky,* the latter made pro-
visional overtures to my master and commis-
sioned K. P. Brulov to paint his portrait, with
the object of making it the stakes in a private
lottery. The great Brulov immediately ex-
pressed his readiness, and in no great length of
time he had Zhukovsky' s portrait ready. Zhu-
kovsky, with the help of Count Velehorsky,
organised a lottery to the amount of 2,500
roubles in coupons, and at this price my liberty
was purchased on April 22, 1838.
From that day on, I began to attend the
sessions at the Academy of Fine Arts, and soon
became one of Brulov' s favourite pupils and
comrades. In 1844 I attained the dignity of a
free artist.
Concerning my first literary attempts, I will
merely say that they had their beginning on those
clear moonlit nights in the Summer Garden.
The stern Ukrainian muse long shunned my
*V. A. Zhukovsky (1783-1852), a prominent Russian poet of
the Romantic period, especially famous for his ballads. He was
tutor to the future Tsar, Alexander II.
70 SHEVTCHENKO
fancy, which had gone astray in the life at
school, in my master's ante-chamber, in houses
of call, and in town-lodgings. But when the
breath of freedom restored to my sentiments the
purity of my childhood spent beneath by father's
humble roof, she embraced and fondled me — all
thanks to her ! — in a foreign clime.
Of my early feeble attempts, written in the
Summer Garden, only the ballad *' Pritchinna "
has been printed. When and how I wrote the
subsequent verses I would now rather not dis-
cuss. The short history of my life which I have
indited as a favour to you in the present dis-
jointed narration has cost me more, I must
confess, than I would have expected. What a
succession of wasted years! And what have I,
through my endeavours, redeemed from destiny?
To survive with my bare life ! Or, at the most,
this terrible insight into my past. It is terrible,
all the more terrible for me, since my own
brothers and sisters — whom I could not bring it
upon myself to mention in my narrative — have
remained serfs to the present day. Yes, they are
serfs to the present day. I remain, etc.,
February 18, 1860. T.Shevtchenko.
POLISH :
W. GOMULICKI : THE PLOUGHMAN.
The scene I was gazing at looked like one of
Holbein's immortal sketches. A sketch forming
the nucleus of the cycle, '* The Dance of Death,"
representing an old villager who is ploughing the
hard soil at sunset, while death is urging on his
horse. My villager and his plough were like-
wise floundering along through the clayey soil,
and above them the invisible envoy of destruction
appeared to be creeping. . . . Only the landscape
was different. In Holbein's picture we see
clusters of shady trees, roofs of numerous dwel-
lings, picturesque bridle-paths, the turret of a
stone-built church, and, on the horizon, the
curving line of a mountain chain. A rich,
southern nature, full of diversity and solemnity.
The setting sun is beautiful and its beams are
extended fan-shaped over the horizon, sending
their shafts beyond the mountains and trees.
But the Mazurian plain was wearisome and
humdrum. The earth, as if it consisted of
72 W. GOMULICKI
widely spilt and somewhat crinkled waves,
stretched in a grey, boundless mass of clods to
the remotest line of the horizon. A narrow,
garnet-coloured strip of distant woods divided it
from the horizon which was also grey and only
at one spot, close above the wood, slightly tinged
with yellow. The j'ellow tinge was a sign that
somewhere yonder behind the ashy curtain of
clouds, the sun was dying away. The colouring
of the picture was so thin that it would have
been possible to paint the whole of it, including
the old man ploughing and his pair of lean horses,
with Indian ink or sepia, — in the style of those
old aquatints, upon which nature is represented
without colour, as if it were seen through a piece
of blackened glass. The soil, as far as the eye
could reach, was cut up into plots, and these
girdles, here and there zig-zag, ran lengthwise in
various directions, even as the fields differed one
from another. Some were completely black,
others a brownish red, others again were
brightening into a pale ashen colour, which sug-
gested the notion that into his Indian ink the
painter had been pouring more and more water.
Here and there stood, as if upon guard, a wild
pear-tree, isolated, mournful, silent. Here and
there the ground was a little hollowed out, and
in the cavity, which was clearly damp, grew
alders with glistening leaves. The largest
patches of green were formed by a few limes and
THE PLOUGHMAN 73
poplars, which served as a screen behind which
the village was concealed.
The existence of the village could be distin-
guished only by the senses of hearing and smell.
The wind, a cold evening wind, which rustled in
the dry grass and dishevelled the old plough-
man's long grey hair, bore sounds and scents
from sequestered human dwellings. There could
be heard the dull droning of the bass-viol which
was being played at the inn, and the sudden
" Ho " which burst from the throat of a tipsy
farm-hand. There could be smelt the sharp scent
of baked rape-seed and the penetrating odour of
coffee, which was being roasted in the kitchen at
the parsonage.
There all was joy and bustle, here sorrow and
dull silence prevailed. The old man looked as if
he were weighed down by the burden of a whole
century. His back was arched, his head drooped
to the ground, his nose was long, sharp and
crooked as the beak of an old falcon. His whole
bearing revealed the greatest feebleness and a
forcible dragging towards the earth. And the
earth seemed to be waiting impatiently for him,
alluring him like a siren to her black bosom,
reeking with dampness. From beneath his straw
hat emerged wisps of grey hair, matted and
resembling white ribbons. His projecting chin
was covered with the unshaven bristles of his
beard. His eyes and cheeks were hollow. His
74 W. GOMULICKI
temples, his face and his twisted neck were inter-
twined with a hundred wrinkles in a shapeless
net, like the zig-zag lines that a moth eats out on
the cover of an old book. At every jerk of the
horse, the old man staggered, as if he were fall-
ing. It was difficult to believe tfeat he was
guiding the plough. It might rather be said that
the plough was his support and that it was
dragging him after it. Every moment that the
horses stopped, the plough stopped also, and the
old man struggled with an evil-sounding cough.
His cough was curiously similar to the muffled
echo which can be heard when the nails are being
knocked into a coffin. But hardly had his cough
abated than the horses were plodding on again,
and the glistening iron cut its way into the earth,
throwing up black clods to the right and to the
left. The ploughman did not think of resting;
his gaze hovered from the earth to the horizon,
comparing the length of the paths which the
plough and the sun still had to traverse. His
powerful lips and toothless jaws were moving as
though they were chewing something up. He
chewed the words which broke heavily away from
his mouth. The whisper of his voice was carried
to me from time to time. The old man was say-
ing to himself : " My ears have grown deaf ; my
eyes have lost their sight. Merciful Jesus, have
pity on me. . . . My feet can no longer move, my
life is coming to an end. . . Merciful Jesus, have
compassion on me !"
THE PLOUGHMAN 75
This old man, reciting the litany of the dying,
was the one whom I had seen in the town a week
before. The district doctor, a surly man who
gave advice to the poor people from the window
of his carriage the while they stood on the pave-
ment with uncovered heads, remarked to him as
he wheezed at the smoke of a pipe : ''To your
coffin, gaffer, to your coffin, . . Look at him !
He's a hundred years old and still he wants to go
on living." But the old villager shook his white
head and wailed : " Ah, kind sir, ah ! "
When I now saw him at his work. I could not
help exclaiming : ''I see that vou've got well
again, gaffer, as you're following the plough."
He stood still, panted for breath, and said in a
voice that sounded as if it were coming out of a
well :
" Well again? I follow the plough because the
plot must be ploughed over for the winter
crop. . . now I'm ploughing about the last two
ridges . . . and that'll be the end of it."
" Do you hope to see the harvest?"
" Jesus preserve ! This very week they'll bury
me in the holy soil."
" How do you know that?"
He raised his eyebrows a little and silently
opened his lips, as if he were unusually surprised
at this question. Then he shook his head and
remarked with emphasis :
*' I know, and that's enough."
76 BOLESLAW PRUS
The horses dragged the plough and the old man
a few paces farther. And when the triple team
stopped afresh, I asked :
'* But if you do not expect the harvest, why are
you ploughing the field?"
This question, too, seemed to be unintelligible
to him.
" Why?" he answered in surprise. " Not for
myself, of course, but for those who will come
after me." And breaking off the conversation,
he started shouting at the horses to make them
turn to the new, and last strip of the field.
I took leave of the old man and went my way.
His words sank deep into my soul. I repeated
them to myself until the stars appeared in the
sky, and when, before falling asleep, I pondered
as ever, upon death, it seemed to me to be some-
thing as elusive and as untraceable as the merging
of one colour with another in a rainbow.
BOLESLAW PRUS : FROM THE LEGENDS
OF ANCIENT EGYPT.
Behold, how vain are human hopes before the
divspensation of the world ! Behold how vain
they are before the decrees which the Omnipotent
has inscribed with fiery signs upon the heavens.
The aged Rameses, the mighty ruler of Egypt,
FROM LEGENDS OF ANCIENT EGYPT 77
was on the point of death. On the breast of the
monarch, before whose voice millions had
trembled for half a century, had fallen a stifling
phantom which was draining the blood from his
heart, the strength from his arms, and, at
intervals, even the consciousness from his brain.
Like a fallen cedar the great Pharaoh lay upon the
skin of an Indian tiger, his feet covered with the
triumphal robe of the King of Ethiopia. And
stern even to himself, he summoned the wisest
physician from the temple at Carnac, and said :
" I know that thou art acquainted with potent
medicines, which either slay or heal forthwith.
Prepare one of them meet for my sickness, and
let me end at once . . . thus or otherwise."
The physician hesitated.
" Consider, O Rameses," he whispered, " that
from the moment of thy descending out of the
high heavens, the Nile has ebbed a hundred
times ; can I then administer to thee a medicine,
uncertain even for the youngest among thy
warriors?"
Rameses raised himself to a sitting posture
upon his couch.
" It must needs be that my sickness is great,"
he exclaimed, " since thou, O priest, makest bold
to bestow counsels upon me ! Be silent and ful-
fil what I have commanded. For Horus, my
thirty-year-old grandson and successor, is yet
alive; Egypt can have no other ruler, if he
ascend not the chariot and raise not the spear."
7
78 BOLESLAW PRUS
When the priest with trembling hand had
administered the dire medicine to him, Rameses
drank it, as one parched with thirst drinks a cup
of water; then he called unto him the most
renowned astrologer of Thebes, and commanded
him to relate what the stars revealed, without
dissembling aught.
" Saturn is in conjunction with the Moon,"
replied the sage, " and that betokens the death of
some member of thy dynasty, O Rameses. Thou
hast done ill in drinking the medicine to-day, for
empty are human plans before the decrees that
the Omnipotent inscribes upon the heavens."
" Of a surety, then, the stars have heralded my
death," returned Rameses. '' And when will it
be accomplished?" he asked, turning to the
physician.
'^ Before the setting of the sun, O Rameses,
either shalt thou be hale as a rhinoceros, or thy
holy ring will be upon the finger of Horus."
'' Lead Horus," said Rameses, with a voice
that was already growing weaker, " into the hall
of the Pharaohs; let him there await my last
words, and the ring, that there may not be even a
moment's surcease in the wielding of authority."
Horus began weeping (he had a heart full of
compassion) at his grandsire's approaching
death ; but that there might be no surcease in the
wielding of authority, he forthwith entered into
FROM LEGENDS OF ANCIENT EGYPT 79
the hall of the Pharaohs, surrounded by a great
company of servants.
He took his seat upon the gallery, the marble
steps of which extended downwards even to the
river, and, filled with unfathomable sorrows, he
gazed around him.
The moon, near which glimmered Saturn, the
star of evil portent, was just gilding the bronze-
coloured waters of the Nile, painted the shadows
of the huge pyramids upon pastures and gardens,
and lit up the whole valley for several miles
around. In spite of the lateness of the hour,
lamps were burning in huts and buildings, and
the populace came out from their homes beneath
the open sky. Upon the Nile, skiffs were moored
in dreams as closely as on a festive day ; in palm-
forests, on the shores above the water, in market-
places, in streets, and beside the palace of
Rameses, surged a countless throng. And in
spite of that, it was so still, that the rustle of
water-reeds and the plaintive howling of hyenas
in search of food, were borne to the ear of Horus.
" Wherefore are they gathered together in such
numbers?" Horus asked one of the courtiers, as
he pointed to the immeasurable rows of human
heads.
" They wish to hail thee as the new Pharaoh,
lord, and to hear from thy lips of the benefits
which thou hast ordained for them."
In this moment the prince's heart was smitten
80 BOLESLAW PKUS
for the first time with the pride of greatness, even
as the ocean, coursing forward, smites against a
steep shore.
" And what betoken yonder lights?" asked
Horns further.
" The priests have entered into the grave of
thy mother, Zefora, that they may bear her
mortal remains unto the catacombs of the
Pharaohs."
In the heart of Horus was aroused once again
grief for his mother, whose remains the grim
Rameses had buried amid the slaves because of
the mercy she displayed towards the slaves.
" I hear the neighing of horses," said Horus,
as he listened intently. " Who is riding forth at
this hour?"
'' The chamberlain, lord, has given orders to
make ready the envoys unto Jetron, thy pre-
ceptor."
Horus sighed at the recollection of his beloved
preceptor, whom Rameses had driven out of the
country for having inculcated into the soul of his
grandson and successor a loathing for wars, and
compassion for the downtrodden people.
" And yonder small light beyond the Nile?"
" By means of yonder small light, O Horus,"
replied the courtier, " faithful Berenice greets
thee from her cloistered captivity. The high
priest has already dispatched the vessel of the
Pharaohs for her; and when the sacred ring
FROM LEGENDS OF ANCIENT EGYPT 81
gleams upon thy finger, the massive doors of the
cloister will open, and, filled with yearning and
love, she will return unto thee."
Hearing these words, Horus asked naught
else ; he became silent and hid his eyes with his
hand.
Suddenly he gave a cry of pain.
*' What ails thee, O Horus?"
*' A bee has stung my foot," replied the prince,
growing pale.
By the greenish lustre of the moon, the courtier
gazed at his foot.
'^ Render thanks unto Osiris," he said, "that it
is not a spider, whose venom at this hour is wont
to be fatal."
O, how vain are human hopes, before the
unrelenting decrees. . .
At this moment a captain of the host entered,
and bowing down before Horus, he quoth thus :
*' The mighty Rameses, waiting until his body
shall grow cold, has dispatched me unto thee
with the command : Go unto Horus, for my
hours in the world are numbered, and fulfil his
desire, even as thou hast fulfilled mine. Even
though he command thee to surrender Upper
Egypt to the Ethiopians and to conclude a
brotherly alliance with these foes, accomplish it,
when thou beholdest my ring upon his finger;
for through the lips of rulers speaketh immortal
Osiris."
82 BOLESLAW PRUS
" I will not yield Egypt unto the Ethiopians "
spoke the prince, " But I will conclude peace, for
I am grieved by the blood of my people : write
forthwith an edict, and hold in readiness the
mounted envoys that, as soon as the first fires
blaze in my honour, they may speed hence in the
direction of the noonday sun, and bear goodwill
unto the Ethiopians. And write also a second
edict, that from this hour even unto the end of
time, no prisoner shall have his tongue torn from
his mouth upon the field of battle. Thus have I
spoken."
The captain fell upon his face, and thereupon
he withdrew to write the decrees; the prince,
however, urged the courtier to gaze afresh upon
his wound, for it sorely distressed him.
" Thy foot has swelled somewhat, O Horus,"
spoke the courtier. ''What would have happened,
if instead of a bee, a spider had stung thee V
The imperial chamberlain now entered into the
hall, and bowing down before the prince, he said :
" The mighty Rameses, perceiving that his
vision is growing dim, has dispatched me unto
thee with the command : Go unto Horus, and
fulfil his desire blindly. Even though he com-
mand thee to release the captives from their
chains and to bestow the whole earth upon the
people, do thou it, when thou observest the
Bacred ring upon his finger, for through the lips
of rulers speaketh immortal Osiris."
FEOM LEGENDS OF ANCIENT EGYPT 83
" My heart reacheth not so far," spoke Horus.
** But write forthwith an edict, whereby the
people's lease-rents and taxes shall be lowered by
a half, and the slaves shall have three days in the
week free from labour and they shall not be
scourged upon the back with a rod, unless the
judge issue a decree to that effect. Write yet
one more edict, recalling from banishment mj^
preceptor Jetron, who is the wisest and noblest
of the Egyptians. Thus have I spoken."
The chamberlain fell upon his face, but ere he
had time to withdraw for the engrossing of the
edicts, the high priest entered.
*' O Horus," he said, " at any moment the
mighty Kameses will depart unto the realm of
shadows, and Osiris will weigh his heart upon
the infallible balance. When, however, the holy
ring of the Pharaohs gleams upon thy finger,
utter thy commands, and I will obey thee, even
though thou shouldst have the miraculous shrine
of Ammon destroyed, for through the lips of
rulers speaketh immortal Osiris.'
" I will not lay waste," responded Horus,
" but a new shrine will I upraise and the priestly
treasury will I enlarge. I crave only, that thou
writest an edict concerning the solemn transfer-
ence of the mortal remains of my mother Zefora
unto the catacombs, and a second edict. . . con-
cerning the liberation of Berenice the beloved
from her cloistered captivity. Thus have I
spoken."
84 BOLESLAW PRUS
^' Wisely dost thou begin/' replied the high
priest. " For the fulfilling of these behests all
is even now made ready, and the edicts will I
engross forthwith ; when thou touchest them with
the ring of the Pharaohs, lo, I will enkindle this
lamp, that it may proclaim favour unto the
people, and to thy Berenice freedom and love."
The wisest physician from Carnac entered.
" O Horus," he said, ^' I marvel not at thy
pallor, for Rameses, thy grandsire, is even now
breathing his last. He was not able to bear the
potency of the medicine, which I was not fain to
administer unto him, that monarch of monarchs.
With him, therefore, is left only the deputy of the
high priest, that, when he dies, the sacred ring
may be removed from his finger and bestowed
upon thee as a token of unbounded authority.
But thou growest ever paler and paler, O
Horus," he added.
'' Gaze upon my foot," moaned Horus, and he
fell upon the golden chair, the supports of which
were carved in the shape of hawks' heads.
The physician bent down^ gazed at the foot,
and drew back horror-stricken.
" O Horus," he whispered, " an exceedingly
venomous spider has stung thee."
" Am I doomed to death? At such a moment?"
asked Horus, with a scarcely audible voice.
And later he added :
'' Can that come to pass swiftly? Let me hear
the truth. . . "
FROM LEGENDS OF ANCIENT EGYPT 85
" Ere the moon is hidden behind yonder palm-
tree. . . ''
" Verily? And Rameses will live long yet?"
'' I know not. . . It may be that they are already
bearing his ring unto thee."
At this moment the ministers entered with
the edicts made ready.
'' Chamberlain," cried Horns, clutching at his
hand, '' if I should die forthwith, wouldst thou
fulfil my commands?"
" Mayst thou live, O Horus, unto thy grand -
sire's age !" answered the chamberlain. '^ But if
straightway after him thou wert to stand before
the judgment of Osiris, thine every edict should
be accomplished, if only thou touch it with the
sacred ring of the Pharaohs."
'' The ring!" repeated Horus, " But where is
it?"
" One there was among the courtiers," whis-
pered the captain of the host, " who told me that
mighty Rameses is even now breathing his last."
'^ I have sent unto my deputy," added the high
priest, " that so soon the heart of Rameses cease
to beat, he shall remove the ring."
*' I thank you," said Horus. '' I am sorely
stricken . . . ah, how sorely. But nevertheless I
shall not utterly perish. I shall bequeath bless-
ing, peace, happiness unto the people, and . . .
my Berenice will regain freedom. . . Will it be
long now?" he asked of the physician.
86 BOLESLAW PRUS
^' Death is a thousand military paces from
thee," replied the physician, sadly.
" Hear ye naught? Is there none who comes
from thence?" spoke Horus.
Silence.
The moon was drawing nigh unto the palm-
tree and was already touching its foremost
leaves; the finely crunched sand was softly
rustling in the water-clocks.
'' Is it afar off? " whispered Horus.
" Eight hundred paces," replied the physician.
" I know not, O Horus, whether it will be thine
to touch all the edicts with the sacred ring, even
though they bear them unto thee straightway."
" Give the edicts unto me," said Horus,
hearkening whether any came running from the
apartments of Rameses. " And thou, O priest,"
and he turned to the physician, '' give word, how
much of life is yet vouchsafed me, that I may be
able to confirm at least the most precious of my
behests."
" Six hundred paces," whispered the phy-
sician.
The edict concerning the lowering of rents for
the people and of labour for the slaves, fell from
the hands of Horus on to the ground.
" Five hundred. . ."
The edict concerning peace with the Ethiopians
slipped from the prince's knees.
" Is there none who comes?"
FROM LEGENDS OF ANCIENT EGYPT 87
" Four hundred," replied the physician.
Horus sank into pondering, and . . . the decree
concerning the mortal remains of Zefora fell.
^' Three hundred ..."
The same fate befel the edict concerning the
recall of Jetron from banishment.
*' Two hundred. . ."
The lips of Horus grew livid. With clenched
hand he flung to the ground the edict by which
the tongues of prisoners taken into captivity
were not to be torn out, and there remained
only . . . the decree for the liberation of Berenice.
** A hundred. . ."
Amid the deathly stillness could be heard the
clatter of sandals. Into the hall the high priest's
deputy came running. Horus stretched forth his
hand.
*' A miracle," cried the newcomer. '^ Mighty
Rameses has regained his health ... he has risen
up alertly from his couch and at sunrise he
desires to ride forth for lions. . . Thee, however,
O Horus, as a token of favour, he summons to
accompany him. . ."
'^ Dost thou not answer, O Horus?" questioned
the envoy of Rameses, marvelling.
'' Seest thou not that he has died?" whispered
the wisest physician of Carnac.
Behold now, how vain are human hopes before
the decrees which the Omnipotent has inscribed
with fiery signs upon the heavens.
88 STANISLAW PRZYBYSZEWSKI
STANISLAW PRZYBYSZEWSKI : CHOPIN.
The Polish soul found its deepest utterance in
one of the most astonishing artists of all time, —
in Frederic Chopin.
The word is really a relic of the earliest
articulate expression of the souPs vitality. The
word is, as it were, a well-worn current meta-
phor, whose original sense we have lost. Who
stops to reflect upon the huge spiritual sound-
value of the word '^ mother," of all the long-
drawn-out combinations of sound and melody,
from which a purely verbal unit has arisen,
which possibly admits of wide gradations of feel-
ing, but has lost its original sound-value? I
imagine that, originally, words were sung and
thus in sound and melody could reproduce their
whole emotional contents. With the loss of its
sound value, the word has by no means lost its
emotional value, but this has become deposited,
has, so to speak, separated itself from the word,
and has created in music its own form of being,
independent from the word.
And thus it comes about, that the innermost
spiritual development of a nation can be investi-
CHOPIN 89
gated only in its music. And every nation
possesses a specific tone, to which its whole spirit
is attuned. This tone is quite different in the
soul of the Germanic or Latin peoples, and a
quite peculiar one, entirely different from every
other, among the Slavonic peoples.
To grasp the specific value of this mysterious
tone in its whole range, to possess the power of
harmonically attuning all other tones to this
basic dominant, — herein lies the power of every
artist and, at the same time, is afforded the
standard as to how far an artist belongs to his
own race or not.
This tone is the rudimentary and the earliest
unity in the spiritual shaping of each nation.
It is a kind of nucleus around which all the other
ingredients of that nation are deposited, around
which they oscillate and harden to an organic
body. This fundamental tone affects all feelings,
all impressions, and all development with a pitch
peculiar to itself, and with its vivifying sap it
saturates and strengthens all spiritual processes.
And hence it comes about that the soul of every
nation is mirrored at its purest and at its
strongest in music, and it is far easier to grasp
the peculiar spiritual qualities of a nation in its
music than in the word.
And the tone, to which the spirit of the Pole
is attuned, is not a casual phenomenon, — it is
the music of his blood, it is his breath, it is the
90 STANISLAW PRZYBYSZEWSKI
quality of his eye, which is f ocussed for the distant
sky-line of broad, lonely plains, it is the organic
peculiarity of his larynx which fashioned for
itself sounds unknown to the languages of other
nations, it is the sighing and moaning of his
earth and the music made by the courses of his
streams and the rhythm to which the waves upon
his lakes are stirred, and the monotone psalmody
of autumn rain when with dismal insistence it
beats against oozing windows.
And this fundamental tone of the Polish soul,
such as is revealed at its purest in Polish folk-
music, but which has at its disposal only a scanty
gamut of a few notes, throve in Chopin's soul to
a gigantic blossom of unspeakable beauty and
loftiest majesty.
The foreign sound of his name appears to be
only a matter of chance, an unpleasant misunder-
standing, for it is preciseh' in Chopin that the
Polish folk- spirit celebrates its holiest Ascension
Day. Chopin's soul is inseparably united with
the soul of the entire Polish race by a sacrament
of indissoluble vows. With Mickiewicz he could
declare as a seer that the soul of the entire race
was embodied in his, that he and the race were
an inseparable unity, and in sooth, Poland*
could not have found a sublimer bridegroom than
Chopin.
*Polska, the word in the original, is feminine.
CHOPIN 91
And before Chopin we stand faced by an
astounding riddle. Catholic hagiographj asserts
that Providence selects certain individuals whom
it burdens with a surfeit of the most fearful
torments, in order that they may do penance for
the sins committed by all mankind, the measure
of whose sins they thus cancel by their own
martyrdom. These individuals are the martyrs
chosen by God, and through their torments his
unfathomable plans and judgments are accom-
plished. And all their griefs, all their torments
are of no account in view of the expiation that is
achieved.
Something analogous was accomplished in
Chopin's soul ; his whole external life is of no
account in comparison with the holy mission
which he was to fulfil : To reveal to the entire
world the genius of a whole nation in all its
exalted power which was incarnate within him.
And df we think of' Chopin we may fittingly
forget that he existed as a separate entity. But
on the other hand we must bow down low before
the holy revelation of the Polish soul, whose
symbolic revelation was accomplished in Chopin.
Chopin, I repeat, was the envoy whom the soul
of the nation had anointed and sent forth in
order that he might announce its glory and its
power. And thus it is to be understood that
Chopin can be regarded as the classical example
of a mighty artist, who, overladen with riches,
92 STANISLAW PRZYBYSZEWSKI
needed to do nothing else but with lavish hands
to scatter teeming treasures about him, —
treasures which the soul of the nation had
hoarded in his soul for centuries.
And Chopin died neither too earl}- nor too
late ; in this brief individual life the entire folk-
soul was enabled to give itself complete utterance
in richer measure than almost any other.
Indeed, there is hardly another artist, the events
of whose life are of so little interest as in the case
of Chopin. He is revelation and symbol. And
the centre of equilibrium around which every
happening in his soul oscillates, that is the land
which bore him, the land with its sadness and its
quiet melancholy rapture, its sombre tragicness
and its blood-red destiny, the land, an isle
yearned for with the greater anguish, as it
slipped away in ever remoter perspectives and
began to vanish from the gaze, the promised land
upon which all yearning and striving centred,
and which might never again be viewed with
one's own eyes — the land, not as an ordinary
reality, but rather as a Platonic anamnesis; in
a distant memory which was coloured with a
deeper flush, the greater the longing for it which
set the heart of the gazer aquiver.
Ever again, throughout his immortal work, is
the flaming vision of that land, which in the
words of the poet Ujejski, ** by day attires itself
in kingly splendour and in the night oozes with
OHOPIN 93
blood," of that land, of which Pope Paul V. said,
when a Polish delegation asked him for relics of
saints : " Take a morsel of your earth — that
in itself is a relic, for it is soaked with the blood
of the holiest martyrs !"
And how fervently must Chopin have loved
that land, when he always carried at his breast a
fragment of it, carefully sewn up in a small
wallet.
Before our eyes the broad-boughed willows
ascend from the patches of autumn mist by those
waysides, where crouch misery and sadness,
aflfliction and sorest distress, and the memory of
griefs for which the source of tears has dried,
and heavy languishing ... all this for sunken
splendour, for unavailing sacrifices, for battles
which were not fought out . . .
And in the sallow moonlight the cross-roads
are ghastly with the wide-opened arms of crosses,
the swamps are haunted by the flickering souls
of the damned, around stretch the bare fields of
stubble, and in the slender poplars which form
the framework of some isolated grave, the wind
sings the dismal ballad of the mistress who slew
the master ; from the bottom of an abysmal lake
the sprites arise and sing treacherous and allur-
ing melodies, and, enticed by the flickering will-
o'-the-wisp, man ventures on to broad fen-lands,
upon which he shall find his mournful grave.
94 STANISLAW PEZYBYSZEWSKI
Love for this land throve in Chopin's sonl, till
it became his most exalted creed, and thus it is,
that a foreign nation cannot understand him,
even in the remotest, as the Pole does — to the
subtlest, the most fervent vibrations in Chopin's
soul, the foreigner is deaf, precisely where the
strongest echo is engendered in the Polish spirit.
In the specific tone of the Polish soul, of which
I spoke at the beginning, and which the folk-
song has preserved in all its maiden purity, in
the dance-tunes of the Polish people, in their
hymns, that infinitely melancholy sing-song m
an undertone, that grievous psalmody of yearn-
ing— therein lies deeply buried the root of
Chopin's creative power.
And Chopin took from the hand of the Polish
peasant the fiddle carved from the bark of the
lime-tree — but this instrument proved too scant ;
how could it encompass all those things in the
soul of the people with which the organ -music
of the village churches has become inseparably
united, and the sobbing of the flute which was
carved from the spring- tide branches of the
willow, the groaning of the cellos, and the
whining of the bag-pipes?
In his soul Chopin collected all those things
which the people have wept about, have sung of
in the deep grief of despair, have bewailed, and
for which the g, d, a, e of the violin cannot
CHOPIN 95
suffice. So he fashioned for himself an
instrument which, in reality, has no name.
For Chopin's piano is something quite different
from that of a Bach, a Mozart or a Beethoven.
His piano is really not a tool prepared for the
transmission of sounds; it is the profound, the
impalpable, the spontaneous projection, astonish-
ing in its infinite range, of Chopin's soul, of that
mysterious synthesis in sound of the whole
nation's most actual entity. In his piano Chopin
was able to give this entire soul palpable shape,
to span its subtlest fibres as strings, and to
bestow upon them such power and scope of
utterance that they could replace a whole
orchestra and in their compass express the most
secret emotions of the soul which the brain itself
cannot grasp.
Chopin did not need to create orchestral works
— his piano is an orchestra in itself ; is violin and
cello together, is organ and flute and bagpipes, a
hunting-horn and the trumpet of the insurgent.
And then, upon this instrument so peculiarly
his own, which he himself h^d fashioned, he
created in sounds the great secret of his nation's
soul, and thus he became its profoundest
interpreter and its clairvoyant herald.
But he did not forget what he owed to the
original, naive folk- tunes; for the deepest
impressions of his own soul he clad in the form
96 STANISLAW PRZYBYSZEWSKI
of the Mazurek,* and within the compass of
these few primordial notes the mighty artist
aroused the Polish soul from its very depths to
a potent and sorrowful vitality. The frame
within which I am dealing with the most
significant revelations of the Polish spirit, does
not permit me to enter upon a thorough analysis
of Chopin's production. I will draw attention
only to those works in which the Chopin-race, the
Chopin-land attain their clearest utterance.
And among these, one of the most significant
seems to me, Mazurek Op. 41, No. 1.
Maestoso.
A calm, twilight state of dream, now and then
stirred by an upheaval of the soul — pining
melancholy of endless plains, straying of weary
fingers on the great celestial harp of joy- sated
woe, and suddenly, like a gust of wind, of which
none can say whence it comes, an abrupt cry,
half a triumphal shout, half a moaning gasp,
which stifles the deep sorrow concealed some-
where beneath.
Dance, my soul, dance !
And God knows whence came this wild joy, this
craving for mighty gratification reaching from
one end of the earth to the other ; of themselves
the feet stamp to the rhythm of a crazed dance,
*Mazurek is something quite different from Mazurka. Chopin's
Mazurek is not to be confused with the dance-tune of the
Mazurka.
CHOPIN 97
wild sounds burst louder and louder from the
throat, the dance-tune rages in eddying leaps, in
a rumbling bass — but this morbid wish to daze
the senses is in vain, cowering grief creeps forth
guilefully, slowly in an indistinct, dusk- shrouded
memory.
And at once, at the same time, the hands are
folded in devout contrition, a prayer arises, a
fervid cry for grace and forgiveness — the turmoil
is still astir, but already it is dying away as the
wearied head despairingly sways to and fro, while
the arms droop powerlessly and the soul is sunk
in dull brooding. And only a grievous sob, only
a vague, dream-caught louring .... a
fading rustle of the wind in the bare fields of
stubble.
And again that crazed dance !
In defiance and scorn of God and the devil !
The breast heaves, that it seems about to burst,
the throat grows hoarse, the soul stiffens in wild
passion — but now it is the last great shout that
must be dragged forth. And then the great
moment of release. Not one shout, but a whole
cascade of shouts are released foaming into the
depths in mighty octaves — they pour down, wane,
trickle away, perish in humble, abject self-
surrender to the abysmal powers, disclosing the
most secret depths of the Polish soul.
A single, penitent, breast-beating '' Thy will
be done, O Lord ! "
98 STANISLAW PRZYBYSZEWSKI
Yea and amen !
Into sleep, the deep sleep of calmness and
release.
And with this evening hymn of the soul, which
is scourged to death by vital anguish and vital
torment, ends not only this mazurek ; we find it
again everywhere — in the impromptus, the
preludes, and, wonderfully beautiful in the
mazurek in F flat minor.
It is in the mazurek that Chopin has reproduced
not only the tone of his nation, but, at the same
time, the tone of his own soul. He himself
designated this primordial tone by the
untranslatable word '' Zal " ;* a feeling of grief
and melancholy, united with the past memory
of things on which the heart dotes and which are
no more ; an unappeasable, perpetual yearning
which gnaws at the soul, a perpetual enforced
memory of something unattainable, a hopeless
dreaming of a distant home which shall never
again be seen, of people, who never again will
be met, a brooding over sunken splendour, over
vanished beauty of happiness and joy which
gladdened life in bygone days.
It is as though Chopin had dispatched his
astral body from abroad into his own country,
and now hearkened intently in sorrowful
yearning for the secret tidings from afar.
*Z is pronounced like a French j.
CHOPIN 99
A sorrowfully intent listening for something
close and yet so endlessly distant, a brooding
recollection of memories which escape and blurr,
a gnawing pang of desire to experience them all
once again in the glowing fullness of life, and the
awareness of disconsolate impotence in the face
of the impossible — all this and perhaps much else
may well be what the specific tone of Chopin's
soul, the sublimest revelation of the entire folk-
soul, this '' Zal " expresses.
And indeed, it could not be otherwise.
For this tone, which predominates so para-
mountly in the whole of Chopin's music, is not
the tone of a nation who in revelry spend days of
resplendent glory, sated with triumphs and proud
of their empire, extending from one ocean to the
other, nor is it that same nation's tone of drunken
delirium, when in gluttony and a raving need for
intoxication they steeped their senses in drunken-
ness and brought upon themselves the disgrace
of Targowica* — no! It is that heroic over-
whelming tone of martyrdom, which upon the
deadly field of Maciejowicef sobbed for mercy
in crazed prayers, the tone of despair, whose
death-rattle resounds amid throes of torment,
filled with the breath of revolt and curses and
revilings and shrill outcry to God : " O thou,
•Confederation of Targowica, at which the last Polish King
agreed to the first partition of Poland.
tAt the end of the first Polish revolt.
100 STANISLAW PRZYBYSZEWSKI
who through so many centuries hast arrayed
Poland in splendour and glory ! "* — the despair-
ing outcry to which God remained deaf — a
screech of the nation which breathed its last in
deadly combat upon the ramparts of
Pragaf • • •
And so it came about that all revelations of
Chopin's soul are clad in this sore " Zal," beset
by the din aroused by shouts of damnation, by
blasphemy and by that venturesome defiance
which does not shrink from calling God Himself
into the lists — and, if there is still the flash of a
smile anywhere, it is that tortured smile of the
Spartan youth who stole the fox. The fox its
wrenching wounds in his naiked flesh, but he
durst not betray his pain : he laughs on — and of
such woeful, serene and tortured laughter only
Chopin was capable.
But amid this eternal wrath, in this sombre
night of despair, in this unbounded yearning and
incessant grappling with grief and torment, the
breath at length failed. A hellish spectre
afflicted the breast . . " Release ! Release ! "
cried the wounded heart.
And then Chopin's wounded soul conjured up
•First line of the Polish National H)min.
tA suburb of Warsaw, where in 1831 the Russians perpetrated
a massacre of the most inhuman description. More than 12,000
people — men, women and children — were slaughtered without
mercy.
CHOPIN 101
the flaming vision of Poland, of a Poland which
had broken its coffin, has arisen from the tomb
and now arises in the purple pomp of triumph,
in the ermine of a majestic potency ; Poland, the
bulwark of Christendom ; Poland, the holy refuge
of every freedom, the Poland of primates,
magnates, senators, mighty dukes and of the
choicest chivalry in the whole world.
And from their battle-graves have arisen those
who fell at Grunwald in bitterest contest with the
Knights of the Cross, and those who in a holy
death-ride against the Turks rallied round Ladis-
law Warnenczyk, that heroic scion of the
Jagellons, and those whose bones rotted upon the
Kahlenberg at the relief of Vienna . . . the kings
broke the seal of sarcophagus, the cardinals, the
magnates, and the rulers arose from their vaults
and grouped themselves in a huge procession,
and at their head in triumphant majesty, the
king of kings, the '' King- Spirit,"* which had
embodied itself in the Polish people.
And before our eyes is set astir like an un-
fettered storm-blast, like a shiattering hurricane,
the proud lion-brood of steel -armoured heroes,
that chosen band of Polish hussars with silver
wings drooping low from their arms, — but
grievously blares forth the battle-trumpet which
calls them to the heroic dance of death, and at the
*One of Slowacki's sublimest poetical works.
102 STANISLAW PRZYBYSZEWSKI
heart clutches a misgiving that all this is a
dream within a dream, all long since forgotten
splendour — but only now and then, for above
everything that omnipotent vision still prevails :
that solemn, majestic, triumphal march of such
lordly greatness and proud gravity, of such sub-
limity, that there is nothing with w^hich it can be
compared.
The polonaise in A flat major is an over-
whelming and truly exalted '' Danse macabre'^
of that nation which, ever afresh, was condemned
to death, and ever afresh broke the coffin-lid —
and this, its magnificent clinging to life, its
uniquely stubborn affirmation of life, has no-
where been revealed in Polish art <so potently, so
grimly, and so majestically as in this heroic
dance.
Schumann wrote of Chopin's mazureks, that if
the ruler of the north knew what foes he had in
these modest melodies, he would infallibly forbid
this music; — what, then, shall be said of this
polonaise in A flat major, which signifies a
thunderous, stubborn, unyielding manifesto of
those who will not allow themselves to be buried
alive?
And there came that time when the soul of the
mighty seer surged up amid the martyrdom of his
nation to the power of one who could compare
himself with God and with frenzied hands beats
upon the portals of destiny with the despairing
CHOPIN 103
cry : '' Wherefore? Wherefore? Eli, eli, lama
sabachthani? Wherefore hast thou forsaken me,
O Lord?"
And such a thrilling " Eli, eli, lama sabach-
thani? " is the most potent expression which
nation ever had found for its despairing grief :
Chopin's polonaise in F sharp minor.
With what could it be compared?
In the whole of Polish art, surpassingly rich as
it is, I am unable to find any adequate equiva-
lent. In power of clairvoyant impulse, inspira-
tion now forcibly detached from all that is
sensual, it is certainly on the same level as the
" Improvisation " of Mickiewicz, but it rises
above what is egotistic in this poem, and in
artistic strength it surpasses by far the national
work of the Polish painter Grottger. . . But
perhaps something akin to it might be perceived
in Matejko's picture, '' Rejtan."*
Eejtan, flung down by frenzied torment,
stretched headlong upon the threshold of the
assembly-hall, is lying on his back; with his
sharp nails he is dragging his shirt from his
breast, and is clamouring for his heart to be torn
out, that he may not survive the disgrace of
Poland's partition. . .
The same strength of grief, the same over-
*This picture represents the one man who protested against
the first partition of Poland.
104 STANISLAW PRZYBYSZEWSKI
whelming exertion of all spiritual power as in
Rejtan's protest upon the picture by Matejko,
pulsates towards us in the dreadful " Where-
fore?" of Chopin's polonaise in F sharp minor.
And once again, more mightily, more menac-
ingly, the same question. As if prepared for a
murderous leap, the panting Wherefore crouches
— till at last it is let loose in a hurricane of
shrieks, in a blood-red, seething question :
^' Wherefore hast thou deserted us, O Lord?"
Silence. (
There is no answer.
Man has recourse to his own self. And from
his soul issues an omnipotent, solemn chant; it
resounds with an amplitude of strength endowed
by the sure knowledge that it is a match for its
destiny; it strides onwards with the conscious
surety that it can now solve any secret whatso-
ever and gazes boldly and unterrified into the
spectral eyes of the sphinx. But not for long, —
already man shudders, dread and anguish are
arising within him; he had desired to tear all
seals asunder, and they lie untouched before him.
Life has not ceased to be a riddle, nor has death
lost its sting, and again man sighs amid moans
of torment : " Wherefore?"
And his breast is rended by an uncanny
sobbing, the despairing death-rattle of the dying,
who no longer mourn for life, but curse destiny
because they cannot fight on. And by a super-
CHOPIN 105
human effort of will they drag themselves from
the ground afresh, and afresh they make an
onslaught upon the gates of the lost paradise;
but it endures not for long; with a gruesome
shriek of pain this desperate fit of wrath ebbs
away.
And from afar there comes a sound like the
confused din of battle, — muffled roaring of
cannon, the clatter of fire-arms, the rumble of
the earth beneath the hoofs of raging horses, —
prayers for the dying can be heard, beseeching
pleas to the guider of battles, the chaos and the
anguish and the wrath of the fight move farther
and farther away ; then suddenly, from the savage
brawling of battle, the crazed raging of the fight,
the perishing prayers, the mad pleas of dying
heroes for release by death, like a holy, mystic
rose, there blossoms a mysterious mazurek, in
which the genius of Chopin has revealed the
whole sorely profound death-poetry of his nation
with incredible creative strength.
From all the tender, naive and yet so infinitely
subtle songs of the Polish lancers, the discon-
solate folk-songs after the collapse of the
revolution of 1831, from all the scantily-tuned
but all the more richly laden chants of many a
long since forgotten Tyrtaeus, who with the
primordial tone of the Polish soul, the mazurek,*
*The most popular national song, " Poland is not yet lost," is
a mazurek.
106 STANISLAW PRZYBYSZEWSKI
urged on the nation to battle, Chopin created in
this one mazurek of the polonaise in F sharp
minor, incomparable in the power of its inven-
tion, an immortal, a heaven -storming song of
songs.
But all this is but a dream — all the more
terrible the awakening. Afresh begins the
sombre " Missa desperationis " which, in a *' Ite,
missa est " degenerates into a raging orgasm of
despair. The end of these epic events, the most
grievous that ever heroic race passed through in
superhuman distress, is only the dying sigh of a
sorrow which has already passed beyond the
bounds of sorrowful emotion, — a sorrow beyond
anj' human conception of torment.
And it seemed that all had now sunk to rest,
all had now died away, that the last coffin was
now borne out from the dead-house. . . . And
then suddenly a fearful, piercing shriek, like the
dire thunder of the Last Judgment. This final
F, beneath which Chopin's trembling hand in its
visionary rapture of creation had written a four-
fold forte, is one of the strangest riddles in his
work.
This abrupt and horrible shriek, which sets the
hair on end, — is it the last outcrj' of a breaking
heart, or a convulsive summons to a fresh
contest?
It might appear that Chopin's soul had, in the
polonaise in F sharp minor, contriA'^ed to utter
CHOPIN 107
its profoundest grief, that this polonaise
expresses the extreme pitch of despairing struggle
on the part of a nation begirt with bonds and
fetters. But no! This polonaise seems only a
prelude to the sonata in B flat minor, that
Niagara of omnipotent suffering, which from
heaven -projected heights dashes into the depths,
and with a flaming geyser of despair lashes the
very vault of heaven to pieces.
The rhythm of the first part is the raging pace
of a stallion of hell bespattered with bloody
froth, tearing across graves and fields of corpses,
and upon its back carrying a mad horseman, an
ill-starred herald of defeat and collapse. A
vision of apocalyptic riders, of fire, of pestilence,
of famine, of murderous orgies and open
graves. . . .
The rhythm of this part represents the mood
of the terror-stricken nation who, upon the ram-
parts where it has wandered to rejoice at the
certain victory below in the plain, now in the face
of defeat, surges back in a panic to the city,
throngs the streets to overflowing, is crushed to
death in the open squares, bursts the walls of
churches, ends with a crazed stammering of de-
spairing prayers, in the sobbing and groaning of
helpless torment
Only now and then a lurking stillness, as if
invisible hands were uplifting the holy mon-
108 STANISLAW PKZYBYSZEWSKI
strance above the whole nation and the whole
globe, but only for an instant, — once more a pall
of deadly anguish heaves across the whole sky,
the air thrills with shrieks of the slain and the
murdered, and above the city pillars of fire blaze
high up in a tornado, burst in the middle, writhe
along the ground, and with greedy tongues of
flame lick up pools of blood.
But yet one more, yet the last hope has clutched
the nation's heart :
Like a blast of wind the noblest troop of heroes
rages across the field of fhe dead, that sparks are
set aflash beneath the hoofs, that the earth
quivers, and the whole atmosphere re-echoes with
a wild trumpet-blare of victory, but a prophetical
chant of ill-omen forebodes no victory. Through
the sorrowful psalmody of the scherzo the
approaching trample of horses can be heard afar
off, — and somewhere afar off a final, a bloody
contest is panting, an indistinct echo from the
heroic troop's dance of death resounds softly
across, — the troop which had wedged itself into
the superior numbers of the enemy and at the
cross-roads of the nation, which has wandered
from the track, which has fallen a prey to des-
truction, which is doomed to ruin, its soul sobs
and laments.
And now the boom of heavy bells, but not
those which in Beethoven, with impressive,
majestical solemnity, hail the victorious hero
CHOPIN 109
upon the threshold of an immortal Walhalla, but
those despairing, those uncalmable in their grief,
those dull and anguished, when mourners cast
a handful of earth upon the coffin, and from the
spades of the grave-diggers the black, blood-
soaked earth sinks into the dark pit.
The kingdom of earth has been entwined with
heaven by invisible strings, invisible hands are
straying mournfullj' upon this celestial harp,
and they weep and lament with the woeful moan-
ing of those daughters of Jerusalem, to whom
the Redeemer exclaimed in supremest scorn of
death. '^ Weep not for me, but for you and your
children " — and yet they weep and lament,
despondently, not divining that the tomb will
open and from the dark vault, the spirit of the
nation in new splendour and victorious magnifi-
cence, will soar aloft to a new life.
For the grave could not be filled in, — endlessly,
endlessly, masses of earth, soaked by holy blood
of martyrs, rolled upon the coffin, and yet the
grave remained open, — the lid of the coffin
trembles, quivers, opens, burst by the giant
breast, which is still alive and teeming with
strength, — and the bells boom and boom, flung to
and fro by the tempest of vengeance, of requital,
of a distant hope fervid with victory.
The contest which has long since ebbed away
upon earth, is continued somewhere in super-
earthly spaces in a savage hurricane, which may
9
110 STANISLAW PKZYBYSZEWSKI
well have once heralded the entire creation, and
the chaos of the finale which really signifies a
prelude, seems to give birth to new stars.
Above the frowning abyss of despair, above the
dark streams of tears and blood, above the broad-
boughed willows, which weep by the graves of
heroes and enclose an immeasurable graveyard,
the king- spirit of the nation whose gaze is fixed
rigidly upon its resurrection, gloomily broods in
proud and sombre power.
Every paraphrase whatsoever of Chopin's work
would, I clearly realise, be meaningless, if it
were a question of emphasising its beauty and
greatness, — my only object, when I ventured to
transpose Chopin's tone into words, was to
extract therefrom the true primordial tone of the
Polish soul which has become embodied in
Chopin's music. . . .
In Chopin's music the foreigner will gain the
clearest insight into the most significant factor
of Polish culture.
The astonishing synthesis of the subtlest cul-
ture of the West with the infinitely profound
emotional culture of the Slav. Synthesis of the
eminent spiritual culture, which centuries had
built up, with the sublime culture of the heart,
which to this degree is peculiar only to the Slav ;
a culture of the heart, which is so saturated with
profoundest, darkest emotional excess, that it is
sometimes lost in the dusk of mystical ascensions,
IN THE OLD TOWN AT LODZ 111
venturing so far out in the super-earthly
distances of Messianic yearning, that its actual
value as culture is almost lost sight of, and it
becomes a veritable religion.
W. S. REYMONT : IN THE OLD TOWN AT
LODZ.
Lower down, behind the New Market Square,
it teemed with Jews and workmen hurrjing
towards the Old Town. At this spot, the Piotro-
kow Street changed its aspect and character for
the third time, for from Gajer Market to Nawrot
it is a street of factories, from Nawrot to the New
Market Square a business thoroughfare, and
from thence downwards into the Old Town, it is
taken up by Jewish second-hand dealers.
Here the mud was blacker and slimier, there
w^as a different kind of pavement in front of each
house, sometimes it consisted of broad stonework,
then a narrow, worn-out strip of concrete, or it
became merely a series of tiny, mudstained
cobbles which were a torment to the foot. The
gutters flowed with liquid refuse from the fac-
tories, and this extended in the form of dirty-
yellow, red and sky-blue ribbons; from some
112 W. S. REYMONT
houses and the factories, which lay behind them,
the overflow was so copious that, unable to find
room in the shallow gutters, it rose above the
kerb and flooded the pavements with coloured
waves, even up to the worn thresholds of
numerous little shops, from whose black, miry
interiors was wafted dirt and decay, the smell of
herrings, of rotting vegetables or of alcohol.
The houses which were old, tumble-down,
dingy, with the plaster crumbling in gaps like
wounds, with bare brickwork, here and there of
wood or with common panelling, cracking and
slipping away by the doors and windows, at the
crooked edges of the window -sashes, twisted,
jaded, dirty, stood like a ghastly row of corpse-
houses, amongst which new ones were thrusting
themselves, — three- storied giants with countless
windows, not yet whitewashed, without bal-
conies, with makeshift windows, an^ already full
of human antheaps, and the throb of the spinning
looms, which worked regardless of Sunday, the
rattle of noisy machines, weaving shoddy for
export, and the piercing creak of spindles by
which the yarn was wound on to bobbins for the
use of the hand-looms.
In front of these endless houses, which rose up
with their red and frowning walls above the
ocean of perishing ruins and bustle of hucksters,
lay whole stacks of bricks and wood, blocking up
the already narrow street, which swarmed with
IN THE OLD TOWN AT LODZ 113
carts, horses, with goods in transport, with
uproar, with the cries of dealers and the
thousand-fold voices of workmen, who were pour-
ing along in multitudes to the Old Town ; they
walked in the middle of the road or by the side
of the pavement; their many-coloured shawls
which they had twisted about their necks, lent a
touch of brightness to the general grey-grimy tint
of the street.
The Old Town and all the little streets round
about, quivered with the usual Sunday bustle.
On the rectangular space, flanked by old, one-
storeyed houses which had never been renovated,
and full of shops, taverns and so-called Bierhal-
len, littered with hundreds of hideous bootns
and stalls, there thronged several thousand
people, hundreds of carts and horses — the whole
a mingled shouting, talking, cursing, pushing.
This shrieking chaos was surging from one side
of the square to the other. Above this tangle
of heads, dishevelled hair, upraised arms, horses'
heads, butchers' axes flashing swiftly in the sun-
shine, as they were lifted above the hacked joints
of meat, huge loaves of bread, which the jostle
of the crowd had raised above the heads, yellow,
green, red, violet scarves fluttering like banners
from the clothing- stalls; caps and hats hanging
on poles, boots, woollen shawls, which, like
coloured snakes fluttered in the wind and beat
against the faces of the crowd; tin vessels
114 W. S. REYMONT
glittering in the sunshine ; piles of ba€on, stacks
of oranges, arranged on trestles, balloons, shin-
ing gaudily against the dark background of the
mob, and a plaster of mud, half-dissolved,
trampled upon, stirred up, was splashed from
underfoot on to the booths and the peoples' faces
and oozed from the square into the gutters and
on to the streets which surrounded the market on
four sides, through which huge brewers' drays
filled with barrels, were slowly passing, carts
with meat, covered up with dirty rags, or shining
from afar with reddish-yellow ribs of beef,
wrenched away from the hides ; carts laden with
sacks of flour, carts full of fowls that were
uttering shrill cries, the quacking of ducks and
the cackling of geese, which thrust out their
white heads through the bars of their coops' and
hissed at the passers-by.
From time to time, at the side of these endless
rows of carts, passing one after the other, some
elegant carriage would hastily slip through,
bespattering with mud the people, the carts, the
pavements, upon which squatted old, worn-out
Jewesses with baskets full of cooked peas, sweet-
meats, preserved apples and children's play-
things.
In front of shops which were open and filled
with people, stood tables, chairs, benches, upon
which lay whole loads of fancy goods, stockings,
socks, artificial flowers, cambric as stiff as sheets
IN THE OLD TOWN AT LODZ 115
of tin, gaudy counterpanes, cotton lace. At one
end of the Market Square stood yellow-tinted
bedsteads, wardrobes, which would not shut and
imitation mahogany with a bronze stain.
Mirrors in which nothing could be seen, glittered
in the sun; cradles, piles of kitchen utensils,
behind which, on the ground, upon a few wisps
of straw, sat peasant women with butter and
milk, dressed in red woollen frocks and aprons.
And amid the carts and trestles there were
women who pushed their way through with
baskets of starched cotton mob-caps, which were
being tried on right in the middle of the street.
In Poprzeczna Street, close by the Market
Square, stood tables with hats, on which
wretched flowers, rusty clasps, and gaudy, dyed
feathers, waved sadly to and fro against a back-
ground of house walls.
Men's outfits were being bought, sold and tried
on in the street, in passages, even against a wall,
behind a screen that generally screened nothing.
The work-women were also trying on dresses,
aprons and petticoats.
The uproar increased continually, for from the
upper part of the town the buyers were pouring
in streams, and fresh cries arose, invitations
were bawled from hoarse throats, the noise of
children's trumpets tooted from all sides, the
clatter of carts, the squeaking of sucking-pigs,
the screeching of geese, all the crazy uproar of a
116 W. S. REYMONT
human assembly simmered and beat against that
pure, sunlit heaven, which hung above the city
like a pale, clear-green canopy.
In one of the taverns there was playing and
dancing, so that from time to time, through the
unholy din and uproar, there penetrated the
sound of harmonium and fiddles performing a
rustic dance, and the loud, heated outcries of the
dancers, but these sounds were soon lost amid
the chaos of a brawl which had broken out in the
middle of the market square, by the smoked-
meat stalls.
Some dozen or so bodies, writhing and
grappling together, scuffled amid yells, and
staggered off in all directions, until in the end
they tumbled under the stalls into the mud,
wallowing and fighting tooth and nail like a huge
tangle, swarming with arms, legs, blood-stained
faces, projecting tongues, whites of eyes bulging
with madness. — '' The Promised Land," Vol. I.
Ch. 6.
CZECH :
J. S. MACHAR : SONIA (FROM " THE
CONFESSIONS OF AN AUTHOR.")
I read Dostoyevsky's " Crime and Punish-
ment "...
I read the story of the student Raskolnikov in
my uninviting room, shivering with cold and
writhing with hunger ; my spirit was haunted by
that feeling of grief and emptiness common to
every Czech in the nineties ; the conflict of life,
such as I had been compelled to live it under the
insane yoke of the secondary school and then
hunting after niggardly coaching jobs with vain
yearnings for freedom and sunshine within,
burdened and afflicted me unspeakably ; I was
sated with the world which I did not know,
nauseated by life of which I had no experience,
having no strength because there was no hope,
and there was no hope, because there was no-
where for it to seize hold. My spirit weighed
upon me like a fallow field full of weeds, a few
of which — my verses — swayed to and fro there
sadly and despondently, waiting submissively for
117
118 J. S. MACHAR
the stroke of the scythe, the foreboding of an
early death persisted in me with extraordinary
strength, because death seemed to me the natural
and only result of my condition.
And into this spirit there now fell sentences
and scenes the like of which I had met with
neither in life nor in literature. I read each page
three or four times in succession ; I did not hurry,
I was not anxious to know what the end of the
story would be; my spirit was in a ferment,
everything within it rose upwards, my nerves
were strained like wires and quivered with
anguish — my own suffering was doubled by the
suffering of another, and evinced itself as sheer
physical pain.
And meantime I used to go to school and felt
the whole inanity of so-called studies, Xenophon,
Caesar, dogmatics, mathematics ; I used to go to
my coaching jobs, and the more they afflicted
me, the more I afflicted others, insisting to them
how important it is to know the irregular per-
fects and the ablative absolute — I did everything
like a machine, but with a spirit in painful tur-
moil. Then evening came, and jaded and hungry
I would sit down to Raskolnikov.
'^ A human louse " — yes, that is what Raskol-
nikov called the murdered usuress . . but her
stupid sister was also a human louse, a super-
fluous louse, the scamp Svidrigailov was a louse,
the drunkard Marmeladov was a louse, the
SONIA 119
magistrate Porphyry was also a louse, and,
finally, so was Kaskolnikov himself. And Sonia,
the poor skinny harlot, who would give herself to
every such louse in the street, — does she stand
above them? And amongst all this murdering,
loving, condemning, drinking, and merry-mak-
ing,— how unnaturally the virtuous Avdotya
Komanovna is drawn ! And you, reader, are
sickened by men and the world, but, my dear
fellow, look closely at yourself . . not only your
clergyman, your teacher so and so, the person so
and so, with whom you are acquainted, whom you
despise, whom you loathe, — you yourself are just
such a human louse, a superfluous creature of
chance. You turn up your nose at the world, —
but what do you demand of it? You are sickened
by life, — who keeps you there? A stone falls into
the water and nobody notices it, and the stream
does not stand still. You are puffed up, vain, my
reader, — quote a few of your ephemeral verses
that have appeared in print, — those images, those
rhymes, those banalities, — you cannot? Ah yes,
immortal art is something quite different, some-
thing vastly remote from you . . you read, for
instance, " Crime and Punishment," and you
will writhe like a worm. . . Humble yourself,
proud human louse, the meanest crossing-sweeper
is worth as much as you, and perhaps more : he
is well aware of his paltriness and has no wish to
thrust his head among the stars. Scourge yow
120 J. S. MACHAR
self, scourge, you see how much easier I feel at
once.
Ye gods, how I scourged myself . . . the suffer-
ings I went through over that dreadful book ! 1
finished reading it, — and suddenly all was still.
Into my spirit there mounted a kind of frosty
calm, the surging grew numb and as if the book
had prompted me with a single ghastly idea,
which seemed to me axiomatic, I felt that I must
murder a human being. And I knew that I must
kill them with an axe like Easkolnikov, and I
found the axe in Mrs. Randa's kitchen and it
was sharp, having been recently whetted by Mr.
Randa. And I felt, further, that my victim must
be some old woman or other, and her features
would resemble those of the old usuress in the
novel. . . I found her. One afternoon I was going
across the Starom6stsk6 N4m6stl. In a covered
way by St. Tein's Church there was a shop where
plates, pots, and dishes were sold. I caught
sight of the proprietress, an ugly old woman. A
human louse, thus Fate wills it. . . I walked
round a few times, watching the shop. Nobody
went in there, the old woman was sitting in her
recess, with her knees drawn up, — clearly she
was warming her feet at the glowing coals. 1
seemed to be dreaming. I was satisfied, I
went home, sat down and considered the matter
in cold blood. It now occurred to me that I must
know whether there was a bell on the door of the
SONIA 121
shop. I went back. I entered the shop, a bell
tinkled above my head. The old woman looked
at me, and it seemed to me that she guessed what
I had in mind. Her glance struck me as sharp
and inquisitive. I asked for a tea-cup, was a
long time choosing, and kept on looking at the
old woman. Yes, she's the one, I said to myself.
I bought a cup at last, went out, but stood still
in front of the shop. The old woman was watch-
ing me . . . after a while she opened the door,
stood on the threshold, looked about as if at
random and then fixed me with a long stare. I
went away as if disgraced. It struck me that
this woman fancied I was a thief, a common
pilfering thief. My prompting received its first
blow ; then on the next day the golden March sun,
a hamper from my mother with wasliing, a loaf
of bread and a page of her dear, honest Gothic
script, dealt it the final one. I was cured of my
fancies, but the book left a strong impression.
I was humbled, reduced, and taken down to
where other mortals were living. I began to
judge them, not according to their faults and
failings, but according to my own. Feeling my-
self as a component part of the whole, I judged
from the part to the whole.
You have given Dostoyevsky credit for having
preserved me from murder by his " Crime and
Punishment." No, gentlemen, a hundred times
122 J. S. MAOHAK
no. Dostoyevsky is not a parochial schoolmaster
of that sort. I got to know him otherwise. . .
I did not seek Sonia, but I found her. . .
Sonia's name was Marie, but in that house she
had been patriotically re-cEristened Vlasta, and
she was sixteen or seventeen years old. She was
delicately made and fair-haired, and her colour-
ing was so pronouncedly vivid, that she seemed
to have been moulded in sugar and tinted by an
adept at painting, who knew naught of shades
and nuances, but had put a full red on the face,
an honest summer azure upon the eyes, cinnabar
upon the lips and the ideal whiteness of the
human body upon the brow and temples. Her
hair was dyed yellow — the lurid yellowness of
straw ; later, when she stopped colouring it, I
saw that it was chestnut. . .
We sat facing each other ; I looked at her and
felt sorry for her. It was half because of
promptings from Raskolnikov, half really beca ase
of the circumstances under which I was vegetat-
ing. We seized each other's hands and she made
her confession. At an early age she had lost her
mother. Her father was a teacher, and through
his grief at her mother's death he had begun to
drink and play cards. Then they had driven
him from his post. She had been seduced by some
student or other on a summer night in the
SONIA 123
holidays. She had reached Prague and the
house where she then was. Sometimes her father
visited her, took every farthing from her, and
went away. Of her present life, of the value of
life in general, of her future, I spoke enthusiastic-
ally and with conviction. And so we sat, two lost
creatures, in a silent deserted room of an ill-
famed house till .a late hour in the morning.
And we parted with a shy kiss and the promise
to see each other again on the afternoon of the
next day.
She came down at five o^clock the next day and
we went through crooked streets across the Franz
Josef Bridge as far as Stromovka to a lonely path
along the Moldau. We continued our conver-
sation of the day before. We described our
childhood to each other, and discovered many
points in common there. We spoke of our
likings and longings, and in many things we were
in agreement. And we admitted that we were
as close to each other as if we had known each
other for years. When night came on, I accom-
panied her home. On the way back she was sad,
unusually sad at the thought of what awaited
her at home. . . At the street door she begged me
to wait a little, as she would return at once. She
came, took me by the hand, asked me to walk
quietly and led me upstairs to her room. Amid
pure kisses and tears we sat together for a long,
long time. . . She wept for her own sake and I
124 J. S. MACHAE
for her, too, because I felt that she was fond of
me and I of her. We made plans for the future,
but we saw no escape from the present, for duty
bound her to that house and to that life. . .
About three o'clock in the morning, somebody
knocked on the match-wood wall of the room and
whispered : ^' Are you asleep, Vlasta?" It was
her friend. Vlasta opened the door and let her
in. Valerie, a stout girl, introduced herself to
me ceremoniously, gave me her hand, and sat
down wearily upon the bed. . . Valerie propped
her head in her hand and softly lamented : ''How
can I get away from here . . . how can I get away
from here?" ''You," remarked Valerie, "only
owe fifty gulden . . but I've got a hundred and
twenty against me. . ." "Yes, fifty gulden, but
where am I to get them from?" " Don't shout,
Vlasta," said Valerie, soothingly, " we'll get
something together for you. I've got seven
gulden, Elsa has three ..." and she recounted
a whole string of poetical names with a complete
total of thirty-five gulden.
" I will get together the rest," I announced.
" Now let's celebrate the occasion," suggested
Valerie, and from her room she brought in a
bottle of wine and seven gulden, wrapped up in
a handkerchief, which she gave to Vlasta. They
kissed each other; then we drank, got into a
festive mood and made plans. Valerie knew of
an office where they provided situations. Vlasta
SONIA 125
could only go somewhere as a shop-girl, for
of household work she knew absolutely nothing.
Valerie declared positively that something would
turn up, and that she was glad that Vlasta, any-
how, would get away from that life. And as it
often happens that when a man is himself on
dry land, he tries to help another from the water
by plans and advice at least, so we both began to
arrange Valerie's life by our '' ifs " and " per-
hapses." But she shook her head, stood up, gave
us her hand, and with the words : " I'll manage
somehow, children, to drag my battered life
along," she went to bed.
In broad daylight I went out, reached home,
took my Xenophon, my grammar, my exercise-
books and made my way to school.
In the afternoon I tied my books up in a parcel,
and took them to the second-hand bookseller's;
a quarter of an hour later I made a journey with
a second parcel. Palack/, SafaMk, Svatopluk
Cech, Jir^sek, Hellwald, Vrchlick^V, Arbes, Tfe-
bizski^, and many others were priced by Taussig,
Pascheles, and Alexander Storch. Ah, how
lightly these leading figures of our literature were
priced! Pascheles, on the Velk6 Starom6stsk6
N^mSstl, was the only one who paid at all
reasonably. . .
In those two days I felt as if I had shaken off
the burden of Raskolnikov's ** human louse."
My life seemed to have suddenly gained content,
lO
126 J. S. MACHAR
meaning, value. I felt that I had sacrificed it
for ever, and it stirred me to think that I had
sacrificed it to so unhappy a being. In my
fancies I surrounded my head with a gleam of
romance, and it was particularly pleasant to me.
I gazed with contempt upon the bourgeois, their
wives and daughters whom I met in the street, —
how prim and unpleasantly prudent these crea-
tures were I How they would have turned away
from me with the disdain proper to respectable
ratepayers, if they had known !
And so I set this delicately -made Vlasta on the
altar of my soul, pitied her, spoke to her in my
thoughts, surrounded her with an ever brighter
and ever holier radiance, until, as it often hap-
pens with love, I really adored her who was
living within me and whom I had created for
myself. I at once realised the contradiction in
her dual being when I took her the money that
evening. She accepted it, she thanked me, — but
somehow in a matter-of-fact way that I had not
expected. I did not consider that I had sat up
two nights with her, that the pitch of her highly-
strung mood had to reach slackening point, that
it was not possible to wander for ever in the
celestial spheres, — I took none of this into
account, and I was chilled, mortified, disen-
chanted.
I gave her the money and did not want to
detain her. She did not detain me long, pro-
SONIA 127
mised that she would let me know how things
turned out, and I went away.
When I got home, I sat down by my empty box
and laughed bitterly at myself. But this ebbing
of emotion was certainly followed by a corres-
ponding flood — again I saw her in her unhappi-
ness, making her confession ; the surge of emotion
ceased, and I waited in suspense for her letter. . .
Day upon day passed by, week upon week, — no
letter came. For some time I endured that with
the tranquil pride of an offended man, but at last
I went to enquire. Vlasta had left Prague the
very next day in the afternoon, — more than that
they did not know. . .
I was embittered both against her and against
myself. I had become quite accustomed to the
array of a fiction-hero ; now my array was torn ;
the novel in which I figured appeared to me a
piece of utter folly, which robbed me of my
beloved books ; its heroine was God knows who,
her array had also lost its glory, and the worst
torment was caused me by the reflection that she
would think of me with something of the derision
with which a designing female of that kind would
generally remember an unsophisticated fool who
had crossed her path. Supposing, that is, she
remembers me at all, I reflected. . .
Man is never satisfied with the novels in which
128 J. S. MACHAR
life entangles him. He applies his standard and
makes his demands. But life does things
differently. Its novels flow along in a broad
river-bed, they are seemingly without form, logic
and meaning, — but only seemingly. If we had
eternity's calm and angle of vision, we should
find in them everything, — masterly form, iron
logic and deep meaning. But we deal with life
in the same way that we deal with nature ; where
we are short-sighted, we lay the blame on them,
and where we do not comprehend, we speak of
them as muddled-headed authors : but chiefly, I
think, we reproach them for their lack of good
taste and aesthetical feeling, as if these eternal
masters were compelled to acknowledge the
hoary standards of beauty set up by our school-
books and the chameleon -like dictates of our
ephemeral critics !
Now I reproached life for its lack of good taste
and aesthetical feeling when, contrary to expec-
tation, I received Vlasta's letter. She was, she
said, serving in a ham and beef shop in the
Celetn^ Ulice. A fine novel ! The heroine
behind the counter of a ham and beef shop ! And
she wrote that I was to come at ten o'clock when
they closed, and that she had lots of things to
tell me. I was there by nine ; I sat down in the
eating-room and Vlasta brought me the sausages
T ordered. And she related that she had been
obliged to go home to some village beyond
SONIA 129
Chrudim, that she had been with relatives to
have a complete change. To have a complete
change, — these words reconciled me. . . Her hair
was no longer dyed, her face no longer bore the
weary signs of squandered nights, — it was as
fresh in its youthfulness as a blossoming peach-
spray. When the shop was closed, I accompanied
her to Vinohrady, where she had a lodging. I
felt that she was happy. She did not explain
why she had not written, and I did not ask about
it. She confided to me that a young assistant-
teacher was courting her out in the country ; this
delighted her, and she told me about it in very
great detail. Altogether on that evening there
was another flood-tide of her whole nature ; she
arose from herself above the normal of ordinary
things; there was an intensity in all her move-
ments, glances and words, all was in a kind of
superlative which allures, fetters and drags you
along to admiration. But the flood-tide goes
down and the normal of life is so drab and
monotonous. . .
We parted in high spirits and met the next day
in a matter-of-fact, sober, and prosaic mood.
Again I accompanied her home. She complained
of weariness, of men who molested her, and of
the smell of sausages in the shop. I comforted
her, but my comfort was feeble, and half-hearted,
and I was glad when we reached the door of her
lodging.
130 J. S. MACHAK
A whole series of such drab days went crawling
on. After she had grumbled about her present
grievances, her thoughts would leap back to
memories of past days, of her former life. . . more
and more frequently ... I guessed that she was
brooding about it, considering, comparing, pass-
ing judgment, and bewailing her lot. And I was
silent, because I could find nothing to say and
because the whole thing was beginning to be dull
and objectionable.
Then one evening there was another flood -tide
of emotion. For she had given notice to her
employer, the ham-and-beef dealer, and had
obtained a place as a vendor of soda-water. She
was delighted with the change and the fresh out-
look on life ; it pleased her to think how we would
go to the country in the evening . . . she confided
to me that the assistant-teacher who was in love
with her, had already written twice to her, that
although she did not care for him, she had writ-
ten back, that I should not be angry with her, as
I knew what I was to her, and the like. And I
did not begrudge her this innocent game, —
indeed, it gave me pleasure, since what I felt for
her had long ceased to be love. I felt myself
something of a guardian towards her, an elder
brother, a man who has drawn someone out of
the water and who is waiting until their life is
restored.
Her kiosk stood at a deserted corner of Vinoh-
SONIA 131
rady Square. . . At seven o'clock I would go to
her, wait until she closed, then we went out into
the country.
It happened on several occasions that when I
arrived, I found people there. Well-dressed
young men, with the insolent glances of cox-
combS:, stood about her, chatting and laughing.
Vla«ta was beaming. I departed unobserved.
When she questioned me afterwards, I told her.
She reddened, looked on one side, and explained
that it could not be helped, she could not drive
customers away.
Then one day I followed her and one of these
young men. She closed the kiosk, they linked
arms and walked towards her lodging, where they
both vanished through the doorway.
The end, the end. . . I went home.
What was the good of all this, I thought to
myself. I was torn by a corroding physical pain.
Redemption, the return to an honourable life, —
what folly. Moral regeneration, — where lay the
flaw? Ah, a worm-eaten apple would be sound.
The end, the end. . . But after all, I was glad of
it. These tiresome walks, these tiresome conver-
sations would cease. My conscience would be
relieved of a task for which, properly speaking, I
had no strength. I reviewed those days, and it
appeared to me that I was clad in the array, not
of the hero of a novel, but of a bourgeois moralist.
I turned red with anger at the thought of how
132 J. S. MACHAE
ridiculous I must be to this chit of a girl with
such a past, with such experience and such
yearnings in her soul. . .
I slunk round the kiosk only once again. I
saw that Vlasta had again dyed her hair an
infamously light colour. This was the last
chapter. The end, in good sooth, the end.
After that I got a letter from her. A despair-
ing letter. She supposed I knew all. She was a
worthless wretch. But I should not desert her.
And if I did not come, she would go back to the
place where we had met for the first time. . .
I threw the letter into the grate and went
nowhere.
Then after a few days, another one came. She
wrote curtly and categorically that if I did not
come that day or the next, then on the following
day she would most certainly be in that house.
I did not go. By chance I discovered later that
Vlasta was in that house. I was impressed by
the fact that she had kept her word, but it did not
disturb me. As far as my feelings were con-
cerned, she had died long before.
Two years later I was at " The Bear Cubs,'' a
cabaret at Perst^n. Smld's company, which had
just been got together, was giving a performance
of vocal and instrumental music upon a small
stage. Smld drew my attention to a new singer,
petite and pretty, who was just about to appear.
SONIA 133
but whose voice, it seemed, was not up to much.
It was Vlasta. . . She came on in a red costume,
her hair was dyed yellow, she assumed a military
bearing on the stage and sang a song, the chorus
of which ran : —
And he's a hussar,
And he has a sharp sword;
Firmly he can sit
Upon his black horse.
He gives the horse its oats,
And hurries to meet me.
The black horse and myself
V He loves equally. . .
This chorus was sung the second time by a con-
siderable part of the audience and Vlasta, march-
ing in step along the stage, saluted in military
style. When she had finished singing, she took a
plate and went round making a collection. When
she reached me, she lowered her eyes, — nothing
more.
Then she sat down at the performers' table with
some scabby young man who at once put his arm
round her waist.
And a few years later, a« a result of this
incident, I wrote my book " Magdalena."
134 JAN NERUDA
JAN NERUDA : THE VAMPIRE.
The excursion steamer had brought us from
Constantinople to the shore of the island Prin-
kipo, and we disembarked. There were not many
in the party. A Polish family, father, mother,
daughter, and the daughter's husband, then we
two. And I must not forget to mention that we
had been joined on the wooden bridge leading
across the Golden Horn in Constantinople by d
Greek, quite a young man ; a painter perhaps, to
judge by the portfolio which he carried under his
arm. Long black tresses flowed over his
shoulders, his face was pale, his dark eyes deeply
sunken in their sockets. At first he interested
me, especially because of his readiness to oblige
and his familiarity with local affairs. But he
had a good deal too much to say, and I soon
turned away from him.
I found the Polish family all the more pleasant.
The father and mother were worthy, kindly folk,
the husband an elegant young man of unassum-
ing and polished manners. They were travelling
to Prinkipo, with the object of spending the
summer months there for the sake of the
daughter, who wa« slightly ailing. From the
pallor of the beautiful girl it appeared either that
THE VAMPIEE 135
she was just recovering from a severe illness, or
that she was about to be attacked by one. She
leaned upon her husband, showed a fondness for
sitting down, and a frequent, dry cough inter-
rupted her whispering. Whenever she coughed,
her escort stood still in concern. He kept look-
ing at her pityingly, and she at him, as much as
to say : ^' There is really nothing the matter, —
how happy I am !" They were clearly convinced
of recovery and happiness.
On the recommendation of the Greek, who had
left us immediately by the landing stage, the
family had hired a lodging at the inn which
stands on the hill. The inn-keeper was a French-
man, and his whole house, in accordance with
French style, was arranged comfortably and
neatly.
We lunched together, and when the heat of
noon had abated a little, we all made our way
up the hill to a pine-grove where we could refresh
ourselves with the view. Scarcely had we dis-
covered a suitable spot and had settled down,
than the Greek once more made his appearance.
He greeted us in an off-hand way, looked around
him, and sat down only a few paces from us. He
opened his portfolio and began to draw.
'' I believe he has purposely sat close against
the rock so that we can't look at his drawing," I
said.
^' We need not look," observed the yci}n|g J*pl^,
136 JAN NERUDA
" we can see quite enoagh in front of us." And
after a while he added : '^ It seems to me that he
is including us in the foreground of his drawing,
—let him !"
Truly, there was enough for us to see. There is
no fairer and happier nook in the world than this
Prinkipo. The political female martyr, Irene, a
contemporary of Charlemagne, spent a month
there '' in banishment " — if I could pass a single
month of my life there, the memory of it would
make me happy for all the remainder of my days.
Even that single day I spent there I shall never
forget.
The air was as clear as diamond, so soft, so
delightful, that it lapped all one's soul afar. On
the right, beyond the sea, towered the brown
summits of Asia, on the left, the steep shore of
Europe faded into the bluish distance. Close by,
Chalki, one of the nine islands that form the
^^ archipelago of the prince," rose up with its
cypress woods into the silent height like a mourn-
ful dream, crowned with a large building, — this,
a refuge for the infirm of spirit.
The waters of the Sea of Marmora were only
slightly ruffled, and played in all colours like a
sparkling opal. In the distance was the ocean,
white as milk, then rose-tinted, then between two
islands like a glowing orange, and beneath us of
a beautiful greenish-blue like a transparent
sapphire. It was alone in its beauty ; no large
THE VAMPIRE 137
vessels were to be seen. Only two small craft
with English flags were slipping along hard by
the shore. One was a steam-boat, the size of a
watchman's booth, the other was manned by
about twelve rowers, and when all their oars were
lifted at the same time, it was as if molten silver
were trickling from them. Artless dolphins
were moving in their midst, and flew in long
curves above the surface of the water. From
time to time across the blue sky peaceful eagles
soared, measuring out a boundary between two
portions of the world.
The whole slope beneath us was hidden by
blossoming roses, with whose fragrance the air
was saturated. From the caf6 near the sea,
music, muffled by the distance, vibrated through
the stainless air.
The impression was overwhelming. We all
grew silent and sated our whole being with the
prospect which savoured of paradise. The young
Polish lady was lying on the turf with her liead
resting in her husband's lap. The pale oval of
her delicate face gained a slight colour and tears
suddenly began to flow from her blue eyes. Her
husband understood ; he bent forward and kissed
tear upon tear. Her mother also began to shed
tears, and I myself was strangely moved.
" Mind and body must needs be healed here,"
whispered the girl. '^ What a happy place !"
''God knows, I have no enemies, but if I had,
138 JAN NERUDA
here I would forgive them !" declared the father
with trembling voice.
And again all were silent. A feeling of beauty,
of inexpressible sweetness, came upon all. Each
one felt within him a whole world of happiness,
and each one would have shared his happiness
with the whole world. Each one felt the same,
and so none jarred upon the other. We did not
even notice that the Greek, after some hour or so,
had arisen, closed his portfolio, and after greet-
ing us again, had gently departed. We remained.
Finally, after some hours, when the distance
was hiding itself in a dusky violet hue, which in
the South is so magically lovely, the mother
urged us to make our way back. We arose and
strolled down to the inn, our steps as free and
elastic as those of children without a care in the
world.
Scarcely had we sat down thaii we heard
quarrelling and abuse under the veranda. Our
Greek was quarrelling there with the inn-keeper
and we listened for our amusement.
The quarrel did not last long. '' If I had no
other guests here — " growled the inn-keeper, and
came up the steps towards us.
'' Would you kindly tell me, sir," asked the
young Pole of the inn-keeper, as he came along,
** who this gentleman is, and what his name is?"
*' Oh, who knows what the fellow's name is."
THE VAMPIRE 139
growled the innkeeper, giving a vicious glance
downwards. " We call him the Vampire."
" A painter?"
" A fine trade ! He only paints corpses. If
anybody in Constantinople or round about here
dies, he always has a portrait of the corpse ready
on the same day. The fellow paints in advance,
and he never makes a mistake, the vulture."
The old Polish lady gave a cry of horror, — in
her arms lay the daughter, swooning, white as a
sheet.
And at the same instant the husband leaped
down the small flight of steps, seized the Greek
by the throat with one hand, and with the other
clutched at the portfolio.
We quickly ran down after him. The two men
were already scuffling in the sand.
The portfolio was flung down, and on one leaf,
sketched in pencil, was the head of the young
Polish girl, — her eyes closed, a sprig of myrtle
around her brow.
140 ARNE NOVAK
ARNE NOVAK : THE ADVENT OF SPRING
IN THE SOUTH.
AN IMAGINARY CONVERSATION.
(The scene is in the Corte Reale at Mantua on
a late afternoon in November j 1354. Charles
IV.* meets with Petrarch, who is reading a hook
as he passes across the court.)
CHARLES IV. : Poet, the evening is casting its
cold and gloomy shadows upon your book.
PETRARCH : And yet I feel the spring and
flowers. I hear the droning of bees and the
measured tread of the grazing flocks. There is
a strong fragrance of golden laburnum, and
the dulcet cadence of the verses carries me
away with the music of torrents drenched with
the thawing ice of the Alps.
CHARLES IV. : Once more it is your beloved
Virgil, herdsman and prophet, whom you have
chosen as your teacher and friend. You do
not surprise me ; there was a time when I, too,
was fond of him. I even confess that in this
very spot, above the waters of the Mincio, I
have more than once bethought me of him who
*Charles IV. as Emperor of Germany. Charles I., as King of
Bohemia. One of the greatest Czechs in history.
ADVENT OF SPRING IN THE SOUTH 141
used to wander here in yearning and tumult.
But have you ever found, poet, that your Virgil
has at times become a perilous seducer for you?
PETRARCH : A perilous seducer. Sire? Per-
haps you meant rather : A source of zeal and
comfort? In him I have found the most joyful
certainties when I was already wavering. . .
ah, you do not know the terrors of my paths. . .
CHARLES IV. : They have led, from what I
know, to the summits where a broad survey has
entranced you, and where the wings of super-
human self -fathoming have borne your human
attributes yonder close to the footstool of the
divine throne, so that we Christians were at a
loss even for the breath of anguish at so
haughty a sin.
PETRARCH : But if I ascended from towns and
valleys somewhere to the clouds, was it not for
the mere reason that I could no longer live in
the depths where it was close and narrow even
to stifling? There were moments when I drank
from the sponge soaked with vinegar and gall,
without knowing whether my sacrifice would
deliver a single soul.
CHARLES IV. : Your comparison is blas-
phemous. Too often you sin through the
pride of your sorrow, as other people sin
through the pride of their joy.
PETRARCH : Yes, pride of sorrow, pride of
sorrowful loneliness. How should you, Sire,
II
142 AENE NOVAK
wise from childhood, the acme of human per-
fections, understand me? O would that some-
one of the living might come to understand me
as Virgil, that benign departed, that silent
wayfarer, in the realm of shadows understood
me!
CHARLES IV. : The Christian Emperor is your
friend, O pagan and haughty poet !
PETRARCH : For the which, my thanks, Sire ;
but I am neither pagan nor overweening. I am
merely a true and suffering man who seeks
safety and equality of spirit.
CHARLES IV. : Where else will the arms of the
balance which holds all destinies come more
firmly to equipoise than at the feet of God?
PETRARCH : The pinions of your prayers soar
thither, but my thoughts take root only in
lowly and more human regions.
CHARLES IV. : And does your pagan poet lead
you thus to salvation? I should marvel if you
succeeded in convincing me of this.
PETRARCH : O, to convince you, Sire, to gain
possession of your faith, to hold sway over
your will, that you might remain with us, with
the people, with your brothers and fellow-
countrymen here, in Italy, here in the South.
CHARLES IV. : Do not forget that I am a
Northerner. Black pine-forests overshadow
the dark castles where my inmost thought
ADVENT OF SPRING IN THE SOUTH 143
finds its God. The cold winds of the North set
the bells swaying in the clouded town of my
birth, that they may sing in the wondrously
sweet language of my mother a penitent litany
for a prodigal son. And haply already the chill
and mournful snow is falling on the sad peaks
that begird my native land.
PETRARCH : Wherefore, Sire, have you con-
demned the greatness of your spirit to such
narrow confines of vain and austere allegiance?
An allegiance which can but be a burden and a
curse to you, who belong to the South, to Italy
or Avignon, who might have been Augustus
over the Tiber and the Arno, over rivers whicii
sing to you in a wistful speech?
CHARLES IV. : It seems to me — if I understand
your language aright — that the thought of
home has marked me out somehow in the same
way as your pagan poet did to you. But pray
enlarge unto me, how could Virgil thus preserve
and liberate you?
PETRARCH : I fear, Sire, that my words will
not be a kindly entertainment for the shades of
a November evening. It is chill, it is dark, and
the fountain is lamenting piteously in the court-
yard. At this moment the distant stars exhort
us to slumber.
CHARLES IV. : Perhaps I must appeal to you
as pressingly as the passionate and sinful queen
of Africa appealed to Aeneas in Virgil? I am
hearkening.
144 ARNE NOVAK
PETRARCH : But my utterance will be again
only haughty grief. I stood isolated and
deserted in the world. I had naught save my
grief and my bitterness. My mistress, who
meanwhile had changed my loftiest yearning
into a wavering dream, died. My tranquility
became loathsome to me. Mild and placid
France suddenly appeared inhospitable to me.
All the waters to which I bowed down were only
mirrors of my distress, and not a day passed
but I cursed them. All the winds, to which I
entrusted my sorrow, dragged my thoughts into
the cold eddy of despair somewhere near the
feet of the frosty lord of hell, and there were
moments when I feared that he, the mighty
destroyer, bore my own countenance, sorrow-
ful and set in hopeless fixity. I ascended moun-
tains and there only my shadow, also a thing
accursed, also an adulterer of despair, leered
upon me.
CHARLES IV. : Why, you are not a priest, not a
Christian?
PETRARCH : Sire, there are moments when I
have a foreboding that our humanity is some-
thing of wider compass than Christendom, that
the sacred grace does not vouchsafe us recovery
from all spiritual wounds, that Christ has not
redeemed us utterly from inherited sin —
CHARLES IV. : What stones of offence, poet,
have you brought from Virgil's hell, that you
ADVENT OF SPRING IN TflE SOUTH 145
may sinfully enervate yourself, rolling them
ever afresh to the summit?
PETRARCH : Ah, none at all. On Virgil's
fields blossom the herbs of deliverance.
CHARLES IV. (vnth a touch of irony) : Haply I,
too, could cull them, if indeed, in so doing, I did
not become a heretic.
PETRARCH : Sire, man of mightj spirit and
noble heart, come unto me, come with me, con-
fide in me ! Across the centuries we clasp the
•hands of another, of a courageous stock who
loved life and not death, who yearned for
heroism and did not writhe in humility, a race
of comrades, brothers, forebears. All that is
great in the world was fashioned by these
heroes, the men of the South, the Romans and
the sons of Romans, the heirs of the language
of Virgil. Barbarians silenced them, humbled
them, hounded them out, and you, an heir of
Augustus, surely do not long to be a barbarian.
There is no life except in the South, not among
the ruins, but in our own Roman realm. Your
North is an evil dream, dark horror, which has
saturated your veins with the blood of your
mother. Your kindly favour. Sire, invites me
ever afresh to your Northern city, which by
your wisdom and love you have transformed
into a wonderful legend ; I desire, I pine, I vow
to come to you. Something lures me there
almost inconceivably — the endeavour to per-
146 ARNE NOVAK
suade you that you may give the young and
tractable nations to drink of the spirit of the
South, and sate them with our new faith, our
new hopes.
CHARLES IV. : You are a wondrous dreamer,
poet ! You, who are fain to be called an old
and weary man, rave like a youth. For what
is that but raving, when you desire to trans-
form live and fervid nations into mere bonds-
men of shadows, with which the pagan bard
has quickened your brain.
PETRARCH : Ah, they are not shadows, they
are not phantoms. The certainty that life and
not death, courageous action and not penitent
prayer shall deserve our whole love, draws
closer to us those ancestors of old, from the
army of Aeneas and Turnus, from the pastoral
throng of Euryalus and Menalcus. Not alone
do they clasp our hands and speak our
language, but they are brothers and friends.
Do you not know, Sire, that all the youth in
Italy and France, all who were born to witness
your wise and heroic deeds as a ruler, feel
equally with me. To-day I am no longer alone.
My pride is becoming the pride of joy. A new
youth is casting anchor on the shores of Latium
and is girding itself for the taking of Rome.
All their songs are resounding, on all sides
their hopes are hovering. Only a leader do we
yet lack.
ADVENT OF SPRING IN THE SOUTH 147
CHARLES IV. (with irony) : And your tribune,
your Achilles, your Roman?
PETRARCH : Has only arisen to gain Your
Majesty for our endeavours.
CHARLES IV. : Adventurers will scarcely suc-
ceed in winning me over, poets the rather.
PETRARCH [agitatedly) : Sire, be ours, be in
good sooth the Roman Emperor! Let the
ancestral blood in your veins strike up its song,
let your dreams of Avignon be transformed into
action. Your admirer, your servant, your
slave mourns at your feet . . . mourns, not on
his own behalf, but for the sake of thousands in
obscurity, and hundreds of thousands yet
unborn. Be as the spring-time, as the South,
as life ! If, among Your Majesty's precious
metal there is any slag which burdens you, the
heat of a new youth will smelt it out, and the
gleaming and sunlit gold of your unscathed
empery will redden in the glorious radiance 1
Night is now here, and you do not see my
mournful countenance — would that you did !
Longing and hope, tenderness and humility
appeal to you from it. To you it seems that it
is autumn, and that the world has grown old.
But that is a delusion ; spring-time is drawing
near, and it is for you — you in very sooth — to
open its blossoming portal, that the budding of
a new youth may surge along like a wild moun-
tain torrent.
148 ARNE NOVAK
CHARLES IV. : I do not know whether the
world has grown old. I know that I have
grown old and that the words of a man of fifty
sound like the prattling of a child to me who
am so much younger. In the midst of our
forests, at prayers, in the solitude of night,
when the window panes are asparkle with the
cold stars, old age comes too quickly. But
there the spirit is exhorted to firmness, — I fear,
perhaps even to pride, unworthy of a true
Christian.
PETRARCH : Of a Christian, who lives
righteously, that he may die vainly. Of an
Emperor who longs for the virtues of an
anchorite.
CHARLES IV. : Yes, it is meekness which be-
comes almost pride. I have longed to attain
the unattainable, to guide my humanity to the
superhuman.
PETRARCH (with mournful irony) : In the
interest of barbarians.
CHARLES IV. : Perhaps my fellow-countrymen
are barbarians as yet. They will no longer,
God grant, be so. They will have neither the
beauty, with which my youth in Avignon was
entranced, nor the heroism that your ecstasy
has conned from Virgil. They will have
another beauty, another heroism. And they, I
hope, will also look towards a new day.
PETRARCH : That they, the barbarians, may
ADVENT OF SPRING IN THE SOUTH 149
come streaming, strengthened, and equipped,
to our South ; that they may despoil our dreams
and hinder the accomplishment of our hopes.
Do you not feel, Sire, that you are enkindling
your mother's blood against your father's.
That you are rending your realm in twain.
That you are making ready a descent on Italy
by the barbarians?
CHARLES IV. : I confess to you, over-zealous
poet, that in the stern nights of my solitude I
have pondered on this outcome. But if I have
nurtured Christian warriors for new contests, I
have achieved right in that I have, at the same
time, suppressed all pride, all self-love, all the
stubbornness of humanity.
PETRARCH : Say rather all the heroic instincts
of your being, mighty Sire. But yet did you
never reflect that you, — Augustus and Trajan
in one person, — that you are preparing war
and rebellion, you who love and honour us?
Do you not regret this strange and yet inevit-
able sacrifice of war to be?
CHARLES IV. : I pray God that the war may
not become too great a sacrifice.
PETRARCH : There will be nothing left for me
but to crave Providence that your barbarians
may not be the victors. That I may not cease
to cherish the faith of not having lived in vain,
of not having been deceived by my Virgil. But
150 FRANA gRAMEK
how the leaves rustle, and how chill the wind
is .... as yonder with you in the North.
CHARLES IV. : Your voice trembles like your
limbs. And I hear your anguish from the song
of the fountain. It is time for you to seek, once
more, the draught of rapture in your Virgil.
PETRARCH : I fear I shall open it where,
amidst the verses, grow the blossoms of
oblivion.
{They both go out in silence).
FRANA gRAMEK: JUNE.
A PLAY IN ONE ACT.
Persons :
Mrs. Ledynska
T .- Vher children
Jenik j
Loshan
{A modestly furnished room; the tawdry
atmosphere of concealed poverty is betrayed by a
few inferior ornaments. A sense of warm and
intimate snugness fills this nook to the ticking of
a large grandfather^ s clock. The golden vapour
JUNE 151
of the afternoon sun sweeps through the window
like a glorious cloud , which is the fore-runner of
a dream of happiness. Behind the white thin
curtain at the window lAdka is sitting with her
sewing; a quivering patch of sunshine rests on
her lap like the fondled head of some pet
animal J which bli^iks its Mg happy eycSj while it
enjoys endearments and nestles into the cosy
warmth of the lap. Old Mrs. Ledynska, with
the tender smile of autumn in all her features, is
sitting in an old leather settee by the table read-
ing the newspaper; from time to time she
straightens her spectacles with a trembling hand
and nods her head).
LIDKA (drops her sewing into her lap; her eyes
are as heavy as poppies at noon; then coming
to the close of some dream or other, she
whispers) : There . . . there it must be alto-
gether different . . . there . . . (She moves her
head across the back of the chair , and passes
her tongue wistfully over her burning and half-
opened lips. Then suddenly she raises her
head again and as if she were speaking to some-
body, she says, in a soft and reproving tone) :
Do you really like me so much? —
MRS. LEDYNSKA (with a start) : Did you say
something?
LIDKA (with a startled and jerky voice) : No,
nothing ... I only just . . . only just said some-
thing to myself. . .
152 FRANA SRAMEK
MRS. LEDYNSKA (smiling in a kindly
manner) : Like a little bird. It chirps and
chirps . . without knowing why. It only just
chirps. (After a pause.) And I'm just read-
ing something that really is so touching. Our
countrymen have been in France again, and
they were received there like brothers. The
President himself made them sit down next to
him, and spoke such nice words about us
Czechs. And in the street, too, — Frenchman
upon Frenchman, all calling out : " Long live
the Czechs!" Like a tree shaking blossoms
upon our deputies .... (nodding her head).
Like a poor relation paying a visit to a
rich man, and the rich man giving him the place
of honour and greeting him in front of all the
rest . . . Ah, the French . . . the French . . . One
can't help liking them (folding up the news-
paper). Remind me, Lidka, — I must read that
to Jenik . . .
LIDKA : No, mother . . . Jenik had better not
read it.
MRS. LEDYNSKA : What . . . why shouldn't he
read it?
LIDKA : Why . . . well. You know he laughs at
things like that.
MRS. LEDYNSKA (somewhat offended) : ... he
laughs, he .'. .
LIDKA (suppressing a smile) : It always strikes
me like a peasant walking on a carpet. You
JUNE 153
know how he talks? (she imitates a male
voice). Aha, the thermometer's crawling up.
Let's bandage it in ice. . . Mother, do take this
syrup away, — it makes my teeth chatter . . .
{hursts out laughing). That's just how he
talks. . .
MRS. LEDYNSKA (forcing herself to laugh as
well) : Why, yes . . . you take him off quite well
. . . (then in deep thought about something).
But sometimes it quite makes my eyes swim,
when once he starts. As if he dragged every-
thing up by the roots.
LIDKA (in sudden embarrassment) : Mother !
MRS. LEDYNSKA : Well?
LIDKA : Are . . . are the others just like Jenik?
MRS. LEDYNSKA (pretending to he angry) :
Tut, tut . . . like him, indeed. They have claws
instead of a tongue, and they never wear their
heart on their sleeve (growing calmer). Well
. . . Jenik knows a lot, he's learnt a lot. (Look-
ing at the clock.) But he is having his sleep
out to-day; it's getting on towards four. . .
Still, it was quite broad daylight when he came
home. I expect he had a proper good time
again. Well, he is taking a good nap. I
almost think I ought to wake him up. (She
goes to the door of the side-room.)
LIDKA (dreamily) : They never wear their heart
on their sleeve. . . (From the door of the little
room Jenik comes violently towards Mrs.
154 FEANA SRAMEK
Ledynska. He is already dressed ^ and his
face is flushed from sleep ^ suffused, as it were,
with a surplus of energy : in stockings.)
JENIK : Morning, all !
MRS. LEDYNSKA (surprised) : He comes flying
in like a demon . . . why, we didn't even hear
you get up. Well . . . well, you have been
sleeping a time.
JENIK (flinging himself on the chair by the
table) : Like a top, mother, like a top. . . But
I'm hungry, — my stomach's making most
uncalled-for remarks. My goodness me, Lidka,
do move yourself . . . kindly show some slight
trace of feeling. . . The food's got to appear on
the table, at once. . . Women, women ... ye
shall serve man, somebody once remarked in an
enlightened moment . . . Vermicelli soup,
mother, eh? I had a dream about vermicelli,
last night. It looked like stay-laces, but it was
vermicelli, for all that, ha, ha. . . Look alive,
my dears, and I'll whistle to you. . . (He
whistles a march j while Mrs. Ledynska
puts plates on the table.)
LIDKA (who has run into the kitchen, calls out
from there) : The soup is still warm, but the
cutlet —
MRS. LEDYNSKA : Shall we warm up the cut-
let for you?
JENIK : . . . over here with it, I'll manage to
warm it up somehow. (Tapping Mrs.
JUNE 155
Ledynska on the hack), Mother, you've
grown since yesterday. . .
MRS. LEDYNSKA (laughing) : Making fun of
your mother. . .
JENIK : No, but really . . . (suddenly) : Mother,
have you got any bilberries? Let's have some
bilberries to the cutlet.
MRS. LEDYNSKA : You have got an appetite
to-day, again.
LIDKA (comes from the kitchen and pours soup
on to a plate) : Perhaps it'll be warm enough.
JENIK (catching hold of Lidka tight hy the
arm) : Lidka, Lidka . . . our trees are sprouting
heavenwards, ha, ha . . ! A new species,
northern type, fir-trees ... or goodness knows
what, d'you hear? Pop go the corks inside, out
gushes the foaming purple, like a raging red
plume . . oh . . . (he waves the spoon) : Don't
you think I've quite got the royal manner?
(He begins to eat greedily.)
LIDKA : You're in an excellent humour to-day.
JENIK : Absolutely dazzling, what?
LIDKA : It suits you.
JENIK : Only not too much salt. You've put
too much salt in the soup.
LIDKA : As if you knew anything about it. . .
JENIK : All right, I won't say another word.
MRS. LEDYNSKA (bringing a plate with cutlet
and Mlherries) : Shall Lidka go for some beer?
JENIK : I am thirsty, but . . . no, never mind . . .
156 FRANA SRAMEK
LIDKA : I'll go and tidy up the room. . .
MRS. LEDYNSKA : You stay where you are
. . . 1^11 see about that myself. It's always a
little amusement for me.
JENIK {pushing away the empty plate) : I was
reminded of you last night.
MRS. LEDYNSKA {affecting horror) : Oh-h-h ! !
JENIK : Ha, ha, it was really getting on for
morning, though.
LIDKA : Now we're going to hear something.
{Sits down at the table.)
JENIK {eating the cutlet) : Well, we landed
ourselves into one of those shanties. The youth
of to-day — mother, won't you tell us something
about the youth of to-day? Well then, in
this shanty . . . yes, there were some partitions
in this shanty. Tra-la-la-hop !
LIDKA {inquisitively) : Well, and . . . what?
MRS. LEDYNSKA: Jenik, perhaps you'd
better . . .
JENIK : Ha, Lidka is inquisitive.
LIDKA : You poke fun at everything —
JENIK : Well, let's stick to the truth : I do
laugh. Without this salad I shan't digest a
thing —
LIDKA {with expectant inquisitiveness) : Well
now, Jenik, what was there in this shanty?
MRS. LEDYNSKA : Don't ask him about it, it's
a lot of nonsense, anyhow.
JENIK : There were, there were . . . partitions,
and . . . ha, ha . . .
JUNE 157
MRS. LEDYNSKA (angrily) : Just kindly keep
these pleasant things to yourself. Nice places
you are remembering . . .
JENIK : Stop, mother. . . You see Lidka's well
on the way to blushing.
LIDKA (shrugging her shoulders) : I don't
understand it a bit.
JENIK (pointedly) : , . . a very white blossom,
ha, ha. . .
MRS. LEDYNSKA : Jenik, I've told you to leave
oflf. . . If you've nothing better to say .
JENIK : 'Pon my soul, I don't know. . . (After a
while.) Those bilberries those bilberries. . .
You scent the woods, the heather, the resin . . .
your heart runs about bare-footed, and gets
torn on the brambles . . . the cuckoo wails. . .
(He pretends to hiccough and slaps himself on
the hack several times.) Ha, ha, here we have
to put up with a sort of pocket edition of
nature. And then you wonder that I laugh.
Everything's faked up here, everything calls
out : Make no mistake, old chap, I'm not
butter, I'm — margarine.
LIDKA : Mother, that's our special department
again. . .
MRS. LEDYNSKA: It's all a lot of silly
chatter. . .
JENIK (finishing the meal) : I notice that the
opinions vary . . . (With pathos.) Lidka, you
enrol under my banner. Let youth keep to-
12
158 FRANA SRAMEK
gether. Down with crinoline.
MRS. LEDYNSKA (with feigned anger) : Get
right into his clutches, Lidka.
LIDKA (excitedly taking in every movement of
Jenik) : Jenik's right down fervent to-day !
JENIK (pushing aside his plate, breathlessly) :
My . . . dear . . . good . . . people . . .
MRS. LEDYNSKA : There's something a little
different about you to-day, Jenik. Your eyes
are as bright as glow-worms. . .
JENIK : That's because it's June, and then —
LIDKA : And then. . .
JENIK (with a deep sigh) : And then . . . then.
(Dreamily.) Last night there was lightning
about. . .
MRS. LEDYNSKA : How you are rambling on,
to be sure ! (She laughs.)
LIDKA (after a pause; with a soft and timid
voice) : Were any girls there too. . . ?
JENIK (suddenly glancing at her; then dryly) :
Why, of course; lots of girls. Coriandoli,
Corso (feels in his pocket j takes out a handful
of confetti J and throws it at Lidka). It was
jolly. . .
LIDKA : But, Jenik (brushing away the shreds
of paper) did you throw that at the girls. . . ?
JENIK : And the girls at us.
LIDKA (pondering).
MRS. LEDYNSKA : Come, come . . . what is the
meaning of this?
JUNE 159
JENIK : Mother's just like Tolstoy. {Suddenly
to Lidka) : Have you finished " Anna Kare-
nina " yet?
LIDKA (loith a start) : Yes ; do you want it?
JENIK : I want to lend it to somebody.
LIDKA (after a while) : But there was a lot I
didn't understand. You know, Jenik. . . (she
stops short for a moment) one can scarcely
altogether condemn Anna. (Shyly.)
JENIK : Why . . . who wants to condemn her,
then. . . ? Who would cast the first stone . . .?
LIDKA : But when—
JENIK (sharply) : But when . . . that'll do, if
you please. I oughtn't to have given you the
thing to read. There they scatter ashes on the
red blossom, instead of pressing it fervently to
their lips. But you don't understand that.
LIDKA (softly) : I don't understand? (Sud-
denly.) Well, perhaps I ought to, then . . . ?
JENIK (bursting into laughter) : Lidka, Lidka
. . . you must wait, — some day I'll explain it
all to you.
MRS. LEDYNSKA : Now I'll go and tidy up
meanwhile. But ... do you remember, Jenik,
you were going to take me to the Vari^te to-day?
JENIK : Hm, so I was. Well, I suppose we can
go. I've got time to-day. . .
MRS. LEDYNSKA : As long as you don't find
some excuse again. I should like to go there
for once. Lidka shall run down to Hoficky's
160 FKANA SKAMEK
while we're away. . . Perhaps it wouldn't do
for her.
JENIK (laughing) : Very well, I don't mind.
(LooTcing at the clock.) But hurry up ... we
must go soon. We'll stop at Novak's on the
way and kill two birds with one stone. We'll
have an evening snack, too, at some provision
shop on the way.
MRS. LEDYNSKA : As you like. . . Well, I'll
make haste. (Enters the side room.)
JENIK : Lidka, bring me the cigarettes from the
little table ! (Lddka hurries out and returns
with a l)ox of cigarettes. She lights one for
Jenik. After a pause.)
LIDKA (timidly) : Jenik, why are you like that
to-day?
JENIK : Like what?
LIDKA : Why, you are so tender ... so happy.
JENIK : Aha !
LIDKA : To-day, you haven't got your irritating
laugh. You do laugh, but it's a different laugh.
JENIK: Aha!
LIDKA : You know, I thought—
JENIK : ... you thought . . .
LIDKA : Well . . .
JENIK : I'm getting quite inquisitive.
LIDKA : Well — that you had fallen in love.
JENIK (looks at her for a moment ^ then bursts
out laughing) : Why, Lidka, Lidka . . that's
really great.
JUNE 161
LIDKA : Isn't it true, then?
JENIK (a trifle uneasily) : Oh, but . . .
LIDKA : Do tell me, do tell me, Jenik . . .
JENIK (somewhat forcedly) : What in the name
of goodness am I to tell you?
LIDKA (stroking his hand) : I won't tell any-
body . . . Jenik ... I won't. You know, I think
I should look upon you in quite a different
way . . . that it would be such a nice thing.
JENIK (deep in thought) : Hm . . . yes . . . yes. . .
LIDKA : Jenik, please do . . .
JENIK (fixing his eyes on her, then for a moment
half -closing the lids in meditation; after which,
suddenly) : Come here, Lidka. . . (Draws her
on to his knees; after a while) : So I've got to
confess, then ...
LIDKA (passes her hands over his face; nods.)
JENIK (dreamily) : How it did lighten last
night.
LIDKA : And you are really happy?
JENIK : N03 no . . . that's not it. Or perhaps it
is, though. Happy as the month of June out
of doors. Happy to stifling beneath the great
burden of blossoms. As happy as that. Well,
I don't know. I ask for no reasons, Lidka, none
at all. If there's a flood, let there be a flood,
then . . .(In a whisper.) Such a beautiful
flood . . .
LIDKA (with a soJ) in the modulation of her
voice; closing her eyes) : Such a terribly
beautiful flood.
162 FRANA 8RAMEK
JENIK : You women are so strange, Lidka. A
hundred times we escape from you, — a hundred
times we hold forth and declare solemnly that
you drain our strength like sponges . . . and a
hundred times we return to endure our June-
tide. The devil is in us. No, no . . . Lidka,
don't get angry, don't think about it. But . . .
{after a moment) it is sweet to die, though,
in the glow of a heat like that. . .
LIDKA : Jenik ; (a wailing note comes into her
voice) I felt June to-day too. I felt it there by
the window.
JENIK : You must open your breast and ask
nothing of why or of wherefore . . . June will
come. . .
IJDKA {suddenly) : Let me be, Jenik. I feel as
if I were close on stifling, and . . .
{She stands up and bursts out sobMng; then she
kneels down again by the chair and lays her head
on the table.)
JENIK {looking at her in surprise) : Lidka.
{Then nodding his head and murmuring
feebly) : June is here, June . . .
LIDKA {raises her head and fixes Jenik with a
deep glance full of tears : suddenly she springs
up and embraces him violently) : Jenik, Jenik,
Jenik . . . now you will be so dear to me. . . Now
I know . . . now I know. . . You'll love her
really, won't you, now? Ah, heavens, that
must be beautifulj so beautiful.
JUNE 163
JENIK (takes hold of her head and looks into
her eyes; nodding his head ponderingly) : Who
is to still such longing as this? Lidka, I hope
you may. . .
MRS. LEDYNSKA (entering) : My goodness
me —
JENIK (joyfully) : Mother, don'tcross the thres-
hold, or . . .
LIDKA (jumping up suddenly^ embarrassed) :
Yes—
JENIK : You see, mother, Lidka is angry with
you. She wanted to coax secrets out of me and
now you^ve spoilt it. . .
LIDKA : Oh, no, mother, I know it, I know all
about it now. . . Jenik has —
JENIK : Shhhh !
LIDKA : I know now. (She starts dancing ^ stops
and bends suddenly out of the window into the
street) : My dears, what lovely air . . . June,
June, June. . .
MRS. LEDYNSKA : Something has come over
you to-day —
JENIK (laughing) : Don't you worry about that,
mother.
MRS. LEDYNSKA : Well, now, I'm. sure I don't
begrudge it you.
JENIK : That was a very nice thing to say.
Thank mother for it, Lidka.
LIDKA (looking out of the window) : Wait a
bit — who can that be? Jenik, there's some
164 FKANA SRAMEK
gentleman walking up and down in front of the
window, and staring up here.
JENIK : Come away from the window now and
stop looking out.
MRS. LEDYNSKA {taking some clothes from
the wardrobe) : I needn't put on much finery,
eh, Jenik?
JENIK : Why, what for ... in the gallery —
LIDKA: Jenik!
JENIK : Well, what is it?
LIDKA : That gentleman has such strange eyes —
JENIK : Come away from that window, I tell
you!
LIDKA (softly) : Gracious, that's funny, Jenik,
he's waiting for somebody, come and have a
look.
JENIK : Mother, Lidka has regularly got the
fidgets. (Gets up and goes to the window) :
Well, now, who is it you're looking at, Lidka,
you crazy girl? Why, hang it all, that's
Loshan. He must be looking for me. {Galls
out into the street) : Hallo, old fellow! Are
you looking for me? Don't cool your heels
down there, — just pop up here a moment.
{Goming from the window) : And I'll receive
him here. {Softly to Mrs. Ledynska) : You
know, he likes to do a bit of borrowing, so he's
afraid to come straight up.
LIDKA {in some alarm) : What's that you're
saying, Jenik?
JUNE 165
JENIK : Oh, nothing.
LIDKA (scared) : And he's coming up here?
JENIK : Well, and what of it? Keally, my dear
girl. You've got the fidgets quite badly.
LIDKA (fingering at her dress with jerky movt-
mentSj smoothing her hair, then leaning with
her hands against the hack of the chair; as if
made rigid.)
The hell rings outside.
JENIK : Mother, open the door and ask him to
come up.
MRS. LEDYNSKA : What am I to call him?
JENIK : Ha, ha, let it be Master Scapegrace.
He does a bit of writing.
MRS. LEDYNSKA (hurrying out) : There's
always something to be learnt from you. . . .
(Outside.) Please come this way.
Enter LOSHAN (in his exterior there is an
aggressive air of scornful unconcern; his eyes
shift ahout in search of prey.)
JENIK : Come along inside. . . How are you, old
chap? My mother . . . my sister , . . my friend,
Loshan . . .
LOSHAN (howing off-hand) : Don't let me put
you out . . .
JENIK (pushing a chair towards him) : Take a
seat.
LOSHAN (sitting down) : I was walking about
down there quite a long while . . .
JENIK : Lidka here made me come and look.
166 PKANA gRAMEK
LOSHAN : Ah, indeed. Yes, the young lady
was looking out of the window. (Drinks
Lidka in with his eyes; from this moment his
glances move continually in her direction and
hold her with a peculiar kind of magnetism.)
JENIK : Why didn't you come up?
LOSHAN : Oh, I managed to work off my consti-
tutional at the same time like that. Besides,
I — had — nothing — important to come for. I
wanted you to let me have (as if embarrassed
for a moment) ; yes, I wanted Hamsum's
"Pan."
JENIK : I think I can oblige you. Wait a bit,
I'll just look. (Goes into his room.)
LOSHAN : I ought to be grateful to the young
lady for relieving me from my long vigil . . .
LIDKA (gives a start when Loshan addresses
her; her eyes assume a troubled and restless
look) : Yes, I thought at once, when you kept
looking up at the window —
LOSHAN (with a quick glance in the direction of
Mrs. Ledynska, who is taking the plates
into the kitchen; then to hidka, effectively
muffling his voice) : Yes, I did look. I had to
look, just as we have to look when we are
walking through a field and a sky-lark begins
to sing above our heads. Ah, that's how it
was : a sky-lark began to sing. I sought it with
my eyes. . . I've never seen you before, — I sup-
pose you never go out anywhere. . . That's how
JUNE 167
a man discovers America, by chance, — the
fragrance of unknown shores shows him the
way . . . until his head is dizzy with this
fragrance. How peculiar it was : I was walk-
ing about, and just at that moment you ran to
the window ; never have I seen such eyes as you
had at that instant; you were leaning out of
the window, and your eyes were drinking
everything in, in, in. . .
{As Mrs. Ledynska enters) : I was just say-
ing, madam, that I envy Jenik such an idyllic
home.
MRS. LEDYNSKA : My gracious ... but he
doesn't appreciate it one bit. {Sitting down
on the chair.)
LOSHAN {dejectedly) : I've been alone for a
long, long time. {His glance turns aside and is
fixed ravenously upon Lidka.)
JENIK {returning from his room with a hook;
laughing) : Has Loshan been saying something
frightfully rude to you? You know, he's —
shall I tell them, Loshan? . . . You know, he's
a most awfully rude fellow, and doesn't care a
rap for anything. . .
LOSHAN {watching Jenik anxiously for a
moment) : You're only pulling my leg,
Ledynsk^^. . . .
JENIK : Ha, ha, ha !— Well, it won't do your
leg any harm, at any rate . . . but . . . {with a
twinkle in his eyes) . . . what do you want
" Pan " for?
168 FRANA SRAMEK
LOSHAN : Well, I hardly know how to put it?
I should like to shake hands with Lieutenant
Glahn once more — something of that sort.
JENIK : Stop up your ears, mother. And you,
too, Lidka. I want to ask Loshan a little con-
fidential question : weren't you smitten with a
certain Edvarda. . . ?
LOSHAN {casts unnoticed a glance at Lidka;
a great thirst lurks in the morbid glitter of her
eyes) : I won't come out with the strong
remarks you expect, but this I will say. . . But
after all, what should I say. . . ? It's utter non-
sense. {Lidka rises and goes into the
kitchen.) It's nonsense, Ledynsky. Absurdi-
ties like that will come into our minds. I'll
tell you, some day, about just such a piece of
absurdity. It'll make you laugh, ha, ha. . .
Such a very peculiar incident. Or perhaps it
isn't such a very peculiar incident, after all.
No, I'll tell you about it some day, — it will
make you laugh, ha, ha ! {Rising.)
JENIK : You're going already?
LOSHAN : And what about to-night, — aren't
you going anywhere?
JENIK : I'm going with mother to the Vari6t6
to-day.
LOSHAN : You're going to the Variety, are
you? {To Mrs. Ledynska) It will be a
nice entertainment for you and the young lady,
madam.
JUNE 169
JENIK : Oh, no, Lidka isn't going, — she'll look
after the house.
LOSHAN (his face twitches a little^ imper-
ceptibly, only with a slight overshadowing) :
The young lady will stay at home? Hang it,
what was I going to say? Why, I believe it's
clean gone out of my head. Well, it's of no
consequence, after all. Thanks, Ledynsky, for
the favour. I'll say good day, madam.
MRS. LEDYNSKA : I'm glad to have seen you.
Pan Loshan.
JENIK : Good-bye, good-bye, old chap. Give us
a look up another time. {Leads Loshan
through the kitchen.)
JENIK {returning from outside) : I'll wager my
head he wanted to borrow money from me.
MRS. LEDYNSKA : What a curious person he
is!
JENIK : He is curious.
MRS. LEDYNSKA : I'll go and put on my
things in your room, — somebody else might
pay us a call. {Takes the clothes and goes to-
wards the side room.)
JENIK {goes after her and asks through the
door) : Mother, where's Lidka gone?
MRS. LEDYNSKA {from the room) : Lidka?
Where could she have gone? {At this moment
Lidka enters from outside; she is pale, her
gait is heavy, and her eyes are dilated and are
fixed unsteadily upon some vague object.)
370 FEANA 8RAMEK
JENIK {goes up to her and takes her by the
hands) : Good heavens, Lidka, what's the
matter with you? Where have you been?
LIDKA (shakes her head as if she were passing
through mists : with an endeavour to smile) :
I've been down at HoMck/'s ... I ran quickly
up the stairs. , . I came over faint for a moment
, . . But I'm all right again now.
JENIK (musingly) : I oughtn't to have told you
that.
LIDKA : What oughtn't you to have told me. . ?
JENIK : Well, that it's June outside . . . and . . .
LIDKA (her face bursts into radiance, as it were,
from within) : That it's June outside. . .
JENIK : I've been whispering such curious
things to you . . .
LIDKA (in suspense) : And were they untrue?
JENIK : They weren't untrue, but . . .
LIDKA (joyfully, passionately) : They weren't
untrue, they weren't untrue ! (Suddenly
throwing her arms round Jenik's neck;
softly) : Jenik, do you know what I'm
reminded of? When we were speaking about
Anna Karenina to-day, you said : Who wants
to condemn her, who wants to cast the first
stone. . . ? You remember saying that, don't
you? Yes, now I know, now I know all. . .
JENIK (freeing himself from her embrace) :
What a 3'^oung hoyden you are, Lidka . . . !
LIDKA : Are you angry with me for that?
JUNE 171
JENIK : On the contrary. I like you for being
so, but . . .
LIDKA: But?
JENIK : Well, men are apt to squander such a
store, when they find it in a woman.
LIDKA (interrupts him suddenly with a spring-
let of ice in her voice) : Stop, . . Stop. . .
MRS. LEDYNSKA (enters from the side-room) :
There, I'm all ready now.
JENIK : Mother, we came within an ace of los-
ing Lidka !
MRS. LEDYNSKA (frightened) : What's that
you say?
JENIK : Oh, nothing . . . Lidka came over a bit
faint, that's all. (He enters the side-room to
fetch his hat and stick.)
MRS. LEDYNSKA : I was quite frightened for
the moment.
LIDKA (forcing a smile) : I was playing at being
ill.
MRS. LEDYNSKA (concernedly) : But there's
nothing the matter now, eh? Perhaps I'd
better stay at home.
LIDKA (quickly) : Nothing of the kind. What
a silly idea to think of.
JENIK (returning with his hat on and lighting a
cigarette) : Well, take care of yourself, Lidka
... I suppose you'll go down to HoMck^'s,
won't you. . .?
MRS. LEDYNSKA : Keep the door well bolted
172 FRANA 8RAMEK
when you go, Lidka . . . and stay down at
HoMcki^'s, we'll come and fetch you after-
wards. . . (Exit.)
LIDKA (taking fright) : Mother. . .
MRS. LEDYNSKA (in the door-way) : Well,
what is it?
LIDKA (in some depression) : Perhaps after all
you'd better . . .
MRS. LEDYNSKA : Shall I stay at home?
LIDKA (with a sudden hurst of violent laugh-
ter) : No ... no ... it only just occurred to me
. . . no . . . you go now, Jenik's waiting.
JENIK (from outside) : Come along, mother,
do . . . bye, bye, Lidka.
MRS. LEDYNSKA : Come and bolt the door
after us.
(Exeunt hoth.)
LIDKA (returns after a moment; runs in
violently, stands still in the middle of the
room, clasps her face in her hands) : He said
that he's coming . . .heavens . . . he's coming !
(She runs to the window. Her eyes stare into
the street, she clutches the window-sill con-
vulsively; for a moment she remains in this
position; suddenly she is shaken by a spasm.
She runs out quickly, and can he heard opening
the door outside. She returns, her lips dis-
torted hy a hysterical smile, her eyes melting
with fire; she goes to the window, plucks a few
sprigs of myrtle, and sinks down overwhelmed
JUNE 173
in the chair by the window. Then with
unsteadily groping hands she twines a sprig of
myrtle in her hair^ and throws the other sprigs
on the floor. Outside, somebody is coming up.
The sound of coughing is heard. Lidka's
eyes fasten upon the door with a dark look of
feverish thirst, while her lips are parted
vacantly. The door opens and Loshan enters.
He catches sight of lAdka; a cynical smile dis-
figures his lips. . .)
(Curtain.)
13
SERBIAN :
SIMO MATAVULJ : THE LATIN BOY.
A TALE FROM MONTENEGRO.
On St. Peter's Day, towards sunset, the serdar
Jovan Knezevid, betook himself to his large
threshing-floor, which lay behind his house. He
was a small, dark man, with a rosy face and a
beard which had slightly turned gray. He had
donned festive attire. Over his green dolama*
he had flung his toka, f while two silver-mounted
pistols and a long knife were thrust into his belt.
With his chibuk flung across his shoulders, he
was stamping and tripping about on the thresh-
ing-floor. From time to time he came to a stand-
still and then turned once more around his
shadow, in which he examined the end of the
blade that projected from his belt at the upper
part of his thigh.
Suddenly someone of the community called
out :
^' Serdar, we have come to have a chat with
you for an hour or so."
*Long under garment. tKind of silver breastplate.
174
THE LATIN BOY 175
** You are welcome !" he replied and sat down
on one of the two round stones which lay on top
of each other in the middle of the threshing
floor, where the threshing animals were tethered.
While he was filling his pipe, four men came
up, all without vests. They sat down on the
paving which lies beneath the stone enclosure of
the threshing-floor.
" What a heat !" exclaimed the oldest among
the arrivals. He had a huge moustache, and
with his sleeve he wiped the sweat from his fore-
head.
The three other fellows were also panting, and
they too were wiping the sweat away, which was
oozing from them as if they had come up at the
double, although they had really been walking
quite slowly.
The serdar adjusted the tinder on the flint, and
as he lighted his pipe, he exclaimed :
*' Yes, a heat such as we have every year about
this time."
'' And you, cousin, have put on your jacket
into the bargain. . . It is a marvel that you do not
melt beneath it I" added one of the younger men.
The serdar frowned, and his eyebrows were
drawn together ; he seemed to have become angry
at this remark. He blew some clouds of smoke
into the air, and then, turning to the speaker, he
exclaimed :
'' I have been used to that from my childhood,
176 SIMO MATAVULJ
and have kept it up to this very day. You could
go about even without trousers, if you wished,
but we old Montenegrins do not consider what is
most pleasant, but what is more becoming. Melt?
As if I were made of sugar ! What braggarts the
youth of to-day are, and how feeble they have
grown. . .'*
The little fellow flushed as if glowing coals had
been scattered over him. His comrades looked
at him with reproachful glances. But the one
with the big moustache exclaimed soothingly :
'' Do not chide him, serdar, it is no great
matter. He did not mean to affront you. Go,
Lale, ask pardon of your cousin !"
Lale kissed Jovan's hand. The latter gave a
kindly smile and fondled his head. This was his
answer ; he was gracious in a trice, — a true " old
Montenegrin."
The serdar had not a big family. Besides his
wife he had only a grandson named Ivan, and a
daughter, Dunja. She was a girl as sturdy as
her father, but she was taller than he. She had
great dark eyes and splendid long hair. The lads
often crept secretly into the serdar's courtyard,
to watch the girl as she was combing her hair.
The plaits came down below her waist. And
when she ran barefoot in her chemise across the
courtyard, the ground fairly shook beneath her
tread. Little Ivan was scarcely two months old
when his father fell in battle at the time of
THE LATIN BOY 177
Dervish Pasha. His mother died soon after-
wards.
In this fashion it had come about that the
serdar's house, which was once so famous, had
remained almost without male successors. Now
all the old man's hopes were centred upon the
five-year-old boy and a good husband for his
daughter, if God willed it so.
Silence continued on all sides. The younger
men were waiting for the serdar to speak, but he
was gazing abstractedly at the light of his pipe.
Suddenly steps were heard in the distance.
About twenty more members of the family now
came up. They greeted each other and sat down,
some on the flagstones, the others with their feet
crossed upon the enclosure of the threshing-floor.
As there were also some older men among the
new-comers, the conversation resumed its course.
The serdar himself was now in the best of
humours. He began to banter first one and then
the other, in turn. This pleased them all very
much, for he was a wit, the like of whom could
not be found far and wide. He had just over-
whelmed a distant relative with the whole power
of his wit, when someone among those present
exclaimed :
" Stop, stop, wedding guests are coming to
us!"
Everyone turned round and general laughter
ensued. About twenty of the more distant towns-
178 SIMO MATAVULJ
folk were approaching as wedding guests, one
after another. But that was as much as to say
that they were coming to pay a visit to a chieftain.
The serdar again stared angrily in front of him,
for he wa« vexed with the man who had mocked
at the arrivals by the name in question.
" Let them come, and make room for the
people !" he cried, and rose up from his seat.
The others present also rose up on one side when
the first guests had advanced closer.
" Just look, by God, the little Latin boy is
among them too, and not among the last ones,
either !" exclaimed the same waggish lad who had
given them all the name of wedding guests.
" Do not speak so, my children !" the serdar
suddenly burst forth. '' If he is among them, it
is fitting for him to be among them. Surely you
know whose son he is?"
^' By God, he is a handsome lad, too," ex-
claimed the man with the big moustache, ** and
we only tease him because we like him. . . But we
will stop doing it."
" Welcome !" exclaimed the serdar. " Come,
brothers, and the best of thanks for your visit !"
They all embraced and then sat down. About
forty of them were now sitting down together on
the threshing-floor. Dunja, her mother, and
little Ivan watched the company from the thres-
hold of the kitchen door. Women were leaning
against the enclosure, and even little children
THE LATIN BOY 179
stopped in their play for a moment, to feast their
eyes on the sight of the grown-ups.
As long as man could remember, the assembly
of the people had been held on the same spot
where the serdar's threshing-floor was now.
Jovan's father, the serdar Micun, had paved the
place with flag- stones and provided it with an
enclosure, and such an assembly-place was not to
be found far and near.
After each had questioned the other as to how
it fared with him, his family and his distant
relatives, the serdar turned to the " little Latin
boy."
He had been given the nickname of '' Latin "
because his face was fair and tender, — just like a
Latin boy. But his real name was Luka Lipovac.
He was the orphan son of the famous hero Kosta
Lipovac.
He was sitting directly opposite the serdar.
" Well, how fares it with yoUj, Luka?"
" Well, God be thanked ! " replied the latter,
blushing slightly.
" And tell me, pray, do these lads tease you,
at all?"
" A little," answered Luka with a forced laugh.
'* But from to-day onwards they have no more
right to do so !" observed one of the Knezevic
family.
" Oh, why from to-day onwards?" came a shout
from several sides.
180 SIMO MATAVULJ
" Because early to-day he surpassed all in
stone-throwing, with the exception of Ki'cun !"
"Is it possible?" exclaimed the serdar in
astonishment.
'' Yes, by God, it is !" cried several with one
accord. »
'' Then come hither, that I may embrace you !"
And the serdar gave the youth a kiss upon the
forehead. The latter was so abashed at this, that
he did not know what he should do with his
hands. He drew them across his upper lip, upon
which, however, not even the down of a mous-
tache was so far to be observed ; at the same time
his eyes were beaming with clear fire, and he was
splendid to look upon in his beauty.
Th.e rest of the people were not altogether
pleased with this, and someone called out :
" First of all we must make sure whether we
were contending in sober earnest, or whether it
was only in play."
" Don't make any pretence," cried the others.
" There were close on thirty of us lads who saw
it. Each one of you did his level best to beat
him, but he beat you all, Kicun alone excepted."
There was a silence after these words. The
older men thought it would be best to broach
another subject. Then one of the Lipova men
stood up and cried :
" You would hardly believe, serdar, all the
things that Luka does in order to appear more
THE LATIN BOY 181
of a man. The whole livelong day he roves about
in this heat, and why? To get a brown tan !
But he cannot succeed. It is true that he will
not admit it, but finds an excuse of one sort or
another; but I know only too well what makes
him do it. We laugh at him. The young women
envy him for his milky face. Besides that, he
rarely practises stone- throwing, jumping, and
running. . ."
" That is all to his credit," the serdar inter-
rupted him. " A stalwart lad ! He will take
after his heroic father. Like father like son !"
*' May God grant it," cried some of the Lipova
men.
'' And now we will moisten our dry throats,"
cried the serdar.
" There is no need ! Not on our account,
pray !" was the cry on all sides.
*' But we shall, though. . . Dunja, bring the
jug and the gusla, do you hear?"
All were now silent.
The girl brought a jug and a glass ; little Milan
took the gusla in his arms. The girl stood aloof
in a shy and shamefaced manner. She would
not venture among so many men, and wished to
hand the jug with the brandy over to a female
relative who stood closest to her.
But the young men shouted : " Either you
alone shall serve us, or nobody shall do it."
And the serdar cried sternly :
182 SIMO MATAVULJ
'' Serve us, my child !"
In order to give her time to gain her composure,
they took little Ivan amongst them, and fondled
him and asked him questions. Dunja, red as a
rose, now went from one to the other, handing
the jug first to those older in years and pedigree.
Each one drank the serdar's health, and each
one's eyes strayed towards the beautiful girl
as he did so.
When the young Latin boy's turn came ... (I
know you will not credit it) . . . all were silent,
he alone raised his voice and cried aloud :
" And even though it were poison, I would
drink it from your hand !"
All stood mute with amazement. Who was it
dared to say such a thing in the presence of her
father? The bashful little Latin boy ! However
could such a daring notion have entered his
mind? Heaven alone knew. Certain it was that
these words had passed his lips merely by the
way. He, however, seemed to have observed
nothing ; he emptied his glass and was about to
hand it back to the girl, but she had escaped. It
was in vain that the serdar called her back. She
had already vanished in the house.
Not until then did the Latin boy look round
about him in bewilderment.
" You seem to look upon our Dunja with
favour," was the sullen remark of a relative who
was the same age as Dunja.
THE LATIN BOY 183
The Latin boy felt as if someone had boxed his
ears. He answered in the same tone : " And
why should I not look upon her with favour?"
" Because she could thrust you into her girdle
and then climb this hill at full speed; do you
understand me!"
" She might do that with you, but not with me ;
do you understand me?" cried the Latin boy.
The people feared that the quarrel might take
an ugly turn, and began to pacify the two. The
serdar turned the whole thing into a joke. But
there was one who cried : " Calm down, both of
you. Such a buxom girl as that could overcome
the two of you, if she wanted !"
" That she could not !" exclaimed the Latin
boy, and stood up.
" We can easily make sure. We will call the
girl in, and you shall match yourself against her,
to see who is the stronger," cried the other.
Noise and laughter now arose.
'' Stop now, you young scamps, we will now
hear the serdar play on the gusla !" shouted the
older men. But the younger ones were fairly
bursting with laughter as they saw how haughtily
the Latin boy bore himself. Some shouted :
" Call Dunja here. . . Call Dunja ! The serdar
will allow it. Why should he not? That is no
disgrace, God forbid. . . Will you, Luka? Say so
and then you will see !"
He beckoned with his hand as a sign that they
should keep quiet. Then he cried :
184 8IMO MATAVULJ
'' I will r"
When they saw that the serdar was laughing,
full ten of them leaped into the house to fetch
Dunja. She struggled, she waved her powerful
arms, and pushed several of the men a couple of
yards away from her. But the rascals fell upon
her and at last managed to get her out.
'' Do not let me, father !" she exclaimed with a
ringing laugh.
'^ You must !" cried her father, also laughing.
'' You must, and why not, since we desire it?
Bear yourself firmly, my darling. You are the
daughter of Jovan Knezevid !"
The girl now grew serious, looked her
father straight in the eyes, and then, rolling up
her sleeves, she said :
" Let him come, then !"
The young Latin boy now drew his weapons
from his girdle, threw them to the ground with
his cap, and ran up to the girl who was awaiting
him on the free space in the threshing-floor.
They clutched each other by the arms.
She lifted him up in the air like a feather, but
he stood alertly on his feet again.
" Now you lift her up!" his kinsmen shouted
to him.
''Dunja, our champion !" shouted the KnSzevid
men to the girl.
This Luka would not do, but let her have the
THE LATIN BOY 185
mastery. Again the girl lifted him up to the
right, then again to the left. But each time he
regained his foothold as alertly as a roebuck.
"He is artful," cried some. ''He is waiting
till she is tired, and then he will begin !"
^' On, on, Dunja !" cried all her kinsmen with
one accord.
" Come, Luka, our champion. Do not dis-
grace us !" cried the Lipova men.
''Stop, Dunja!"
"Stop, Luka!"
" Stop, stop !"
He pressed her to him as hard as he could,
with the intention of letting her go, or else to
confuse her. But at the same moment she sprang
alertly sideways, waved her arms and fell to the
ground on top of him.
You can imagine what now took place. Such
din and laughter arose, that not a word could be
understood. The Lipova men made the best of a
bad bargain and joined in the laughter. Dunja's
relatives embraced and kissed one another. But
the Latin boy, pale in the face, walked up to the
assembh' and eyed them narrowly in turn. The
serdar was afraid that it might lead to something
awkward, and so he took uj) the gusla and drew
the bow once or twice across the strings. In an
instant there was complete silence, for every-
body understood what the old man's object was
in so doing.
186 SIMO MATAVULJ
'' You sit down with us as well, Luka ! Do not
be vexed, for it was only a joke!" spoke the
serdar to him in a fatherly tone.
" I will obey you, serdar, but I only ask your
leave for one word more."
" Good, what is it?" asked the serdar, giving
him an encouraging glance.
" Brother !" began the Latin boy, " a girl has
overcome me, has she not?"
''Truly!" exclaimed several through their
teeth.
'' But I tell you it was not so. Bather was it
the girl's blood by which I was overcome. If
anyone does not believe it, I am at his service !"
" Come, Luka, stop your foolish talk !" cried
his kinsmen.
'' I have said nothing evil. I only ask whether
there is one among you who would venture to
enter the lists with me now, although I have been
overcome by a girl?"
" Stop, that is folly !"
" Whichever one of you Knezevid men pleases,
and there are real heroes among you, I am sure."
'' I accept the challenge," cried Kidun, angrily,
" but from the knee upwards !"
" Have no fear, we shall strive together like
men."
They seized one another.
Kidun was the strongest lad among the Grad-
jani.
THE LATIN BOY 187
'* Don't break him in two, Kidun," jeered the
kinsmen of the latter.
And, bj^ Heaven, Kidun did not spare the
young Latin boy, he strained every muscle, in his
endeavour to throw him to the ground. They
swayed to and fro, they scuffled, until the Latin
boy suddenly lifted Kidun up and threw him
sideways to the ground.
'' Was there no foul play about it?" asked the
serdar, sternly.
*' No, by God, serdar, what is true, is true.
He has thrown me like a hero, and all honour to
him!"
" If that is so, kiss him !"
''I will and gladly."
'* And you others will also?"
"Very gladly."
" Listen to me, then. Whoever from this time
onward calls this lad the little Latin boy will
pay a fine of 50 florins, in addition I will lay
about his back with this chibuk, as true as I live.
But you, my dear boy, come to me."
And embracing Luka, he said to him :
'' Do you know that your father was my dearest
friend?"
" I know it, and I am glad of it."
" Do you know that among the townsfolk there
was no better fellow than your father? And. . .
and therefore " — he cleared his throat — "brother,
even though it is against the Montenegrin custom,
188 SIMO MATAVULJ
you must not take it amiss if I now do . . . say
something that was not known hitherto. . . Listen,
Luka, will you have my Dunja for your wife?"
'' Yes I" he exclaimed, beside himself with
delight.
'' Then send your uncle to me to-morrow with
the betrothal ring."
'' Good luck!" said all in agreement.
'^ Only you must not reproach me later with
having forced her upon you. Do not quarrel
with her and do not pit your strength against
her as you have against Kidun !"
The Lipova men thereupon fired off their rifles
in token of their joy. The whole neighbourhood
hastened up ; in a trice a great ring was formed
and the kolo* began. The festivities came to an
end only with the approach of night.
At the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin,
Dunja and Luka were wedded.
^Serbian dance.
PART II.
POETRY.
14
RUSSIAN ;
KONSTANTIN DMITRIYEVITCH
BALMONT.
1. WATER.*
From droplets of dew that aquiver are throwing
The lustre of jewels around,
To the pallor of spaces, where, distantly flowing,
The wave of the ocean its foam-wreath is strowing
O'er seas that no plummet can sound,
Thou art everywhere, ever, life changelessly
glowing,
Now emerald-tinted, now azurely showing,
Now in ruby and amber the waters abound.
In orange, white, green, and in dusky-blue
splendour,
And in such as the deserts alone can engender.
In the swinging and singing of tides without
bound,
Of tints only seen by the choicest of gazes,
As they tremble and sparkle and dazzle, their
mazes
*The selections marked with an asterisk have already appeared
in " Modern Russian Poetry " by the same author.
192 KONSTANTIN DMITRIYEVITCH BALMONT
No words can be culled to reflect :
Though the word has its tints with unquenchable
gleaming,
Though the word that is comely with bloom ever
teeming,
A spring-tide of hues has bedecked.
The water has guises of infinite seeming
In zones that are boundlessly deep ;
Its multiple billows are cradled in dreaming.
The spirit with muteness and tune of its stream-
ing,
It answers and lulls into sleep.
Rich of old have they been, and rich still are the
spaces
Where deserts stretch onward in azure-green
traces.
And islands have birth in their shoals.
And Ocean, still Ocean, unfettered it ranges.
But man ever sees how it changes and changes,
And billowy visions unrolls.
Wherever I wander.
Or hither, or yonder,
I have barkened to lays of the storm.
And I know how diversely I ponder.
And ever I mused, ever here, ever there.
Upon Water so endlessly fair.
THE MAGIC WORLD 193
2.*
0 WAVES of the ocean, akin to the blood in my
veins,
Ye ever unfettered are coursing to other domains,
Ye ever are lonely in chillness of ebb and of flow,
And, — alone or united, — we pine in uncomforted
woe.
Why may I not breathe and course on as a wave
of the sea?
On earth I am lonely, and cold is the spirit in me,
1 likewise am speeding to other, to other
domains, —
O waves of the ocean, akin to the blood in my
veins !
3.* THE MAGIC WORLD.
Strait the passage, slender, long.
Reaching depths where visions throng,
Sinking down, you turn your eyes
Where an ice-wrought castle lies.
When from here you sink below.
Twinkling shafts of colour glow;
Someone's peeping eyes are seen —
Adamant and moonstone sheen.
There's the snowy opal ; here
Budding emeralds appear.
Hearken — in these castles be
Flutes and lutes and dainty glee.
194 VALERY YAKOVLEVITOH BRYUSOV
Whose may be the feet that don
Crystal shoon you gaze upon?
Ice in pillars, lustre, snow,
Dainty, flaky, pearly glow.
Strait the passage, slender, long,
Reaching realms where splendours throng;
But to find the path you need,
You must set your foot with heed.
VALERY YAKOVLEVITCH BRYUSOV.
1.* DUSK.
Electrical moons are twinkling
On curving and delicate bands ;
The telegraph wires are tinkling
In tender, invisible hands.
The clocks with their amber faces
By magic are lit o'er the crowd ;
Of stillness the cooling traces
The thirst-ridden pavement enshroud.
'Neath a net that quivers enchanted,
The square lies hushed in the haze ;
The evening has smilingly planted
A kiss on the harlot's gaze.
THE STONEIIEWER 195
As music that sootliiugly quavers
Is daytime's far-away roar.
O dusk ! In your lulling favours
You steep my spirit once more.
2.* THE STONEHEWER.
— Stoneiiewer^ stonehewer, whitely arrayed,
What art thou building? For whom?
— Ho, do not baulk us intent on our trade, —
From our building a prison will loom.
— Stonehewer, stonehewer, trowel in hand,
Who then will sob in these walls?
— Not you, nor your brother, rich man, under-
stand.
For theft to your lot never falls.
— Stonehewer, stonehewer, who without sleep
Will abide there long hours of the night?
— Maybe my son will, — he toils for his keep.
And such is the close of our plight.
— Stonehewer, stonehewer, then will he think
Of them who laid bricks here of yore !
— Ho, beware ! Beneath ladders from jests you
should shrink . . .
This we ourselves know, give o^er !
196 SERGEY GORODETSKY
3. TO THE POET.
Thou haughty must be as a banner ;
Thou tempered must be as a blade ;
Thy face must in heaven-like manner
As Dante's, with flame be arrayed.
Of all thou shalt witness be, coldly,
While fatlioming all with thy gaze.
And this shall thy virtue be : boldly
To tread where the pyre is ablaze.
Perchance that all life was created
For shaping of resonant airs ;
Then seek thou how words may be mated,
From childhood that knows not of cares.
In moments of love-warm caresses
All i^assion within thee constrain ;
And 'mid the rack's ruthless distresses
Belaud thou the raptures of pain.
Track, dreaming what Fate thee presages
At morn or in evening's deep hour;
And mark, how the poets through ages
Took garlands of thorns as their dower.
SERGEY GORODETSKY.
POLAND.
O SISTER mine, unknown to me,
Whom yet I loved since long ago !
Westward from Poland's pyre I see
A kindred flame is set aglow.
VYACHESLAV IVANOV 197
The world is lit by Slavdom's pyre,
Which scarce enkindled, blinds the sight.
'Mid Slavdom's calm a festive fire
Of coming strength flings out its light.
Where it bursts forth, — the Pole is there ;
The Russian, — where in depths it strays ;
But by one lightning-liash they bear
Into the gloom an age-long blaze.
Thou, Poland, Slavdom's arrow art;
I see the bow-string tensely spanned ;
Quiver, where dearth has ne'er a part,
And wrath of God's extended hand.
Poland, to thee I am akin !
The fire of headstrong dreams, the trust
In fiery destiny shall win
Its ail, — or sink amid the dust !
VYACHESLAV IVAKOV.
THE MAENAD.
Wildly sped Oie Maenad onward.
Like a doe.
Like a doe, —
With heart bursting from her bosom,
Like a doe.
Like a doe, —
198 VYACHESLAV IVANOV
With heart quailing like a falcon,
Prison-pent,
Prison-pent, —
With heart baleful like the sun at
iMorn's ascent,
Morn's ascent, —
With heart like the evening sun, a
Sacrament,
Sacrament . . .
Thus when thou the godhead meetest.
Heart, shalt grow . . .
Heart, shalt grow . . .
And on the final threshold greetest.
Heart, shalt grow . . .
Heart, shalt grow . . .
From the peace-cup, O oblation.
Quaff content,
Quaff content.
Wine with mute conciliation
Blends content . . .
Blends content . . .
ZINAIDA NIKOLAYEVNA HIPPIUS 199
ZINAIDA NIKOLAYEVNA HIPPIUS.
*ELECTRICITY.
Two threads are closely hafted,
The ends are unconfined.
■ Tis '^ yea " and '' nay," — not grafted,
Not grafted, — but entwined.
Dim is the weft that mates them
Close and inanimate.
But wakening awaits them,
And they the same await,
End unto end is taken, —
Fresh '' yea " and " nay " ignite.
And '' yea " and " nay " awaken,
Into one moulding shakeii.
And from their death comes, — Light.
DMITRI SERGEYEVITCH
MEREZHKOVSKY.
*NIRVANA.
As in the day of first creation,
The azure skies are calm again.
As though the world knew not privation,
As though the heart knew naught of pain ;
For love and fame my craving passes ;
200 NIKOLAI MAXIMOVITCH MINSKY
'Mid silence of the fields at morn
I breathe, as breathe these very grasses . .
O'er days agone, and days unborn
I would not chafe, nor reckoning squander.
This only do I feel once more :
What gladness — ne'er again to ponder,
What bliss — to know all yearning o'er.
NIKOLAI MAXIMOVITCH MINSKY.
*THE CITY AFAE.
Down yonder, 'mid hills in a shimmering bend
Lo, the city afar.
Pale village and woodland befpre it extend,
Where tintings of meadow and pasturage blend.
The city gleams faintly afar.
Nor dwelling, nor yard — but in shadows of night,
Something glides through the mist.
As if listless o'er many a soul in its plight.
As if weary o'er many a vision of might.
O'er the city lies dimly the mist.
Live vapours of toiling and passionate cries
Weave a darkening pall.
Dust and smoke and the specks and the shadows
that rise,
And numberless hearts with their throbbings and
sighs,
Aloft weave a darkening pall.
THE CITY AFAR 201
'Twixt the din of the city's unrest and my gaze
It is spread evermore.
And its load nor the morn nor the noon can
upraise,
Gaols, churches and courtyards, meseems, are
but haze, —
In the farness they merge evermore.
But sometimes at sunset an arrowy ray
Stabs the mist for a flash.
And amid the night's darkness, then fading away,
The cit}' afar with its dreams of dismay
Is revealed to the gaze for a flash.
FYODOR KUZMITCH SOLOGUB.
1.*
Evil dragon, 'mid the zenith hotly burning.
Thou, who all about thee, fiery threads art turn-
ing,
With a stifling hotness parching all the valley, —
Evil dragon, lo, too speedy is thy rapture
O'er thy victory ; for, compassing thy capture,
From my dark, deep quiver, poisoned barbs will
sally.
With my bow before thee shall I stand, nor falter.
Dauntless to fulfil the doom that none can alter ;
Vengeance unforeseen, and yet foretold I cherish.
202 FYODOR KUZMITCH SOLOGUB
Taut, my bow shall fling its shaft with brazen
droning.
To my challenge, thou shalt answer sorely
moaning, —
Foul destroyer, thou shalt wane away and perish.
2.* NORTHERN TRIOLETS.
(i.)
Thou earth with guile and irksome woe,
Art yet a mother unto me !
Mute mother mine, I love thee so,
Thou earth with guile and irksome woe !
How sweet in earth's embrace to be.
Nestling to her when May's aglow !
Thou earth with guile and irksome woe,
Art yet a mother unto me !
(ii.)
The earth, the earth, ye men, revere,
Green secrets of its moistened weeds ;
Its secret ordinance I hear :
— The earth, the earth, ye men, revere,
E'en its delights where venom breeds ! —
Earthy, untaught, I hold it dear.
The earth, the earth, ye men, revere,
Green secrets of its moistened weeds.
NORTHERN TRIOLETS 203
(iii.)
What delight, — from place to place
With uncovered feet to fare
And a scanty scrip to bear !
What delight, — from place to place
With austere and humble grace
To entwine a tuneful air !
What delight, — from place to place
With uncovered feet to fare.
UKRAINIAN :
TARAS SHEVTCHENKO.
1. DROWSY THE WAVES.
Drowsy the waves and dim the sky,
Across the shore and far away.
Like drunken things the rushes sway
Without a wind. O God on high,
Is it decreed that longer yet
Within this lockless prison set.
Beside this sea that profits naught,
I am to languish? Answering not.
Like to a living thing, the grain
Sways mute and yellowing on the plain ;
No tidings will it let me hear,
And none besides to give me ear.
(1848.)
2. SEE FIRES ABLAZE.
See fires ablaze, hear music sound, —
The music weeps and nestles round.
E'en as a diamond, precious, fair.
The eyes of youth are bright, how bright !
204
IF, LORDLINGS, YE COULD ONLY KNOW 205
Gladness and hope have set their light
In joyous eyes. They know not care,
Those youthful eyes, — no sin is there.
And all are filled with mirth and glee,
And all are dancing. I alone
Gaze, as there were a curse on me.
I weep, I weep to all unknown.
Why do I weep? Perchance to mourn,
How without hap, as tempest-borne,
The days of all my youth have flown.
(1850.)
3. IF, LORDLINGS, YE COULD ONLY
KNOW . . .
If J lordlings, ye could only know
How living creatures weep for woe,
Ye would not pen idyllic lays^
Nor unto God give empty praise,
While mocking at the tears we shed.
Yon cottage with the forest nigh
We call a paradise : yet why?
There once my heart with torment bled.
And it was there my tears I shed.
Earliest tears ! Can e'er befall
At God's decree, a cruel teen
Which in that cottage ne'er was seen? —
And that a paradise they call !
15
206 TARAS SHEVTOHENKO
No paradise in sooth, for me
That cottage by the grove can be,
By the clear pond, the village near,
My mother swaddled me, and here
She sang to me those lullabies
That made her own despair arise
Within her babe ; that grove, that cot.
That paradise, — it was the spot
Where I saw hell. 'Twas bondage there.
Most grievous slavery, and ne'er
Would they vouchsafe me e'en to pray.
Ere long my own good mother lay
In very youth beneath the ground :
Rest from her grief and toil she found.
My father with his children wept
(We little ones but scantly clad)
And bearing not the griefs he had.
He died in servitude ; we crept
Away by strangers to be kept.
Like tiny beasts. At school oppressed,
I drew the water for the rest ;
My brothers toiled as serfs, till they
With hair close- shorn were marched away.
But sisters ! sisters ! Hapless ye,
Young fledglings mine ! What boots it you
Upon the earth your life to spend?
Hirelings in stranger's keep ye grew, —
Your hireling tresses shall grow white,
Hirelings, O sisters, ye will end. . . .
(1850.)
LEGACY 207
4. LEGACY.
When I'm dead, then let me slumber
Underneath a mound,
'Mid the rolling steppe, with precious
Ukraine earth around ;
That the mighty girth of acres,
Dnieper's craggy shores,
I may gaze on, and may hearken
How the blusterer roars.
When it bears away from Ukraine
. To the azure sea
Foemen's blood, — then I'll depart from
Mountain -side and lea :
These unheeding, I'll be speeding
Even unto God,
There to pray, but till that happen,
I'll know naught of God.
Grant me burial, then uprising,
Shatter every gyve ;
Drench with evil blood of foeman
Freedom, that it thrive.
And my name in your great kindred.
Kindred free and new.
Ye shall cherish, lest it perish, —
Speak me fair and true.
(1845.)
POLISH :
ADAM ASNYK.
1. WITHOUT LIMITS.
The streams have their sources,
The oceans have their courses,
Where their billows roll.
The mountains in heaven lowering
Have yet an end to their towering :
Fixed is their goal.
But the heart, the heart of mankind,
Ne'er an end in its flight can find.
Through tears, longing and pain.
Weening within its clasp
Space and eternity to grasp
And heaven to contain.
2. THE TOREENT.
On Tatra's peaks, on Tatra's peaks.
Upon their bluish tips,
The wind 'mid mists is king, — he shrieks
And murky clouds he whips.
208
THE TORRENT 209
From mist a woof of rain is made,
Dew from the clouds unbound,
And streams their dripping jaws have laid
Upon the crags around.
Where mountains loom, ^mid forest-gloom,
In bluish veils 'tis swathed.
In tears of rain amid the plain
The granite piles are bathed.
And naught is seen, the azure's bed,
And all the firmament.
In shadow sleep, with mist o'erspread.
With sheets of rain-storm rent.
And day and night and dawn once more
Unchanging will draw nigh,
To swelling waters as they roar.
To leaden streaks of sky.
The rain-storms lash, the tempest shrieks,
The flood in wrath rings clearer.
On Tatra's peaks, on Tatra's peaks
The torrent thunders nearer.
JAN KASPROWICZ.
1
The wind whips the orphaned pines
And rain at my window beats ;
In peaceful mood my soul
To misty pathways fleets.
2L# JAN KASPROWICZ
It flows to the flame-lit crags.
To the chasm-crowning ways,
Where the sight of the secrets of God
Is before us in tumult ablaze.
It speeds to the eddies of light
That coil from the sun's gold beams.
Where by the shoreless spaces
Yearning in solitude dreams.
The wind whips the orphaned pines,
Mists in the rain unroll.
Ho, mountains, enchanted mountains.
The yearning of my soul.
2.
What is life worth without ecstasy's hours.
Void of those frenzies that men in their cold-
ness.
Christen transgression and overboldness?
Such life is as autumn-tide sodden with showers.
There is no sunlight, that shimmers and glows.
There is no blossom, that fragrances spreads,
Only a wind o'er the desolate beds.
In a piercing monotony blows.
But life is like unto spring-tide, when love
And suffering both in its ken it enfolds.
When it plucks at the stars in the azure above.
Glitter and warmness and fragrant smells
Are the bounteous guerdons that this life
holds —
All things, whose fountain from raptures of God
upwells.
MARYA KONOPNIGKA 211
MABYA KONOPNICKA.
1. NOW WHEN THE KING . . .
Now when the king went forth to arms,
Trumpets played him shrill alarms ;
Trumpets played with golden throats,
Triumph, gladness in their notes.
But when Tom went out to battle.
Clear-eyed springs began to prattle ;
Murmured, too, the fields of grain
Words of anguish, words of pain.
Bullets hiss amid the fight,
And the folk like sheaves are mown ;
While the kings most stoutly fight.
Peasants heap on heap are thrown.
Loud eagles round the banner fly.
Where the village crosses swing.
Tom is wounded, — left to die.
But unscathed returns the king.
And when through gleaming gates he rode,
Golden dawning yonder glowed ;
Bells set chiming far and wide
On the sunny country-side.
And when the peasant's pit was made.
Rustled trees in distant glade.
Chimes came through the oak-grove stealing
Of blue-bells and of lilies pealing.
212 LUCYAN RYDEL
2. FRAGMENT.
I COME not, nightingales, to join your lay,
Nor, rose, with thee, to blossom by the way.
Whereon there vanish thousands with their woe,
Borne on for ever by a gale.
Nor to arise, O sun, amid thy glow.
That sheds in equal measure peace and light,
If souls grow warm or perish in the fight, —
But, O mankind, with thee to wail !
LUCYAN RYDEL.
1. CENTAUR AND WOMAN.
The starlight wanes; with gentle warmth
bedight.
The plain afar is smooth and endless shed
To where, — like to a stream of fiery red —
'Neath greenish skies a blood-hued streak gleams
bright.
Calm. . . On the dew, hoofs' sudden, thunderous
flight;
A shrill lament, that echoless has fled,
A horse's back, white arms in mist outspread,
And in the wind, a flood^ of tresses light.
O'er the fair head and body white as snow.
Whose girth a pair of swarthy arms enlace.
Another head, dark, bearded, is bent low.
THE SYRENS 213
A centaur, who a woman in embrace
Naked and swooning, bears at frenzied pace.
In mist they pass. . . The din fades . . Earth's
aglow.
2. THE SYRENS.
>
OcEAN^ green ocean in its endless maze :
The milky moon above in azure skies ;
From far away the gleaming waves arise
Snowy with foam, with lightning sparks ablaze.
From the black rocks ascend the syrens' lays.
They rest and view the moon with tearful eyes ;
From hair and maiden-breasts the water flies,
With scales their hips are bright as rainbow-rays.
They sing; their song soars upward, wanes,
grows dim,
Like to their bodies, strange, rare, full of woes,
Born in a coral-wood 'neath ocean's brim.
Suddenly, pointing past the crag, one rose :
A sail upon the sea's dull, silvery rim ;
They sing. The sail flows, — straight to the rock
it flows.
214 LUCYAN RYDEL
3. ARISE, O SONG !
ARISE;, O song, arise from quivering strings,
Rise and resound
Through golden light that radiant evening flings
And through the rainbow, proudly sweeping
round,
Flow in the blue recesses of the skies,
Resound and rise.
Somewhere away beneath thee, lies far down
Midst lime and birch,
In orchards green, the tiny peaceful town.
And twittering birds that in the thickets perch,
And smoke, that driven by the wind is flying
From roofs low-lying.
Beneath thee lie the fields of fruitful grain,
The bands of streams,
The sapphire coloured surface of the main.
The snow of summits, that like silver gleams,
In clouds the drowsy thunder ^neath thee roaring
And eagles soaring.
O 'midst the dust of gleaming planets flow.
The spheres' wild rack,
'Midst dizzy whirling of their fiery glow
The scarlet chaos of their blood-red track.
Take flight, and by the opal radiance drowned
Rise and resound.
LEOPOLD STAFF 215
LEOPOLD STAFF.
1. THE STRANGE SHRINE.
Amid the pangs of toil, the throes of tensest
might,
Racked by a savage fire, with brow distraught,
I fain
Had welded in one mass, with more than mortal
strain,
The shapes, hues, rhythms of my every sleepless
night.
A church I built aloft, whose like none ever
viewed,
Mastering direst force of mightiness ! I raised
Therein a cyclop-statue, Ihat my chisel's crazed
Zeal out of breakage left from giant clods had
hewed.
Upon the walls I wrote the annals of my dreams. .
In strangest colour-orgies there my torment
gleams.
And all my dark-voiced anthems from the organ
flow.
Who enters there, these secret wonders shall not
know, —
And I, what they betoken, unto none can teach,
For I, who wrought, can fathom not my own
soul's speech.
216 LUDWIK SZCZEPANSKI
2. THE GOBLET OF MY HEART.
O, in how anxious wise my peaceful heart I bear,
O, with what boundless dread I bear it on
through life !
I shun the road whereon fierce battle has its lair,
I shun the sloping path, where jeopardy is rife.
But for such care as this I gave it soothing calm,
And for its sake I gained a shelter from such care,
A haven from all torment, silence, peaceful balm.
O, in how anxious wise my peaceful heart I bear.
How anxiously I bear my goblet, crystal wrought,
With it how fearfully my peaceful way I go,
Far from carouses, where in burning pangs dis-
traught.
Revellers pledge a health from cups that overflow,
Sadness has gnawed therein a rent for evermore.
But for such care I slowly, patiently have brought
The wine of tears, my heart's-blood, which
therein I pour. . .
How anxiously I bear my goblet crystal-wrought !
LUDWIK SZCZEPAIJSKI.
1. THE ARTIST TO THE WOMAN.
Thou art my harp ! Beneath the spell I shed
Thou dost intone an anthem golden -strained,
And thou art all in harmony contained,
Of song the living spring and fountain-head.
WEARINESS 217
I rule o'er thee ! My heart is moved, and I
Unto thy beauty deathlessness bestow,
That noble spirits on their knees sink low,
Humbly ecstatic as thou soar'st on high.
Demon or angel thou art unto me, —
This know : a lotus-flower or frenzy's fount.
Where I in thirst and potent yearning turn.
O thou, my ruler and my slave ! — with thee
Unto the shrine of the ideal I mount.
That thou may'st live, my heart thereon I burn.
2. WEARINESS.
Ah, 'mid the fields
Of pallid green
Wields
Crystalline night her sheen.
An ocean white
Quivers in space.
Bright
Mists waft round my resting-place.
Misty chains
Softly entwine
Strains
Of silvery harps that fade and pine.
Life's imaged wreath
Is blurred in dream
'Neath
Nirvana's dome with stainless gleam.
218 KAZIMIERZ PRZERWA TETMAJER
Ah, with this haze
Showered pearly tears their chimings
merge.
Glaze
Steeps me adream, now I have gained the
verge. . .
KAZIMIERZ PRZERWA TETMAJER.
1. SONG OF THE NIGHT MISTS.
Softly^ softly, let us wake not streams that in the
valley sleep.
Let us with the wind dance gently o'er the spaces
wide and deep.
Let us like a mighty garland round the moon
ourselves entwine,
That our bodies, filled with radiance, in a rain-
bow-hue may shine.
Let us quaff the roar of torrents that are merged
into the lake.
And the gentle noise of firs and of the pine-trees
in the brake.
Balmy scent of blossoms blooming on the moun-
tains let us drink ;
Filled with music, fragrance, colour, let us rise
to heaven's brink.
Softly, softly, let us wake not streams that in the
valley sleep.
Let us with the wind dance gently o'er the
spaces wide and deep.
ON THE LONELY KOAD 219
Lo, a star falls ! — Let us fly and hold it fast in
our embrace,
Let us fly to greet it, ere 'tis shattered, leaving
not a trace.
With the milky down, the filmy coat of darkness
let us play,
With the plumage of the night- owls wheeling
upwards and away.
Let us speed to catch the flitter- mouse, so softly
flying past.
E'en as we, and in our tiny meshes let us hold
him fast.
Let us flit from peak to peak, like to gently
swaying bridges.
By the shafts of starlight fastened to the corners
of the ridges.
And upon them rests the wind that for a moment
bates its soaring.
Ere afresh it rends us down and drives us
onward, dancing, roaring !
2. ON THE LONELY ROAD.
On my spirit's chords thy fingers
Thou, O tempest, lay.
The dream that 'mid deep water lingers,
'Mid bright dawning, play.
Play the strains from pasture streaming.
From the drowsy pines ;
Play what in misty chasm dreaming
Round the rainbow twines.
220 KAZIMIERZ PRZERWA-TETMAJER
What most calm, most hid, is vanished
To some secret lair,
Tempest, what is farthest banished,
To my spirit bear.
3. CZARDAS (A FRAGMENT).
Hail^ O gypsy fiddler, hail !
A czardas is my pleasure !
'Cello, groan, and fiddle, wail
In wild exultant measure.
All the grief my soul doth sway,
All the woes and ills
All into thy fiddling lay
Ho ! a czardas to me play,
Gypsy from the hills.
All the grief my soul doth sway,
Proudly laid to rest
All into thy fiddling lay
Ho ! a czardas to me play,
With wild exultant zest.
Mountain blood flows in our veins.
Both our souls are dire ;
Quell my anger with thy strains,
All my scorn and ire.
Hearken to the forest cry, —
From afar it rings ;
Play e'en as the forest plays
When the tempest thro' it strays ;
From the bow let fibres fly,
Tears flow from the strings.
CZARDAS (A FRAGMENT) 221
Ho ! ne'er let me meet my doom
Down within the lea ;
Nor may I find on earth a tomb,
Death's laughing-stock to be.
On the granite I would find
Rest, where rocks are still ;
Cradled by the weeping wind
I would sleep my fill.
May the gloomy pine-trees sigh,
Verdant branches swaying ;
Clouds in clusters hover nigh,
A rainbow crown displaying.
There the mighty eagles soar
Loudly onwards sweeping ;
From the granite gates there pour
Mighty waters weeping.
i6
CZECH :
PETB BEZKUC.
1. THE PITMAN.
I DiG^ under the earth I dig ;
Boulders glittering like the scales of a serpent I
dig;
Beneath Polsk^ Ostrava I dig.
My lamp is quenched, upon my brow has fallen
My hair, matted and clammy with sweat ;
My eyes are shot with bitterness and gall ;
My veins and my skull are clouded with vapour j
From beneath my nails gushes forth crimson
blood ;
Beneath Polsk4 Ostrava I dig.
The broad hammer I smite upon the pit ;
At Salmovec I dig,
At Bychvald I dig, and at Petfvald I dig.
Hard by Godula my wife freezes and whimpers,
Famishing children weep at her bosom ;
I dig, under the earth I dig.
Sparks flash from the pit, sparks flash from my
eyes;
At Dom-brovd I dig, at Orlov^ I dig.
At Poremba I dig and beneath Lazy I dig.
THE PITMAN 223
Above me oyerhead rings the clatter of hoofs,
The count is riding through the hamlet, the coun-
tess with dainty hand
Urges on the horses and her rosebud face is
smiling.
I dig, the mattock I upraise ;
My wife, livid-faced, trudges to the castle,
Craving for bread, when the milk has dried up in
her breasts.
Good-hearted is my lord,
Of yellow masonry is his castle.
Beneath the castle is dinning and bursting the
Ostravice.
By the gates two black bitches are scowling.
Wherefore she went to the castle to pester and
beg?
Grows rye (5ii my lord's field for the drab of a
pitman?
At HruSov I dig and at Michalkovice.
What will betide my sons, what will betide my
daughters.
On the day when they drag out my corpse from
the pit?
My sons shall go on digging and digging,
At Karvinna digging ;
And my daughters, — how fares it with daughters
of pitmen?
224 PETR BEZRUC
How if one day I should fling my accursed lamp
into the pit,
And stiffen my bended neck,
Clench my left hand and stride forth and onward,
And in a sweeping curve from the earth to the
skyline upwards
Should upraise my hammer and my flashing
eyes,
Yonder beneath God's sunshine !
2. THE HIDEOUS SPECTRE.
Ugh. . . 'tis a hideous phantom !
So say the justices of the golden city.
So says the sage leader of the people.
Patriot ladies shake their dainty heads.
So says Rothschild and Gutman, Count Larys
and Vlcek,
And his Lordship Marquis G6ro, —
When from the throng of the seventy thousand
I rose up aloft. So did they smite me with a
whip !
Like to the Vitkovice furnaces blazed my single
eye,
A bloodstained gown fluttered from my
shoulders.
Upon one I bore the German school.
Upon the other I bore the Polish church,
In my right hand the heavy hammer I bore
(My left was struck off by a boulder of coal,
My eye was scorched out by the blaze of a flame)
THE HIDEOUS SPECTRE 225
And in my heart were the curses and hatred of
seventy thousand.
God knows, I am hideous !
From me the stench of a corpse is wafted,
Upon hand, upon foot, my flesh is bursting ;
Knowest thou the forges at Baska? So my eye
blazes,
A bloodstained gown flutters from my shoulders,
In my right hand the pitman's hammer I bear,
My left was struck off by a boulder of coal,
My eye was scorched out by the blaze of a flame —
Upon my back squat a hundred murderers from
Modrd
(Like savage rats they gnaw into my neck)
Upon my hips squat a hundred Jews from
Polsk^,— *
Jeer ye, my God, jeer ye ! Such my array,
I, Petr Bezru6, Bezruc of T§§ln,
Bard of an enslaved nation.
Why are the youth of Vltava f becomes as a
captive flittermouse?
Did not the Romans upraise Spartacus as leader.
So shall I stand, — long since have perished my
nation, —
A hundred years shall I stand with my brow
upraised to the skyline.
With my smitten neck shall I touch the azure,
I, Petr Bezru6, Ahasuerus of the Czech con-
science.
Hideous phantom and bard of a bygone nation.
*Galicia. +The Moldau, on which Prague is situated.
226 PETR BEZRUC
3. VRBICE.
Beneath Bohumin, where the speech of my
grandsires has ceased to resound,
And amid HruSov, where smoke issues from a red
factory,
My lord's factory, where we breathe hard and
hardly,
Thou liest, my hamlet, with the wooden chapel.
Decayed are the huts, upon whose roofs the moss
grows rankly;
Four poplars show Christ on the cross.
Thus
They thrust a crown of thorns on my brow at
Bohumin,
Nailed my hands at Ostrava, at T^Sln they
pierced through my heart,
At Lipiny they gave me vinegar to drink.
By Lys^ they pierced my feet with a nail.
One day, ah, one day, thou wilt come unto me,
Thou maiden with dusky and lustreless eyes,
Who bearest a poppy in thy hands.
Still shall the whip resound, still shall they
hound us down
Beneath Bohumin and at Hru§ov, at Lutyii, at
Baska,
No more do I hear, what shall befall me there-
after.
What shall befall me when all has an end.
227
4. 1.
I AM the seer of the folk by the Bezkyds ;
God gave me not to them. He heeds but the
country
Where gold of the corn stretches up to the sky-
line,
Where pansies are fragrant, forget-me-nots
blossom,
Where cymbal and fiddle make music for dances,
Where cities are broad and castles majestic,
Treasure-filled churches and skiffs on the river,
Trusting in heaven, and gladness and glee.
He whom God had condemned to a sulphury
chasm.
He whose lips in their starkness no prayer ever
uttered,
Sat on a crag with a time-old defiance.
He stared with an eye that was murky as night-
fall,
'Neath the hush of the Bezkyds and 'neath Lysd
Hora.
A century's grip, the yoke that has humbled
The collier's neck as a bough in the bending,
Turbulent grasp of the foreigner, dragging
228 PETE BEZRUC
The vanishing speech from the lips of the
children,
The sign of betrayal, of hands in entreaty,
— For a hundred years' span his gaze it had
haunted —
Stirred up a demon.
He smote at the boulder.
Down from the crag leapt the hideous prophet.
Nurtured from serfdom, from blood of betrayal ;
He sobbed at the moon and he railed at the sun-
shine.
With a clench of his fist he threatened the
heavens.
And each of the slayers, though golden their
lustre.
And though at their feet were bowed down as to
godheads
Yonder at T^Sln the colliery bondsmen.
He clutched at the dust in his wrath and defiance,
The bounty for life that the demon had given
him, —
Down from the crag leapt I !
(ii.)
In August, when sunrays are ruddy and slanting.
When spurtings of heat ooze out from the
boulders.
The Mor^vka torrent is parched in its courses,
I 229
Below are uplifted the arms of the miners,
The blacksmiths are pounding the iron in its red-
ness,
On the fields that stretch onwards at Kr4sn4, at
Prazma,
Women bow down in the glow of the sunshine.
I roused myself up from this peaceable people.
Even whose cradle was guarded by serfdom.
Even whose childhood was fettered by bondage.
Ill-plighted scion of miners and blacksmiths ;
I sped me from Ostrava, Witkowitz, Ba§ka,
From Prydlant, from Orlovd, Dombrovd, Lazy,
I flung in the pit my hammer and mattock,
I left in the field my mother and sister,
I snatched from its hook my grandfather's fiddle,
My tune I began.
Once, haply, resounded
Strains of delight from it, youth and affection.
Three strings were rended.
I flung from the church the foreigner's preacher.
From the foreigner's school I beat out the master ;
By night I enkindled my woods they had taken ;
The hare I entrapped in my overlord's coppice.
They dragged me to TeSln, God tangled my senses.
'Neath Lys^ I play to the goats and the squirrels.
Beneath the red ash -tree to sparrows that perch
there.
From hamlet to hamlet in heat I have wandered,
230 PETE BEZKUC
In heat and in cold, *mid snow and 'mid rainfall.
I have played behind hedges and played beneath
windows ;
Only a single string has my fiddle,
The heavy sigh of the seventy thousand.
That have perished 'neath LysA, hard by Bohu-
min;
They have perished amid their wrenched-away
pinewoods,
In the wrenched-away Bezkyds slowly they
perish,
They in Sumbark have perished, in Lutyfi have
perished.
In Datyne perish, in DStmarovice,
They in Poremba perished, they in Dombrova
perish.
A stirring has come o'er the seventy thousand ;
Long ago on the Olza was pitched an encampment,
Far have we yielded beyond the Lucyna,
Crossing to Morava, beyond the Ostravice,
A nation of silence, a stock that is gone.
As David in front of the ark, so before them
Like a mad snake to the sound of the reed-pipe.
Doth dance the quaint bard of the seventy
thousand,
The Bezkyd Don Quixote, with juniper spear-
shaft,
Armour of moss and a helmet of pine-cones,
I 231
A mushroom for shield, and he peeps from the
spinney,
Eager to seize on the stern arm of judgment,
The knight's tawny sword in the golden- wrought
corselet.
I, Petr Bezru6, the Bezruc of T6§in,
Vagabond fiddler and piper of madness,
Lunatic rebel, and mettlesome songster.
Ill-omened owl on the turret of T^SIn,
I play and I sing, while the hammers make
thunder
From Witkowitz, Frydlant, and under Lipiny.
Around are rich men of a faith that I know not,
(O Petr BezruC, how lovest thou them !)
Men who have names that are lordly and peerless,
Haughty as stars and lustrous as godheads ;
(O Petr BezruS, who shattered your home?)
Around there are women in velvet, in satin ;
Around there are men, glorified, mighty,
In the city of gold, by the side of the Danube,
Around there are poets, from Vltava's marges.
The lovers of women, as Paris has bidden.
The string in despair 'neath the bow is aquiver,
The heavy sigh of the seventy thousand ;
I sing to the stones and I play to the boulders,
I play and I sing, — will ye give me a kreutzer?
232 OTAKAR BREZINA
OTAKAR BREZINA.
1. A MOOD.
Faint with the heat, a murmur on the calm
branches falls,
Motionless hanging, while in grievous intervals
The forest breathed, oppressed ; sap in a bitter
tide
From the burst herbage let crude-savoured
fragrance glide.
'Neath the unmoving trees pale faintness sought
a place,
Sat by my side and breathed forebodings in my
face,
Grief of the ceaseless question in my eyes
immersed.
And with my soul in speech of lifeless words
conversed.
The sun's o'erripened bloom quivered in glows of
white.
Quailed in the dusk of boughs and 'mid blue
leaves took flight
With listless calm's mute wane of strength; in
mosses hid
It smouldered, lulling me in weariness amid
A bath of mystic breath, as though 'neath waves 1
lay,
And from my opened veins blood softly oozed
away.
'' The Mystic Distances " (1897)
ROUNDELAY OF HEARTS 233
2. ROUNDELAY OF HEARTS.
Ever with equal
Raising and sinking of pinions •
In postures higher and higher
Repeated
Above the burden of earth
Prevails the glory of soaring.
Spirit voices are chanting the paths of grace,
Like birds encircling their whilom nests,
In magical gardens of enchantments,
O mystical husbandman !
Hear ye the secret seething of blood? Simmer of
ripening ferment
Dazing the senses? Feverish chiming in dark-
ness of hives?
Grievous music of hearts, attuned by the ages like
strings
For starry harmony?
Wailing of strings too tensely wound, rended
apart?
And scouring all worlds, the fiery cadence.
Compassing seraphic harmony?
Baffling remembrance of m\Tiads in glorious
embrace,
Ere this visible cosmos blossomed with heavy
splendour
Amid infinities?
234 OTAKAR BREZINA
Signals of return, awaited by all beings of earth,
Mustering the brotherhood of huntsmen
In mocking labyrinths deep in the forest of
dreams?
In the grief of multitudes over blood-stained
fields,
In the anguished blenching of usurpers,
In the secret victories of woman,
Like flames on a thousand-armed lustre.
At every opening of doors, by which the awaited
approach.
In a gust of spirit-music
Hearts are aquiver.
Hail to you arrivals !
Vintages of our most potent grapes
Mark the path for you !
Black, charred traces of our fires.
Where we have sat beneath the sparkling of
heavenly lights.
In silence of night, singing of your advent;
Hallowed tokens.
Which in the language of nations destined to
perish
We have graven on vertical scutcheons of rock,
Ruined arches of triumphal gates
Of our rulers.
Temple -obelisks hidden beneath
Deposit of ages. —
ROUNDELAY OF HEARTS 235
Because of the secret of grief, of death, and of
new birth
Blissful is life !
Because of the invisible presence of the great and
holy among our kin
Who wander in our midst in gardens of light
And from the f arness of all ages converse with our
souls
Graciously,
Blissful is life !
Because of the kingly gratitude of the vanquished,
Who trustingly lays his head upon the bosom
Where thy radiance sings more potently.
Because of embrace of foes in enchantment of our
loftiest season.
Blissful is life !
Because of celestial fragrance of newly-unfolded
blossoms
In rapture of song, in glory of kisses.
Blissful is life !
Because of sublime weariness of builders.
Blissful is life !
Because of the starry spirit-gaze
Begirding earth on all sides together ;
Crystal solitudes of the poles, of earliest ages, of
ancient mountains, of statute, of number ;
Silent oceans of blossoming light, of happiness,
harvests, and night-fall ;
236 OTAKAR BREZINA
Feverish tropical gardens of blood, of thirst, and
of princely dreamings ;
The burden of all fruits ripened by suns visible
and invisible
And that clamour for tempests and culling ;
Seething of bee-swarms before dispersing; con-
tests of nations through centuries ;
Harmonious soaring of earth in the splendid
curve of its orbit, and in earthquakes ;
Azure mirrors of heaven even above the isles of
them accursed by leprosy,
Chalk mountain-ranges where oceans once
thundered
And where once again they shall thunder,
Sparkling of insects in forests of grass,
Sparkling of worlds in infinities.
Sparkling of thought in spirit herbages of the
unknown.
Because of the delicate smiling of eyes undeceived
by the gigantic Hallucination,
Blissful is life !
Because of blood that gushes from age to age out
of the sinewy arms
Upraising the load of the past like hinges of
prison-portals !
Because of the sublime cause of the joy of
myriads !
Because of the secret price of the death of all
brethren who died for us
EOUNDELAY OF HEARTS 237
(And all who have been, through all centuries,
upon the whole expanse of earth
Have died for us)
Because of all crops, sown by a myriad hands and
yet ungarnered !
Because of the alluring gleam and perils of all
unvoyaged oceans !
Because of every span of earth that is destined as
the battle-field of our victories,
And is therefore secretly marked with blossoms
and gold !
Because of all beauty yet unkindled upon
countenances,
Unatoned guilt, stones unchanged into bread.
Wealth still unbestowed upon brethren, kisses
still waiting for lips,
Blissful is life !
Because of the outcry of the desolate heart
When it exults from its anguish like a straying
bird
That has found a singing multitude of brethren,
Blissful is life !
Because of gusts, cataclysms, tempests!
Paroxysms of love and desire !
f >nslaughts of spirits !
Ceaseless ardour and thirst of uniting endeavour !
Because of our mystical sharing
In labour of all conquerors.
Who mark all happenings as a flock for the shear-
ing
17
238 OTAKAR BREZINA
With the branded token of their destiny,
Ruling over ardour and sorrow of myriads
And dispatching death to their fields as a gleaner
And to their quarries as a hewer of stone for their
building
(As a multitude in amazement gazing to a single
point
They leave the ages behind them ;
And kingdoms, like ships, upon which mariners
have leapt from the shore,
Sway beneath their poise even to capsizing)
Because of the mighty bliss of being mauled as a
billow
By the surge of a majestical ocean of brethren
And of spurting up in the crest of foam like a
sprig of white blossom
At the buffeting against cliffs of the promised
land.
Because of hidden spring-tides of harmony
Set in the woven fabric of all things
Like butterfly-wings of the opalescent azure at
evening,
Asparkle with the scaliness of stars.
Blissful is life !
Because of the approaching advent of the radiant
mortal of mystery.
Who alone among myriad brethren that shall be
and have been.
Conqueror over space.
THE HANDS 239
Shall change the earth from pole to pole after thy
sacred will
And by thought that from submissive suns
Has learnt deftness and dances and tunes,
Shall sit in thy secret council
Among princes of the cosmos —
Blissful is life !
''The Hands'' (1901).
3. THE HANDS.
In dazzling whiteness of light lay the earth, like
a book of songs
Opened before our eyes. And thus did we sing :
Lo, in this moment the hands of myriads are
locked in a magical chain,
That all continents, forests, mountain-ranges,
begirds
And across silent realms of all oceans is out-
stretched unto brethren ;
In cities that loom darkly up from deep horizons,
tragical altars of sacrifice ;
And where the sun, mystical lamp, suspended low
from azure vaults,
Bloodily smoulders in smoke, circling ovt-r
stations and cathedrals.
Palaces of kings and armies, council-chambers,
prisons, amphitheatres,
And where the ardour of a myriad hearts in the
twilit heaven of spirits
240 OTAKAR BREZINA
Flares up enkindled, in feverish tempest of sweet-
ness and death,
Grains of glowing coal, uprooted by implement
of iron ; —
In frowning silences of hollows, in grievous fore-
bodings of summer,
When torrents of spring-tide powers, quenched in
the blossom, petrify as lava motionless.
Days, like toilers in secret foundries, cree]>
onward in weariness,
And in drops of sweat sparkle man and beast, a
brotherly coupling in the yoke
Under a single invisible lash, that scourges from
sunrise to sunset;
On waves of oceans and souls, where anguished
behests of sailors, clutched by the whirl-
wind,
Rotate around the masts, outdinned by triumph
of lightnings, when skies and waters
Are welded into a single element of horror and
death ; —
At all forges, looms and presses, in quarries and
subterranean shafts,
Upon building-sites of the Pharaohs, where
nations lament in bondage
And raise up gigantic tombs above uncounted
lords ; —
In the demoniac movement of wheels, pistons and
levers and overhead whirring hammers ; —
On battle-fields, in observatories, academies,
lazarets, laboratories ;—
THE HANDS 241
In workshops of masters, pondering over marble,
where slumbers
A mightier world of horror and glory and from
the fabric of age-old drowsings
Half -illumined arises in the flash of chisels and
the creative sparkle of eyes ; —
And yonder, where passion on volcanic steeps of
death lets blossom
Orange-gardens of yearning and wines and
poisons the fieriest ripen
In the feverish never- setting sun ; and where lust,
Alchemist poisoned by vapours of his vain fer-
ment,
Raves in hallucinations ; — in twilights of mystery
and music,
Where pondering draws nigh to forbidden places
and amid thunder of orchestras
In a dream of forfeited harmony metals lament
and from the strings
Is wafted a torrent of songs like the earliest
tempest of earth over weariness of souls ; —
Beneath electrifying gesture of maidens, where
sparkle dazing spring- tides,
Night-time of destiny resounds in soaring of
kisses, stars are as lips aglow
And woman, suddenly blenching at the outcry of
her hidden name, in agonies
As upon stairs oozing with blood, descends to the
enchanted wells of life.
242 OTAKAR BREZINA
Amid the wailing of ages hounded in a circle,
amid the envious seething of invisible
beings,
And with cry of horror starts back, livid, and
with grievous flaming of hands
Clasps her prey to her breasts : a life, lamenting
in contact with this sun ;
In the clashing of a thousand wills, shattered by
streams of thy mystical will,
Alone among all the myriads, man labours, count-
less hands are aquiver.
From age to age they are fixedly clutched, weary-
ing never
On both hemispheres of earth ... In tragical
triumph of dreaming
Like hands of a child they toy with the stars as
with jewels
But on awakening they grow turgid and numb,
bloodstained with murder,
Livid with chillness of ages, and amid the soar-
ing of earth, staggering over abysses,
They cling in despair to its herbage. . . Frenzied
hands of a ruthless hunter
Tracking the elements down ! Curse-laden hands
of a half- naked slave
At the scarlet forges of toil ! In clasp of
entreaty, the hands of the vanquished
Fused like sand by the blow of lightning ! And
those cleansed with tears,
Glistening, overflowing with lustre, with the
bleeding stigmas of love
THE HANDS 243
Branded for ever ! Filled with magic and balm,
with a touch of the brow reading the
thoughts of brethren
Kingly, lavishing ! Lulling into celestial solace !
Aetherized as light and unto the fruit of mystical
trees
Stretching forth with the whole universe into the
endless ! —
And our hands, enfolded amid a magical chain
of countless hands,
Sway in the current of brotherly strength, which
laps upon them from afar,
Ever more potent from pressure of ages. Un-
broken waves
Of sorrow, daring, madness, bliss, enchantment
and love
Suffuse our bodies. And in the beat of their
tempest, with vanishing senses
We feel how our chain, seized by the hands of
higher beings,
Enfolds itself in a new chain unto all starry
spaces
And encompasses worlds. — And then in answer
to the grievous question.
Concealed in dread by centuries, as a secret of
birth
Which first-born dying reveal to first-born,
We heard the roundelay of waters, stars, and
hearts and amid its strophes,
At intervals melancholy cadences, dithyramb of
worlds following one upon the other.
''The Hands'' (1901).
244 J. KAEASEK ZE LVOVIC
J. KAEASEK ZE LVOVIC
1. THE DKEAM.
Was it yesterday? Was it a hundred years since?
I know not, but very weary and infirm I was,
And my steps were the steps of a man who walks
in a dream.
And I went through darksome causeways
And vacant and empty they were, and in them the
wind moaned.
So grievously moaned . . .
And from a turret the hour chimed. . . And
meseemed,
That this voice summoned me into the
vault of a temple.
Where beneath heavy slabs with knightly
scutcheons
Slumber my ancestors . . .
Am I living or dead? I know not, but meseems,
That although these causeways are strange aitd
unknown to me,
I have wandered therein of old, —
Was It yesterday or a hundred years since?
In this or in that life?
I know not, but my gait is firm and unwavering
As the gait of a man who wanders a wonted path.
THE DKEAM 245
And I hear the creaking of door-posts,
And hands unseen are opening
Heavy portals of a gloomy palace.
And I tread the stair- way of black marble
And my steps call into the darkness
And dead spaces answer unto them —
And I stride so firmly through darkness of
passages
And pace the emptiness of ancient halls,
Ancestral halls,
At the sides of which I forebode pictures of grand -
sires
And tatters of captured banners
And rusted weapons from old-time combats.
Which savour of murder . . .
And I feel the mildew that bedecks all.
And the air, that the dead inhale.
And I see flickering in the darkness
Shadows of alarm and sorrowful crape.
And I feel how my heart is beating vehemently.
And my temples, how they are moistened with
sweat
And anguish clutches me for what I have
endured.
And what long is no more.
'' Conversations with Death ^^ (1904).
246 J. KARASEK ZE LVOVIC
2. BEETHOVEN. Adagio, op. 27.
O SORROW poignant, burdened and petrified,
O sorrow of statues, which display in temples
Their white and marble- wrought nakedness to
pilgrims,
Enter my spirit !
Enter my spirit, wearied with long living.
Rise amid fruitless and overcast days, that all in
sable,
Trail one upon the other in sluggish greyness,
Barrenly listless.
O sorrow of exalted, majestical rhythms,
O sorrow of funereal, billowing rhythms,
Where in darkened shrine the black-robed priest
Sanctifies a requiem.
Ah bitter vainness of hope ! All must end.
All vanishes, fades, congealed and chilled in
ashes.
All outlived and marred. All is wasted.
Mere shadow amid shadows.
O heaviness amid unsounding, motionless heavi-
ness.
O hand of death, laid suddenly upon the fore-
head.
O horror of ending, that at the last, sets aquiver
the body,
Which long has been dying.
BEETHOVEN 247
Calm, endless calm ! And final oblivion.
Calm of the dead, who are resting in vaults
Under a heavy slab with its arching scutcheon
Of perished kinsmen.
Calm of deadened waves on unquivering oceans,
That many a year no vessel has furrowed,
That darken in tints of metal and duskiness.
Barrenly day upon day. . .
Calm of divine pangs, withering in solitudes,
Calm of tottering crosses, blackened in the
twilight.
In decayed and unpeopled regions, abounding
With chillness of horror.
Calm of ancient ships, astray amid oceans.
Which in the North are frozen amid eternal ice,
Whose crews long have perished beneath the
masts.
Tortured by hunger.
Calm that is death's, pallid and stiffened.
As the countryside at night in the greenish moon-
rays.
Calm of all those, who have fared, but to falter
In the midst of the journey. . .
" Conversations with Death " (1904).
248 ANTONIN KLASTERSKi
ANTONIN KLASTERSKY.
FROM THE " IRONICAL SICILIAN
OCTAVES " (1913).
1. ART.
I PENNED a mighty epic poem of yore,
But afterwards observed that it was naught,
And burnt it ; but with one chant I forbore.
Which was a gem of sentiment, methought.
Later, with deeper care, I read it o'er.
And quoth : '' Its point in satire could be
caught ! "
But now — the reader gleefully may roar —
Only an epigram, in fine, IVe wrought.
2. OFFICIAL SOIRfiE AT PRINCE X's.
The prince bids welcome. Sombre garments
mate
With flash of uniforms. All ranks are here.
Some stand in clusters, others sit in state;
Flunkeys with wine and lemonade appear . . .
Heels click and clash. See some bald baron prate
His tittle-tattle. Laughter. Some get clear
In starving pangs, some empty many a plate —
Cigars cram someone's pockets at the rear.
IKONIOAL SICILIAN OCTAVES 249
3. FROM A MEETING OF THE COMMON
COUNCIL.
This worthy man will soon be fifty . . . Sirs,
I think ... in him such qualities we meet . . .
A patriot ... it everywhere occurs . . .
A house we'll buy him . . . cheaply, all com-
plete ...
I've one for sale. . . His life is full of burrs ;
Let his old age be jubilant and sweet. . .
Rank opposition noisily demurs :
'' No house ! But after him we'll name a
street !"
4. FUNERAL RITES.
He is no more, alas ! So great, so rare !
His merit gleams, a star in gloomy sky.
See, what black edges all the papers bear.
And in the streets half-mast the flags will fly.
The grateful nation ! Not an inch to spare
In sorrow's dwelling. . . Hear the widow's cry —
While round the pressmen crowds are jostling
there.
Their names for publication to supply.
250 ANTONIN KLASTERSKY
5. A QUESTION.
The critic writes : " Our art appears to me
Quite weak and wheezy in its aged distress.
Where can our epoch's youthful spirit be?
Who'll chant of spring in poems that possess
The sap of spring? Who from the grave will free
Youth, strength, with wondrous verses for their
dress?"
He wrote. And rubbing both his hands with glee
He squinted at his own book, in the press.
6. TO CZECH POETRY.
Once not a hair of yours durst slip aside;
Staidly attired, you let no tress be shown ;
But then you loosed your locks, and far and wide.
Like birch-boughs in the breezes they were
blown.
Dishevelled thus, — but there is naught to chide ;
My ample love for you has never flown,
Whether your hair be trammelled or untied, —
If but the locks you show us are your own.
JAN SVATOPLUK MACHAR 251
JAN SVATOPLUK MACHAR.
1. BROODING.
A FEW more years, — and they will drag my bones,
And let them in a charnel-house be shed.
After my melodies have hushed their tones.
Mute as a grove, whence nightingales have fled.
Will someone then the empty skull upraise
Upon his trembling hand, with Hamlet's view
Amid the cradle of my dreams to gaze,
That has to nature paid its final due?
Will he mark out each divers track of thought,
The irk of love, and all the anguish there?
And will the pallid jawbone t€ll him aught
Of laurels that this brow was fain to wear?
And will he wonder where the soul may lag
That once urged on its wings to starward flight?
Pooh ! He will mumble forth some pious tag,
And cast the livid skull away from sight !
"Confiteor'^l. (1887).
2. AUTUMN SONNET.
We in our sentimental salad-days
Loved autumn, and the leafage drooping sere,
And the descent of misty greys
On gardens growing drear.
252 JAN SVATOPLUK MACHAE
But now these things to man are dear :
The mighty sun, that on the sky-line sways
In glory ; and the days in warm career,
The glow of earth beneath his feet ablaze.
When tearful autumn roves across the land.
And everywhere a parlous mist is poured.
And every day a purgatory seems —
We gladly clutch the wine-cup in our hand ;
For there the ardour of the sun is stored,
Heat of July and bliss of summer dreams.
'' Four Books of Sonnets '' (1890-92).
3. OCTOBER SONNET.
Only an anguished melody still flows
From earth where hazes spread a veiling net. . .
In every nook the faded beauty stows
Her faded blooms, lest springtide she forget.
But the desire, as ere to gladden, glows
Within ; unchilled her inmost ardour yet.
And gaudy sa«hes round her waist she throws
And asters in her tresses she has set.
Fain would she laugh as in her bygone days —
But 'mid her wrinkles laughter takes to flight
And from them only pity, pity cries. . .
Divining this, perchance she has surmise :
A hundred tears each morn her garb displays
Shed in the anguish of her sleepless night.
^'Autumn Sonnets'' (1892).
ON GOLGOTHA 253
4. ON GOLGOTHA.
It was the third hour, when the cross was raised
Betwixt the crosses.
From their striving flushed
Upon the trampled, blood-stained earth, the
soldiers
Had sat them down. They shared the raiment out.
Then for the shirt, that had the woof throughout
They played at dice.
And many from the crowd
Approaching thither, turned their gazes upwards,
Wagging their heads, and jeering : Ho, ho, ho,
Down from the cross, — 'twas king you dubbed
yourself !
You were the one, who would destroy the temple,
And in three days would build it up afresh,
Help now yourself !
Priests also tarried there,
And there were scribes with white and flowing
beards ;
They said amongst themselves : 'Tis very true,
He would help others, let him help himself. —
And from afar were many women gazing.
Who had of old served him in Galilee,
Salome, Mary and the Magdalene ;
They to Jerusalem had fared with him.
i8
254 JAN SVATOPLUK MACHAR
Numbered with rogues, he hung upon the cross,
Naked and shorn. Upon his lash-seared body
Clung clots of blood. And on his hands and feet
The red streaks oozed, drops trickled to the earth.
With rigid stare his eyes were turned afar
Across the glittering town, the knolls and groves
To crests of peaceful hills, in whose lap lie
Blue waters of the Galilean lakes.
He bowed his head.
Then to his ear was wafted
The hum of plumage. Not his Father's angel
With quickening draught for the exhausted soul,
An unclean spirit spread his vampire-wings
And scoured the air and lighted at his side.
He could not flinch, when Satan sat him down
Upon his cross, — yea, squatted at his head,
For his tired spirit was disarmed from strife.
And Satan said : *^ O hapless sufferer,
Upon this wooden cross we meet again,
To-day, and then no more. To-day 'tis settled,
The fight fought out.
You know, three years have passed,
Since in the wilderness I bore you forth
On to a lofty peak and let you see
Strong kingdoms, all the glory of the world,
And all I promised you, if you would sink
And kneel before me. But you flouted it.
ON GOLGOTHA 255
You went to preach the coming realm of heaven
Unto the poor, the weak. To stainless hearts
You oflfered treasures of undwindling worth.
To simple souls you sought to show the way
Unto the father's glory. From men's brows
You strove to cleanse the trace of Adam's curse.
You turned to death with calm abandonment,
Like to the lamb, that opens not its mouth.
And you have shed your blood as it were dew,
So that your new- sown grain might not be
parched.
Jesus of Nazareth, behold these throngs.
That surge like billows round about your cross !
'Tis not long since, when glorified you rode
Into the town, they littered palms beneath
Your ass-colt's hoofs, and they cried unto you
Your glory, and proclaimed you David's son»
For they supposed, that now the realm of God
Was heralded, and this the longed-for time
Of milk and honey. But you flouted it.
The cozened throngs then in the wrath of
vengeance
Dinned " Crucify !" into the ears of Pilate.
And here they loiter, wagging with their heads
And jeering : Yonder hangs the King of the Jews !
Find he his own help, — he's the Son of God.
His Father hath, forsooth, forgotten him ! —
256 JAN SVATOPLUK MACHAR
The Father has forgotten.
See this sky,
Where in full glory, you have deemed, he sits :
Cloudless and radiant it softly smiles
With that blue unimpassioned smile, the same
After you, as before you. And the birds,
Scouring the air, and every living creature
That roves the earth, has lived and lives to-day
After a single law, — and that is mine.
The stronger ever preys upon the weaker.
And so with mortals too. This whole wide world
Is my domain. For I am Life itself.
I rule alone. I lurk in hearts and souls,
And none shall hound me out or banish me.
Not you, and not your Father. Your God's king-
dom
Is dream. That dream I leave to men for ever.
Under the cross, behold the Roman captain
In peaceful converse with the white-haired scribe !
So shall it ever be. These twain inherit
Your words, your dreams. The one will change
his idols.
The other his Jehovah in your name.
And in my covenant the world shall live.
Why did you scorn to take all kingdoms then,
And the world's glory from my bounteous hand?
Then your young life would not have ended here
In shameful pangs, you might have lived un-
trammelled
ON GOLGOTHA 257
To your own gladness, to the weal of myriads.
What have you brought? You sowed dispute and
death,
Yourself first victim. For your name, your
dreams,
Hundreds and hundreds yet will shed their blood
On crosses, in arenas, judgment-places.
And when it seems as though your dream has
conquered.
Then in your name, and only in your name
Shall murder thrive. As far as eye shall see
Will stand a rank of flaring stakes, whereon
Burning of victims in your name shall be.
And in your name shall frenzied wars be waged,
And in your name shall towns be set ablaze.
And in your name shall countries be laid waste,
And in your name shall malediction speak,
And in your name shall there be servitude
Of body and of spirit.
See this captain
And here, this scribe. The first will, in your
name.
Do murder and the second, in your name.
Will bless him. Millions of ill-fated men
Will forfeit for your dream their dearest portion,
Their life.
And over all the squandered blood
Your dream of the eternal realm of God,
Of heavenly glory, will go drifting on
Like a mere wraith to recompense the dead,
258 JAN SVATOPLUK MACHAE
To lure the living till the crack of doom !
Why did you scorn to take all kingdoms then
And glory of the earth? For mine is life,
I, I am life, and lord of all things here,
And age on age I lurk in hearts and souls !"
And Satan then uprising, folded out
His tawny-hued and mighty vampire-wings,
Whose girth with stirring of a tempest waxed
Dread, overwhelming. On all Golgotha,
Above the town, the valley and the hills.
Above the plain, above the distant mountains.
Above blue -watered lakes of Galilee,
Above the realms and oceans far-removed
The black and frowning mantle was outstretched.
And there was mighty gloom on all the earth,
And quaking.
And last time of all, the eyes
Of Jesus turned, and with loud voice he cried :
" Eloi, Eloi lama zabachtani !"
And breathed away his spirit. . .
"Golgotha'' (1902).
5. LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT.
Call not the surgeon, — he'll avail me naught, —
It was a goodly wound, — a devilish stripling, —
But only prop my head, that I may set
Last things in order, — As a keep-sake, have
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT 259
My steeds, lieutenant,— and be worthy of
The spirits of the beasts,— Corporal, receive
My sword, — 'tis full of stains,— but cleanse them
not.
They're the renown of it, — No priests for me, —
Too late for that, — and where's the need, at all? —
The emperor's captain hath his place in heaven, —
Yea, sure a thousand, — two, 'tis very like, —
Czech pike-men I converted to the faith
Of Kome, — likewise dispatched to hell, — for so
Need sometime was, — Upon my breast I have
A wallet with a brace of thalers, — wait
Give 'em the priests for mass, — not for my soul, —
That hath, so said I, warranty in heaven, —
But for a pike-man, — Once, — ''tis years agone, —
Father Ignatius with me, I did swoop
Upon a village, — heard the creed out, — well,
'Tis thus we drave the straying herd unto
Salvation's fount, — Inside a building sat
An aged pike-man, — he was stubborn, — laid
Hands on the book, — and on its print, — Stood out
Shook his old pate, — a lime-tree stood within
The courtyard, — and thereon I bade them hang
This errant soul, — And as they led him forth, —
He gazed at me, — Thou art a murderer,
Sir Captain, — and some day or other, at
The hour of death, — thou shalt remember me, —
— I do remember, — how the eyes he had
Were like to withered cornflowers, — yet it was
No murder, — for therein ne'er shifted ground
260 ANTONIN SOVA
Father Ignatius, — Yet for safety^s sake, —
Give ye the thalers, — that they read a mass
For that same pike-man's soul, — that when my
foot
Is set in heaven, — the carrion may not
From flames of hell look forth upon me with
Those eyes of his, — the ending, — Yea, be-
cause—
''The Apostles'' (1911).
ANTONIN SOVA.
1. ON THE HILL-SIDE.
Herb is the sweetest grass-plot for a bed.
In softest lethargy to close the eyes,
On naught to brood, nor yearn, but let the head
Droop in the grassy couch. . . Like wreckage flies
A huddled clot of clouds, that yonder soar
Behind the mountain's ridge. . . All lulls thee
here,
Insects adrone, grass, plant-stems bending o'er,
The flight of sluggish moths. . . To thee appear
Gleams as from waters, with a radiant leap.
And by thy head there stands a calm unknown.
Thou feel'st 'tis wondrous with the dead to sleep,
For Earth has cradle-ditties of her own !
''From My Country'' (1893).
FISHPONDS 261
2. FISHPONDS.
Our fishponds are as moulded silver shed
With streaks of shadow under clouded skies,
Amid green herbage of the meadow spread
Like to the country's gentle, tender eyes.
Here pines the snipe in rushes near the shores.
Here is the teal, whose greenish plumage plays
In colours of the rainbow when he soars
Far off amid the sun's bespangled blaze ;
Cooler are meadows where the sweet-flag grows,
And with the after-math its fragrance blends ;
By wavelets cooled, the air in ripples flows,
And something sighs, like grief that never ends.
" From My Country'' (1893).
3. SMETANA'S QUARTETTE ''FROM MY
LIFE."
(i.)
Out of the concert- hall, as I were drunken.
Amid the bustle of the throng I staggered . . .
The seats clattered, and the lamp-bulbs stifled
Their bluish glimmer. Mingled fragrances
Floated above the jostle of living creatures
From shawls in which the ladies wrapped them-
selves. . .
Still in the practice-room the pizzicato
Of a violin sobbed tenderly near by.
262 ANTONIN SOVA
Beneath the player's finger ; he was flushed with
The tempest of applause ; with toying lilt
Echoing laughter shook ; a lackey's voice
Trickled away, a girl's voice cooed and chirped ;
And a broad stream of townsfolk suddenly
Began to surge along the corridors
With carpet-muflSed gait . . .
The night was clear,
The azure frosty sky breathed on my face,
And piercing was the glisten of the snow.
There in a torrent from the staircase swayed
Blurred masses of a motley city crowd.
Cabs clattered on and carriage doors were
slammed.
Somewhere the ambling trot of horses faded.
Merged in bewildering hubbub of the streets.
(ii.)
Oh, marvellous, oh magical quartette,
Setting the soul astir as genius can.
Rousing the spirit on to manful strivings !
Its mighty breath still fares along with me ;
Ardour, youth's tempest, blitheness, melancholy,
Laden with wistfulness and suffering,
Dreams of young escapades and languishing,
Enticing musters of love-brimming words,
Placid noblesse, and then harsh storms again.
Singly the strains unloosen in my soul ;
And then, — that note that ends itself in horror.
As if it were left hanging on a height ! . . .
SMET ANA'S QUARTETTE 263
(iu.)
He quitted life with staid submissiveness,
When he had heard but this one lofty tone,
When voice of friends he caught not, nor the
thunder
Heard of the orchestra, nor had he heard,
Even if earth were riven with a crash, —
He who heard not the tune of his own poor hands.
When the lights glowed above a marvelling
throng, —
He who heard not acclaim nor mockery,
Only with sorely ailing brain tracked all,
And to its time-beats let his baton swing
Above the busy giant orchestra :
And tracing out the agile, speechless movements,
In sheer conception of the manifold strains.
He stood there in his dead, unmoving calm. . .
(iv.)
O master, master, this thy mighty song,
Wherewith we go to trade in mighty marts,
Whereby we thrust our culture on a booth,
God's pity, is unended, still unended :
In it is lacking still thy final outcry
Of one, who in the treachery of darkness
Is grappling with his dreadful malady
And cravingly he snatches at achievement.
Snatches at moments in his soundless void,
264 ANTONIN SOVA
Snatches at light in his dismantled brain,
And gropes for cadences, but on a sudden,
They slink away like sullen, sneering lackeys,
Pillage the palace, setting it aflame.
Abandon it and leave their master crazed
And in a fearful bankruptcy of mind
Stretched headlong in some room upon the floor...
O master, in this deathless song of thine
There is no trace of gibing at the dogs
Who dragged thee in their crassness and abase-
ment
Setting a felon seal upon thy ruin, —
It does not rail at them who welcomed thee
From Goteborg with craven buffetings, —
O master in this deathless song of thine,
The dreadful end of thy benighted brain
That dashed itself against a madhouse wall.
The ending of the end is lacking yet,
'Tis lacking there, ^tis lacking there, O master.
My master, pardon, but ^tis lacking there. . .
"A Shattered Soul" (1896).
4. TO THEODOK MOMMSEK.
To you, who have treacherously assailed my
nation, covetous dotard.
Brutish, overweening ! To you, on the brink of
the grave.
Arrogant bastard of Koman emperors and
conquering Germania ;
TO THEODOK MOMMSEN 265
To you, dotard, blinded by vainglory,
I chant the infuriate song of a barbarian, aroused
by the smiting of hoofs.
With metallic buffetings
Scornfully I smite your enwrinkled visage,
O bestial fanatic of relentless Kaiserdom ;
Your shrivelled temples I smite, your turgid
Neronic lips I smite.
Covered with foaming of impotent fury.
Was this the " reason " you discovered amid the
ruins of Kome,
Which now seeks to lay in store of flesh for the
slaughter-house.
And to shatter the brains of manacled and van-
quished victims?
For your unified Imperium to humiliate bonds-
men in hordes.
Whom gladly you viewed trampled upon in
triumphal arrays,
Humiliated by Roman Caesars, the bondsmen in
hordes.
Meet to be fashioned into saleable myrmidons to
enrol for the Imperium.
Arrogant spokesman of slavery !
Do you behold naught else but the blossoming
peaks of your country,
And all beyond would you leeringly crunch
Beneath war-chariots of the conquerors
And their uncouth tread?
266 ANTONIN SOVA
Now, after battle- triumphs of your Imperium,
You hankered to enslave what of Europe re-
mained,
To enslave, to enslave, woefully to enslave,
Bondsmen predestined for seizure, dung for
enriching of soil,
Beasts to be yoked to the chariot of triumph,
And from them you deemed barbarians, to break
in levies
For the Imperium, your insatiate Imperium.
But, even as once, long ago
We flouted the flabby wisdom of your Luther,
Eeformer purveying peace unto contentedly fat-
tened townsmen.
Begetting children with God-abiding spouses.
And stifling freedom,
So now do we flout your crude, senile wisdom !
It is enkindled not by sorrow of us, nor of all
humanity ;
Therein is not the purity that perishes for its
faith ;
Therein is not the passion wherewith the martyr
of Constance* was ablaze ;
And therefore, brutish dotard,
Grown hoary in the service of your baneful
Imperium,
From whose relentless wisdom are hidden the
mysteries of maltreated spirits,
•Hus.
TO THEODOR MOMMSEN 267
What avail you now your lore and your revered
gray hairs?
Your sorry wisdom has conceived not the light of
righteousness,
Nor the gladness of youthful nations in their own
destining ;
Has conceived not that an ancient culture durst
not enslave,
Would it warm and illumine,
And not be but a chafing and burdensome
Monstrous millstone about the neck of a galley-
slave !
What avail you revered gray hairs, since you
babble senile saws,
O dotard, tottering on the brink of the grave ;
Since you have forgotten to proclaim unison and
humaneness.
Destruction of tyrannies and of hatred ;
Since you have forgotten to reconcile the world
and its frail being,
And to utter a prayer for all-accomplishing com-
passion?
What avail you revered gray hairs, since you
drudge for darkness,
In an age when a myriad slaves hunger with an
all-human suffering
And clamour at the portals of retrieval !
Since through the causeways of ancient cities
range spirits of anarchy
Scoffing at your Kaiserdom ;
268 ANTONIN SOVA
Since from down -trodden bondsmen of all castes
and all nations^
Flicker the first torches of humanity,
Even as from amid the barbarians impaled upon
stakes by Nero,
Blazed forth the lustre of Christendom !
Over your grave, that our grandsons shall forget
not,
They will glitter, torches ablaze, unto your sight-
less eyes.
And will lay bare your words, wherein is sealed
the downfall of your race ;
— But ere that, I, with the retaliation of disdain
Welling up from the sorrowful soil of this cower-
ing age.
Advance to the rim of your grave.
And fling it upon you, despotical dotard.
That with this grinding reproach you may be
burdened eternally, eternally. . .
(1897).
5. THE RIVER.
It was like to a child, — slender the springlet
Glistening among the coarse-grained sand —
In gigantic, unpeopled stillness
Old Earth brought it forth
Under the trees coloured with mistletoe.
Under twilit depths of shaggy firs.
In gigantic stillness it sang through the grass
From serried wedges of lime-stone rocks.
THE KIVER 269
Unwieldy black pine-stems were lying
Like transparencies of the yellowish sun
Upon its crinkled surface.
Their bloated roots were like swarthy leeches,
And wavering shadow came only to drink of it. . .
While in glory it sang and in rhythm of life. . .
O passing winsome it was in the murk of the
night.
When forests were ending their song unto it,
Into the moon-lit plain it poured from the hollow,
HoAV the black clattering mills seized it
Craftily into their unwieldy circlings,
That, grievously crushed into lissom dust,
It screeched and simmered, stormily tumbling !
As if stunned, upon tip-toe, it slipped through the
grass.
As if stunned, softly upon tip-toe.
To sorrow-girt coverts, where the silver of the
moon
Soldered the spare birches to their ground-plots
And osiered fields in the twilit hazes.
O, was it fain to set the glorious vaultage of
heaven
And all creation glittering in warm tranquility,
The song of the stars chanted to the Unknown,
Aquiver upon its surface
And glory of night ere birth of the day
And its golden foot-print?
»9
270 ANTONIN SOVA
Came forth then the first tortured mortal
Unto the radiant sheen of shifting vapours,
From mists the vagrant hobbled over the
pastures . . .
Slipped his bloodstained tatters over his feet
Livid with foulness and canker, in which Death
squatted,
He plunged his running wounds therein. . .
And the sky-line grew dim and dim afar,
Thickening mists in the fens, where a bird
faltered,
Canker of graveyards, stench of mortal remains
Wafted from the banks a burial requiem. . .
Through gulleys leaked foul contagions,
Mouldering in quagmires, from the rended lining
Like ulcers they burst forth therein, meadows.
Water-logged marsh-land they lulled there to
slumber.
In the wake of the wind sobbed a burial
requiem. . .
Here it floated into the city cess-pool. . . Windows
Hurled their sheds of light upon its surface
And magic of homesteads was trailing eerily
On the wrinkled waters
And trees dipped their sickly green, garlands
loosened from cornices
Straggled down in the tarnished mirror of the
waters.
THE RIVEK 271
Here mockeries of mortal being were revelling,
Here shrieked the song of unmolested espousals,
Writhing orgies of man the carnal
Of herds that are huddled and wedged together
By sharing the pangs of inherited sins.
Days, straggling levies of muffled martyrs,
Breathed out plague on the torrid paving
With stench of serried throngs in decay, —
Of beings unperished. . .
Despair cheek by jowl with rejoicing glittered,
fruit of their thoughts in their gaze
Like lamps consumed by tardy ages
Of dismantled souls on a lengthy journey,
Beings remoulding their birth in creation. . .
And roaring from the city cess-pool, it carried
The first poisoned corpses in a greenish slime
It carried them forth, roaring a burial requiem
To torrid sands of days without hope. . .
Whither away, O my soul? Already I behold
New Sorrows plunging in thee from afar
Pinnacles of their loftiest turrets. . .
'' Overmastered Sorrows " (1897).
272 ANTONIN SOVA
6. SONGS OF THE FIRST MAY-TIDE.
(V.)
The son of motion,
The son of radiance and airy spaces,
From his youth in the eddies of life,
He, whose heart was bleeding
With tenderness and with manly strength,
When in the night he stood musing
Over the town that has perished,
He heard this funeral chant :
O miserere, O miserere.
Woe worth the land that has perished. . .
Over the silenced homesteads
It sang in a graveyard-stillness :
O miserere, O miserere. . .
The weary, un venturesome and humble
Have withdrawn them from life. . .
Here in over-eloquent muteness
Is the desert of Europe with artless beauty. .
The grass withers, that her bondsmen
May be bedded the softer
In days and in nights of hunger. . .
How rich here the waxing of pine-woods :
There is need of coflflns for all the people. . .
Upon the pigmy acres
Is reared only the tillage
Of a time of faintness and death. . .
SONGS OF THE FIRST MAY-TIDE 273
O miserere, O miserere,
O miserere. . .
Yet twain in this place have splendour :
The burials and the sunset. . .
(VI.)
The son of motion, thus hearing,
The son of radiance pondered with sorrow :
Wherefore doth Europe passionately embrace
Only the soothly alive,
Only the venturesome, strong and self -certain
Peering into the most sequestered corners,
Those, scouring the oceans,
Those, cruising on tracks of the globe,
Those, blithely trafficking with settlements,
Those, mustering courage, unshipping wallets of
gold
Yonder in regions, where the armyurers sing
Amid passionate roaring of blow-pipes,
Where newly-moulded cannon are upreared.
Where in havens of war dusky vessels tower
aloft? . . .
O, long since was the son of motion witness :
That Europe doth passionate embrace
Only those, who in sooth are alive.
Those victorious after dreadful combats,
Those, loving fruits of the centuries' lore,
Those, who in contest have won them a place.
274 OTAKAR THEER
Yea, if need be, with dagger in hand,
Ere the fateful scenes are in action
Behind a suddenly-lifted curtain. . .
^^ Three Chants of To day and To-morrow'^ (1905)
OTAKAR THEER.
1. CITY.
City !
With our young dreams we have set foot within
thee
Bewitched by the legend that hung in the gold of
thy turrets.
Half foreboding thy beauty, thy marvellous life,
Whereof nurses told us tales, yonder afar, by the
country-side.
Thou hast shown us thine unmatched counten-
ance, us untempted
Hast thou taken unto thine embraces and lulled
with a smile.
What thou didst murmur to us on sluggish after-
noons, was :
Mighty deceit, that slumbered in thine un-
bounded gaze.
Then while the countryside awoke to glittering
mornings.
Then while peasants sowed grain into the dusky
soil.
Then while through firmaments surged a deluge
of mighty love,
TEMPEST 275
Thou didst take from us all, that was ours to
take,
Our simple hearts, full of dreams and beauty,
Our strength, our freedom, our faith, peaceful
and assuaging.
^' Campaigns Against the Ego " (1900).
2. TEMPEST.
Roar, spring-tide tempest ! Bellow, din,
Thy thousand hoofs shall clatter !
Roar on in sorrow, headstrong grief, —
Thy woe is a goodly matter.
Spur on the clouds and trample the wood,
Canter over the river.
Dazingly every buffet of thine
In my every vein shall quiver.
As brothers we sink to watery depths
From heaven at our sorrow's lashing.
Destroying and rending, leap by leap.
Brothers akin we are crashing, —
And we know not whither and why.
" AngiUsh and Hope'^ (1912).
276 JAROSLAV VRCHLICKY
JAROSLAV VRCHLICKY.
1. ECLOGUE VII.
How can there be a heart by hope unthrilled?
Hark to the sound
Of black-birds,; nests around
With mighty drops of dew are filled.
The forest-lovers in calm, rock-strewn ways
How joyously were beaming !
Their dreaming
Was knit by doves amid their smiling lays.
Quoth they : " Who can us here behold?"
Then sped
The sun, and quivering shed
Upon their clinging lips his gold.
** Who knows of all the vows that we have
uttered?"
Then from a flower drew nigh
A butterfly
And 'mid their hair entangled fluttered.
Who would of sun, of butterfly beware?
For see,
Beneath each darkening tree
A very idyll they prepare.
" Eclogues and Songs " (1880).
EVENING IN PARIS 277
2. EVENING IN PARIS.
In the drab air what sultry surfeit lies !
Still through sparse leaves the sunset flares, and
throws
Sparks in the river; a last lustre glows
In windows, as it were in dying eyes.
And lamp with lamp down yonder, ghost-like,
vies
A hundred-fold ; like distant thunder-blows
Carts rumble on ; like crags in shattered rows
Pillars of Trocadero dusk-ward rise.
Twilight has faded ; all is ashen-gray.
The spectral arches of the bridges wane.
Yet life still pulses there in seething husk.
Whither are bound these thousands on their way?
The soul in this strange eddy quails with pain,
And likewise shrouds it in the ashen dusk.
" What Life Gave" (1883).
3. A LEGEND CONCERNING MODERATION
When Brother Zeno after meat was sleeping,
A mountain-gnome stood in his cell's drab haze,
Where through the window, with its thousand
lays
The forest peeped and fragrances were sweeping.
278 JAROSLAV VRCHLICKf
Warily, not to mar the monk's repose,
He like a shadow to the table stole
And drank a lusty bumper from the bowl
With relish ; through the window back he goes.
Then the good Zeno, waking, seized again
The tankard, but amazed to find it bare,
Drowsily shook his head, right well aware
How deep a draught he ere his sleep had ta'en.
Then he feigned slumber craftily, and snored
In token of sound sleep ; the gnome had crept
To drink, when up the monk in anger leapt,
But as he seized his ear, with laughter roared :
" Thou rascal, thou misshapen imp of hell."
" Hold, man of God," the gnome was whispering.
His yoice like withered leaves, " so small a thing
Begrudge me not, when thou hast drunk so well."
*' Rich recompense upon thee I will shower."
Then loosing hold, '* What say'st thou?" Zeno
spake.
And from that time, the gnome his thirst would
slake
From the monk's tankard in the self- same hour.
The years slipped by, the brothers passed away,
But Zeno like a bloom-filled apple-tree.
Though silvery-haired, felt not his years, but he
Was still content and affable and gay.
THE INGLE NOOK 279
He kept his hundredth year, and now he sees
The boon wherewith the gnome fulfilled his task ;
When abbot he became, he broached a cask,
His thirsty crony from the hills to please.
And when with tear- dimmed eye he sank in
thought
Of the dead brothers, " Had ye all " he spake
" Had with you such a gnome, his thirst to slake,
Ye all to-day your praise to God ha4 brought."
" Of strokes and rheumatisms surely free
Your hearts and faces would be rose-bedight.
Drink, gnome ! For moderation hath more might
Than holy water and all sorcery."
" Butterflies of All Colours " (1887).
4. THE INGLE NOOK.
Two gnarled old willows o'er the water droop,
And in it wet their boughs that trail and droop ;
A mighty poplar guards the vale's retreat ;
The cooling current flows around its feet ;
A hazel hedge, whose tangle bars the way
Shelters a maid with glowing lips, — she may
Be six years old ; her little feet are bare ;
Upon a cow she turns a blue-eyed stare,
And in her sunburnt hands a grass-bunch lies.
The cow has fixed her big and trusting eyes
Upon the maid, and mutely thanks her thus
For tufts of bird-grass and ranunculus,
280 JAROSLAV VRCHLICKY
And dandelion and milfoil, weedy bunches
The cow, her tongue bedecked with white foam,
munches.
The hands now bared, the lap she searches
through ;
In shade two dragon-flies sport, green of hue.
" The Magic Garden " (1888).
5. WALT WHITMAN.
Who art thou? — But an atom, quick with song.
What wilt thou?— Naught.— Where flee'st thou?
— Back again
To her in whom for ages I had lain.
Ere wonder bore my dreaming soul along.
What see'st thou? — All, as merged amid one lay.
What creed fulfill' st thou? — Righteousness and
toil.
Thy comrade? — All ! — Whom meetest thou in
broil?—
All men are right, to whomsoe'er they pray.
What rat'st thou highest? Boundless liberty ! —
Thou fear'st not death? — 'Tis life in other
guise. —
What recks thee fame? — Less than an insect's
drone. —
MOUKNFUL STANZAS 281
Thy laws? — My will can fashion them for me. —
Thy joy? — To watch creations billows rise,
And take its visions for my spirit's own.
'' Islew Sonnets of a Recluse " (1891).
6. MOURNFUL STANZAS.
Lb3T on my brow thy hand so gently fall
That I be not aware how late it grows :
Moss decks the boulder, bloom-clad is the wall.
Through withered grave-yard wreaths a murmur
goes,
When the November evening earthwards flows.
Let on my brow thy hand so gently fall
That I be not aware how late it grows.
Long have we gone together. — Go we still ;
Not roses, but bare ivy give I thee ;
I sing not nightingales' but wood-birds' trill,
The child's lament that strays upon the lea ;
Thou knowest joy, I know but misery.
Long have we gone together. — Go we still,
Not roses, but bare ivy give I thee.
When roses fade, the ivy still is whole
And around graves it twines in faithful wise :
Till death uncages, as a bird, the soul.
Long do I crave to kiss thy faithful eyes.
When roses fade, the ivy still is whole,
And around graves it twines in faithful wise.
282 JAEOSLAV VROHLICKY
Let on my brow thy hand so gently fall,
That I be not aware how late it grows ;
That, what we in long even-tides recall
Fill our remaining journey with repose ;
Thine eyes brought all the peace my being knows.
Let on my brow thy hand so gently fall,
That I be not aware how late it grows.
'' Life and Death " (1892)
7. MARCO POLO.
I, Marco Polo^ Christian and Venetian,
Acknowledge God the Trinity and cherish
Hope of salvation in eternity
For my sin-laden soul : In this my faith,
In this my trust is set. What of my love,
Ye ask? And I give answer tranquilly :
My love is long and distant journeys ; ever
New-found horizons, new-found peoples, fresh
Exploits on ocean and dry land, and ever
Fresh enterprises. (This, my forebears' blood)
Much have I seen, to much have given ear ;
I reached the land, whereof ye scarce have
inkling,
Where amber grows like golden foliage,
Where salamanders (that ye dub asbestos)
Blossom and blaze like lilies petrified.
Where glowing naphtha gushes from the earth,
Where there is equal wealth of rubies, a«
MARCO POLO 283
Of holly here in winter ; where across
Their back and on their shoulders they tattoo
The image of an eagle ; where the women
Alone rule, and the men are given up
From birth to heavy service till they die.
I gazed upon the realm whose ruler is
Khan of Cathay ; and I have sat at meat
With those who feed on men : I was a wave
Amid the surf : the mighty emerald
(Predestined for the vizier of Bagdad)
Beneath my tongue I carried through the desert.
For thirty days and nights I came not down
Out of my saddle. I have seen great deserts
Like ruffled raiment billowing afar ;
The ocean sleeping underneath the moon
Like a stiff winding-sheet ; strange stars ablaze
Beneath strange zones. I visited the realms
Of Prester John, where goodness, virtue and
Righteousness ruled, as in a legend, — yea,
Now meseems almost that I even reached
The wondrous nook of earth, where Alexander
Once lighted on the wilderness of Ind,
And came no farther on his way, because
Of mighty downpours that abated not.
(Perchance upon the faery realm he there
Set foot, or e'en upon the town celestial,
And shrank away in dread, when at the gate
An angel put a skull into his hand,
Saying : '' A few more years, and this shall be
Thy portion, — this, and not a tittle more!")
284 JAKOSLAV VRCHLICKY
And I beheld that land of mystery
Where lay the paradise of earth, where flowed
The spring of youth, concealed within the grass
Amid a thousand others, whence I drank
From many, and, 'tis very like, from youth :
And therefore all endured I with acclaim.
And therefore all, as in a mirror, I
Perceive within my soul, and now portray it.
The world is changed of aspect : I shall die
Like others, but my heritage remains :
The lust for seeing all and learning all,
To ransack all for the delight of man ;
Legion shall be my sons : they shall proceed
Farther than I, but scarcely shall see more,
For earth sheds wonders as a snake its skin.
t
Old age I know, with many dreams and secrets,
And that suffices me. And they who come
After me, let them take, as it may chance.
Of what remains to them, as best they can,
As I did. I sit foremost at the feast
Of distant journeys, and it likes me well.
All prospers me, and I fare well with all.
To make all life a vigil over books.
To rack one's brain 'mid piles of yellow parch-
ments.
Seeking the truth of writing and of thought,
Is much, in sooth ; to live an age in camps
'Mid roll of drums and trumpets in assaults,
O'er ramparts in a rain of missiles, in
FROM " SONGS OF THE PILGRIM " 285
Ruins of towns, amid laments of women.
Weeping of children, groaning of the fallen,
Is much, in sooth ; to be a holy bishop,
Legions of spirits heavenward to escort,
(The which he knoweth not) by solace of
The faith alone, and by the word of God.
In marble and in gold to hearken to
The cadence and the dreamy grief of psalms.
Is muchj in sooth ; but to behold and know
With one's own eyes the distant, ample lands.
And oceans, plains and star-tracks of the gkies,
And divers folk, their habit, usage, gods.
This too, availeth somewhat, and hath charm
By special token of its newness, that
Doth ever change. And I have lived it through,
I, Marco Polo, Christian and Venetian.
^^ New Fragments of an Epic" (1894).
8. FROM " SONGS OF THE PILGRIM "
XVI.
It was in April. Youthful May
Hard by a crag his shawm did play.
A well-knit, sturdy youth was he.
Each breath was filled with melody.
It was in June. And wearied there
Stood Siren Summer : from her hair
Fell bloom on bloom; the forest stilled
Its roar ; the bird no longer trilled.
20
286 JAROSLAV VRCHLICKY
'Tw^s in October ; o'er the plain
Careered the frenzied Maenad-train
With loosened hair ; on russet breasts
The ivy with the hop-sprig rests.
'Twas January; flowers no more;
Birdless the field, and at the door
A beggar cowered in silent woe,
His garb and beard bedecked with snow.
And there I sped with gaze outspread.
And deep within my heart I said :
'' This self -same landscape will arise
— How oft! — before my wearied eyes."
'* Songs of the Pilgrim" (1895).
SOUTHERN SLAV.
(a) SERBO-CROATIAN.
JOVAN DUCIC.
1. THE POPLARS.
Why are the poplars to-night so aquiver?
So eerily, wildly? What betokens their souna?
The sallow moon has faded long beyond the
mound
Distant and dark as foreboding; on the river
Gloomily plunged in silence, leadeti and grey
Visions have been scattered amid this dead night.
The poplars alone, upreared upon the height,
Rustle, rustle eerily and skyward sway.
Alone in the night by the silent water here
I stand, as the last mortal. It is my shadow that
Lies earthward before me. To-nighl I am in fear
Of myself, my own shadow, and I tremble
thereat.
287
288 JOVAN DUCIC
2. MY POETRY.
Staidness of marble, coolness the shadow strews,
Thou are a still, pale maid, all pondering ;
Let songs of others be as a woman, whose
Wont it is in the unclean streets to sing.
I do not bedizen thee with baubles, nor
With yellow roses bespread thy flowing hair ;
Too beautiful shalt thou be for all to adore,
Too proud to live that others may think thee fair.
Be too sorrowful in the grief that is thine.
Ever to come with solace to them that pine ;
Too shamefast ever to lead the jostling throng.
Be ever placid, while thy body holds
Not a sumptuous garment in heavy folds.
But clusters of riddling mist that hover along.
VOISLAV ILIC.
1. BY THE VARDAR.
Brown^ never-ageing crags are proudly to heaven
uplifted ;
Over the bouldered depths, with clouds the eagles
are warring.
Downward with terrible burst into foam the Var-
dar is sifted,
THE LAST GUEST 289
Into the blue Aegean through narrowest crevices
pouring.
O waves, O Serbian river ! So centuries forfeit
their traces,
Even as billows are plunged far down in
eternity's channels.
Yet do thy pearly droplets caress the rock-ridden
places
Where are upreared the remains of thy nation's
glorious annals.
Yet, as the heavenly Phoenix, shall gladsome
liberty glimmer ;
Blithely shall I abide where mournful is now my
abiding.
Yea, and upon the girth of its wings, our eagle,
a -shimmer.
Over thy boulders be gliding.
2. THE LAST GUEST.
Midnight is long since past. Not a soul still left
in the tavern.
Save for the agM host, who, close to the fire-
side cowering.
Fingers a bulky book. Without there is deadly
stillness.
And delicate drizzle of rain, and heavy darkness
lowering.
290 VOISLAV ILIC
Then a rapping begins. To the tavern swiftly
approaches
An uncanny guest : on his lips a smile of horrible
presage :
His eyes with the hollow sockets stare round with
an empty chillness.
He bears a scythe in his hands. It is Death with
his icy message.
Clutching the bulky book, the host is in peaceful
slumber,
When Death draws near to him softly, and peace-
fully near him lingers.
And he takes in his hands a pen from the grimy
tavern table
And he sets his signature down with a twist of
his lifeless fingers.
Then he turns to the corner ; and out of the thin
half- darkness
Horribly grins ; with its fangs tempest clumsily
catches
And shakes at the darkened windows, and the
heavy oaken portals
And shrieks through the empty tavern in gloomy
and horrible snatches.
JOSIP KOSOR 291
JOSIP KOSOR.
1. THE MAGICIAN'S FLIGHT.
The ocean's magic and its scent,
The salt and pearls of it,
They harried and hounded me on the shore dark-
ling,
That I upraised my hands in despair,
To cling to the golden glimmer of starlight. . .
Into the giant shadow of the sun I plunged.
In the pallid mist I encountered the red moon.
That wept above an ocean teeming with dallying
angels. . .
And flutteringly to us they upraised
Their hands and their pinions.
Through which a lily-light trickled,
That made me weep my rapture into the light, . .
Aloof from us the slopes were mutely in tumult,
In the dim unending depths.
Where time and creatures and eternity
Strove with black talons, hovering above
abysses. . .
In wordless triumph I returned to the age-old
land
Where once as a glow-worm I glowed in the green
thicket. . .
Where I was all,
Water and metal,
292 JOSIP KOSOR
Tree and the worm and the storm therein. . .
" Welcome, welcome !"
Cried unto me the time -mother from all sides
With her brown mouth,
And girded me with her warm arms :
'' My well -beloved, eternal child !",
That I shrieked and melted with bliss
And ever again emerged
In the countenance of all things.
Till a silvery skiff from the sickle of the moon
Bore me away hovering above oceans
And I rocked and blissfully fared
From night into night
From time into time . . .
Drunken with lustre and soul of the All. . .
2. QUAFFING THE STORM.
The enkindled storm swept ragingly into the
great forest
And the forest stirred aquiver and sang
With gloomy voices
As when time in chaos began.
All trees clenched themselves in violence, m
strife,
An eagle the forest became.
Beating its pinions before avenging wrath of the
storm
Aloft to the richly-clad vault.
Drunken with wild joy
QUAFFING THE STORM 293
In a fluttering cloak I strained unto the gloom
And upraised a melody from my breast,
As the storm did the forest in enraptured
shouting.
In wild fire my arms outstretched themselves,
Vehemently clutched the dancing turmoil
And snatched it close to my throbbing breast
So that my heart and the forest
Beat wild and dark in a single stormy pulsing. -
With my time-old abode in my arms
I slowly glided into all my dark life,
Deep, ever deeper, from abyss to abyss
And through all reeling abysses.
So that I saw myself swimming, creeping, and
growling again.
As at the dark beginning of time.
As I sank down, my head was bowed
Heavily upon the rim of Being,
My mouth foamed.
And twitched with a crazed smile of weeping, —
For wormwood of life and power of the storm it
had drunk.
And like a dying lover
Whose last thoughts gorge bleeding on his love,
So my thoughts clutched storm and forest
And were engulfed. . .
294 LAZA KOSTIC
LAZA KOSTIC.
1. SYRMIA.
Beauteous Syrmia, thou my majestic,
Thou knowest naught of craggy immensities :
Thou dost not thrust thee in pride to the heavens,
Nor proffer thy love unto them,
Extending to them thy hands, naked, stone-
wrought.
In vehement ecstasy ;
Thou smilest, thou only smilest.
When God created this earth.
This buxom damsel,
A creature whose heart is of fire.
Whose body is of stone and of water,
Upon thee, Frushka, he carved this comeliness,
Magical lips ;
Thou smilest, thou only smilest.
This peerless smiling.
When for the first time heaven beheld it,
Downright I perceive how in enchantment
He opens his breast in its glory.
And showers upon thee rapturous blessing,
Lordliest lineage of his paradise.
Offspring of love, angel of passion.
Wine;
Downright I perceive, how he vaunts to thee his
paradise.
SYRMIA 295
How he proffers it thee,
This bounty withheld by godly caprice,
That of itself but moulders,
Unbeheld, unenjoyed and unglorified.
How he proffers it thee.
And thou smilest, thou only smilest ;
And when thou art perceived from the midst of
paradise
By that ancient tree,
Of every apple the forebear,
Earliest saint and earliest sinner^
Its wound was opened
Beneath that single dissevered offshoot,
And it quivered.
Apples are shaken over thee
And in every dimple
Singly is scattered
The forbidden fruit.
In every valley of thine singly is scattered
A cloister glistening.
Unto thy lips the fruits are clinging ;
Is haply the fruit forbidden eke to thee?
Ha, scion of Tantalus, Frushka the Tantalide ! —
Worms devour it, spectral worms, — and thou?
Thou smilest, thou only smilest !
296 VLADIMIR NAZOR
VLADIMIR NAZOR.
1. NOCTURNE.
Gently, gently, gently, spider
Spins a thread;
Where the fir-trees slimly loom, in woods, the
stag has laid his head ;
Night, the silent, lofty, presses
O'er the land with silvery glazes,
And a quenched lamp she raises
From the water^s deep recesses.
Guiding mortals by the hand, as blind sons,
dream advances.
— I will weave a nest, O mother, deep within
their glances —
Cricket from the grass is prying :
See, O darling, see !
Gently, gently spins the spider
Threadlets three.
Woe, woe, woe has gathered round me,
Black and fierce.
In my breast a green -hued sprig of rose has made
a thorn to pierce.
And my sobbing, sobbing, sobbing
In this lustrous night doth scatter ;
Pearly tear-drops downward patter ;
With restive wings I set them throbbing :
NOCTURNE 297
They are shaken, pitter-patter
On a marble platter.
O thou green-hued sprig of rose, within thy barb
a store of pain is,
And my bosom is so frail, and in this woe a store
of bane is !
From my heart the blood-drops patter :
Tap, tap, tap. . .
In that thorn from off the rose-tree poisoned is
the sap.
Can the moon reveal no splendour,
Or the night-bloom scent engender,
With this cry allayed?
Canst not, earth, to sleep surrender.
With my weeping stayed?
Dost thou crave another's anguish, that thou lull
to rest thy woe?
Stars are hotly dropping tears upon the meads
and dales below. . .
O sorrow is thus more tender !
Woe, woe woe.
Night with potent spell enchants my
Woodland calm.
Where, O where art thou, enchantress? Thee
thy friend calls with a psalm !
Hearken : chiming, chiming, chiming, —
Jasmin-calyx, scarce unfolded,
Lily-calyx, bigly moulded ;
298 VLADIMIR NAZOR
Hearken : whirring, whirring, whirring
Of the juniper's green windle,
Of forget-me-not's blue spindle !
Blossoms scatter waves of fragrance in this
peaceful night.
0 enchantress, hither, hither :
Now our troth we plight !
Cricket from the grass is prying :
See, O maiden, see !
Where our bed is softly lying
Gently spins the spider
Fibres three.
1 am in this dim, deep night-time
All alone.
Unto whom my joy to utter and my sorrow to
bemoan?
Prithee, drench with wet caresses,
Dewdrop, wisps of elfin-tresses !
Prithee, drench, thou radiant shimmer,
Shepherd's-pouches with thy glimmer !
I am singing, singing, singing starry rays.
In my anguished breast have nestled all the
glories that are May's :
Every nook the wreath containeth,
Every kiss the petal gaineth ;
Sweetest fragrance that in billowings arises,
That is wafted, that is twirled in curving
guises,
That is rocking, that is swinging.
To the moth's and insect's winging ;
NOCTURNE 299
Breath of earth that sinks to rest in warm
embraces,
And the quiver of the stars in flashing traces :
Throbbing, lustre, perfume, surging
Heave their billows like an ocean
With my bosom merging !
I am singing, singing, singing in this night that
is enchanted,
In this warm, impassioned night, with wreaths
of blossoms round it planted.
Frail, alone.
Unto whom my joy to utter and my sorrow to
bemoan?
On the woodland branches growing
In the night, a thirsty bud is ;
And my wounded heart is strowing
Drop by drop, the dew, — that blood is, —
Gently flowing.
Spider weave, O weave a net stoutly blended I
Gently, gently, lest thy fibre be rended !
There this night thou show'st no pity
To thy spoil !
Round these slender threads my ditty
Too, shall coil !
300 PETAR PRERADpVIC
PETAR PRERADOVIC.
1. TO SLAVDOM.
With gesture of obeisance I bow myself down
unto thy black earth,
Having set foot on thy domain, riddle of all the
world.
Glorious, mighty, renowned, omnipotent Slav-
dom!
With eagerness my spirit trembles, unfurling its
wings
And dauntless of €*ye, clutches at the hollow
heavens.
Desiring now for glory of thee to soar loftily.
But how should my voice be upraised high
enough for thy world,
Where shall I, faced by thee, find strings potent
enough not to be rended.
When my soul, enkindled with the flash of thy
radiance.
Begins to thunder above? O would that, after
my desire, I were able
To weave threads from the golden fabric of sun-
beams,
That from shore to shore I might span them over
the wan ocean,
And that I might take for my bow the gleam-
ing rainbow aloft;
TO SLAVDOM 301
Then when I drew it across the strings, the
ocean-depths should resound
With the immense roar of thy hidden powers,
and the waves
Should be mingled above in that graceful allure-
ment of Nature
With which breezes rustle and birds carol,
And the vault of heaven should re-echo it to'me a
hundred-fold,
Uniting it all again in mighty harmony.
Then, O then only, were it mine to fashion
Such a song as is meet for the rapture and glory
within thee.
Thy bygone years, thy greater years to come.
Whither has thy girth
O mighty Slavdom, surged up? Like to an ocean.
The hand of God has poured thee out in earth's
bosom, and although
Foreignness with many and many a gulf eats
into thy soil,
Yet art thou still ample enough, that when thou
but stirrest.
With any limb of thine, all the earth is aquiver.
The stranger stands, dismay in his eyes, his
hands crossed,
Upon thy coasts, and thanklessly marvels at thee
And shudders with foreboding of terror. Where-
fore is he affrighted?
O, from thy greatness an unswerving conscience
metes out unto him
21
302 PETAK PREEADOVIO
Requital which is his due for monstrous trans-
gressions against thee.
A pirate he cruised through thy waters, the
banner of the cross
Was his ensign, enlightenment the feigned
beacon he steered for ;
But his sails were swollen with the foul breath of
greed,
His hull guided by the hand of one rapaciously
exulting in plunder,
A sword was his oar, a spear his plummet for
thy depths.
And behind his vessel ever floated in blood a
cluster of corpses —
Thy slain. Heaven itself would have wept
To behold the fruit of its gentle labours on the
field of mankind.
Happiest race of them all, when a black curse
Mowed it down, and to behold the outcome of its
tending,
Greatest in number of dwellers, when virulent
savagery
Harried it to the bane of ages ; in fine, to behold
An image most like unto itself upon earth, when
in God's name
Godlessness evilly vexed it, and for the sake of
the cross
Nailed, as it were to the cross, the gentlest of
tribes.
The devoutest on earth.
TO SLAVDOM 303
But wherewith, O Slavdom, didst thou requite
This bloody debt unto the foreigner? Verily, by
blood,
But by the blood of thy heroes in many a pontest
With the sinister wildness of Asia, which with
darkness
Threatened to quench even that tiny ray of twi-
light
Which flickered in the west of the World. Even
then, conceiving
Thy task magnificent as befits thy potency, thou
didst not strive
Many a time for vengeance when hazard
favoured thee ;
The best hazard didst thou shape for thyself, as a
mediator
Towards a seeing and a sightless world — to be
intercessor
For the one, and against onslaughts of the other
To hold out thine heroic breast as a shield.
And as thou stoodest proud
In twofold glory, so now thou standest on the
marge
Of these two worlds as a giant whose stature can
cope with
The supreme mission on earth : with one hand
thou clutchest
Western stars of enlightenment, with the other
thou sheddest them
Over the gloom of the east ; but this is not thy
sole renown j
304 PETAK PREKADOVIO
With yet greater pride canst thou upraise thy
chivalrous head
Heavenwards. Upraise it, upraise it undaunted
and joyous
For the world to behold, that everywhere it may
see upon thine heroic brow
The kiss of light wherewith God's love hallows
thee
For his holy toil here below. Over the un-
bounded expanse of heaven
The Creator has inscribed by the stars the statute
of Love,
And by the eternal course of His decrees through
eternity
Has ordained its potence. Thus as His minister.
Everywhere and ever Love labours unfaltering! •
it moulds, beautifies.
Softens and smoothens, pacifies, tames and
subjugates.
Assuages, ennobles, sanctifies, makes like unto
God
All that is God's in the world — thee He chooses
and empowers
From among the race of mankind to be hero
And idol of her. Ah, it fares ill upon earth
With those favoured by heaven : for heaven they
are in travail, and of hell
They cannot long elude the toils ; thus already
Thou bindest upon the thread of thy life
Ages of suffering, and upon each limb of thy
huge body
TO SLAVDOM 305
Thou feelest all human griefs diversely grievous.
Thou art mauled by hatred, selfishness and dis-
cord, by wrath,
By evil and envy art thou mauled, every passion
engrafted
Upon thy weal by alien blood. Thy blood ever
seethes in thee
With poisoned ferment, through it all thy
bowels
Are set astir^ thou reelest, swoonest, and mutely
art stunned ;
But yet with no step dost thou cease from
advancing
Further upon the path to Unity ; not to that one
Where treacherous foes unceasingly slander thee,
nor to that one
Whose token is one head adorned by an all-
embracing crown
Which outrages all (under such a crown
Every human head would droop) but to that one,
which must needs be crowned
By the garland of hundred-fold federation, the
concord
Of all wills, since it bestows happiness on all.
Concord is dawn, proclaiming
The eternal day of love ; already thy countenance
is aglow
With the flush of health — thy countenance which
was pallid
306 PETAE PREKADOVIO
From grievous slumber. Already unto thee
KrkonoSe,* Triglav, Tatra, the Balkans,
Ural and Velebit are aflame like new Horebs
Where the spirit of God is speaking afresh;
already unto thee, Volga,
Vistula, and Danube, Vltava, Save and Drave
are gleaming
Like new Jordans, wherein are baptised the new-
born thoughts
Of the new age ; already the dew of thy tears is
everywhere radiant
With hope of solace at hand ; hazes of morning
Already converse with thee in golden images of
coming lustre ;
Early breezes, a gentle foreboding of joy, already
with their pinions
Fan thy bosom and brow, setting aquiver thy
ponderings,
And mustering little by little thy chaotic
emotions ;
Thy spirit is striving against its last slumber,
thy heart
Is grappling with its last weariness, thou shakest
and heavest,
Strainest and rubbest thine eyes, already thou
art at the point
Of rousing thee, of gazing in concord upon
God's beauteous day, whereof love is the sun-
rise : oh, ere long,
*The Giant Mountains (known in Gennan as the Riesenge-
birge).
TO SLAVDOM 307
Ere long thy tribes shall rally thenij shall arise
and clasp
One the hand of the other, with a kiss they shall
evoke happiness
And heroic prowess, one unto the other ; ere long
shall love
Blaze up as an overwhelming pyre of happiness,
and all thy broad focus
Shall be its domain, with every heart that is thine
For its fuel ; resplendent shall be its exemplar
And hitherto unheard of, unseen in the world;
The world to its utmost shall be amazed thereat,
and shall marvel.
Gazing and gazing ; till, dazzled by this torrent it
shall surrender.
And with it shall merge into a single realm of
love, into that realm
Which upon earth is foretold by the divine books.
Thus in the world's mighty design thou hast set
thee astir
Potently, in mankind's eternal contest for ad-
vancement.
Its strong protector, the hem of whose garment
All tribes upon earth should kiss in thanksgiving !
But so long as
This prison-planet, the which is called black by
its captives,
So long as it shall engender all dismay and
wretchedness,
Whereby it needs must punish its captives^
cherish not
308 MILAN RAKIC
Hopes that it will show itself beholden to thee :
because of the very keys that thou bearest,
Its bondsmen shall call thee their jailer, and
shall hate thee ; only when
A worthier humanity renders it softer, when the
world
Gazes forth, unwaveringly discerns and verily
traces
Heavenly order on earth, then only shall they
acknowledge thee
And ever extol thee as key-bearer of heaven. But
for now.
Only thy young generation together about the
tomb
Of fallen biases are linked in a single chain
And with a tumult, whereby the pulsing spirit of
time
Thunderingly heralds the march of humanity,
will fashion a psalm
Of praise unto thee, and with this melody already
The world on all four sides is re-echoing.
MILAN RAKIC.
THE DESERTED SHRINE.
Christ upon His cross lies in the ancient shrine.
Down His riven limbs blood leaves its clotted
trace ;
Dead His eyes and pale and lulled. Death's very
sign;
Welded silver weaves a halo o'er His face.
SVETISLAV STEFAKOVIC 309
Gift of old-time lords and pious populace,
Ducats on His throat, linked as a necklet, shine ;
On the frame the purest silver meshes twine,
And the frame was carved by smith of Debar' s
race.
Thus, amid the lonely church, doth Christ abide,
And while gradual darkness falls on every side,
With a swarm of night-birds, on their prey
intent,
In the lonely shrine, where vampires wheel
around,
Christ with hands outstretched, benumbed and
horror-bound,
Endlessly awaits the flock that ne'er is sent.
SVETISLAV STEFANOVIC.
1. THE SONG OF THE DEAD.
To Laza Kosti6.
Wb have perished, 'tis said, and now are no
more. . .
Ruthlessly time all life bears away.
Over our bones sleep the days that are o'er.
And all that is left, — a mere phantom of gray.
But we wot it better, and smile at the race
Of beings that live. Man, a moment abide.
We know, thou would'st deem that thy life's
fleeting space
Was lavished from heaven itself to thy side.
310 SVETISLAV STEFANOVIO
— But lo, it was I who gave thee thy hair ;
— And mark thee, thine eyes, were they some
time not mine?
— With my lips thou the mind of a maid did'st
ensnare.
— 'Tis my youth within thee doth blossom and
pine.
From us thou hast all that is much thy delight,
For thou art our fruit. With the past do not
strive,
Because upon tombs thy tapers burn bright,
We are not in the tomb, — we are in thee alive.
Each step that thou takest, beside thee we stay :
And behind thee, as true as thy shadow we
throng.
While with space and with time thou art waging
the fray.
Unnumbered to conquest we bear thee along.
2. THE GREATEST JOY.
Can there, O soul, a joy more wondrous be.
Than, when is drawing near the hour to die.
And with the jaws of boorish death hard by.
To tell the world : All have I given thee.
'Tis only cravens fear mortality.
But I am strong, nor have a bondsman's eye :
Nay, proud as monarch o'er his realms, this cry
My lips shall utter, when no more I see.
THE IMPOTENCE OF DEATH 311
And I shall tell to death, what in my heart
Of Hamlet's nature I became aware.
When by a swarm of sorrows I was riven :
— Naught from me hast thou power to rend
apart :
For in this world my body hath no share,
And to the next my spirit has been given.
3. THE IMPOTENCE OF DEATH.
He^ from whom death his life hath ta'en away
Hath suffered naught, for it was ne'er his own :
Who keeps his spirit's strength concealed, un-
known.
His whole life long in death's dominion lay.
But before death I like a spring shall stay.
Whence unto rivers potency hath flown ;
Dread obstacles that in its course are sown.
Hold it not back, — o'er lands and towns its sway
It casts around with undiminished might :
And when the hour of my last breath is near.
To gaze upon my end I shall not fear.
I shall dissolve, and many a stainless tear
Shall be aquiver in that deathless light
With whose array my spirit is bedight.
312 ALEXANDER SANTI(3
ALEXANDER S ANTIC.
DALMATIAN NOCTURNE.
Sea bluely gleaming,
Dreaming ;
Chill darkness earthward falls.
The last red glimmer
Dimmer
O'er blackened ridges crawls.
And chimes are droning,
Moaning,
Trembling where rocks arise ;
Prayers have ascended.
Blended
With poor men's long-drawn sighs.
Before God's altar
Falter
This haggard wailing brood.
But ne'er is token
Spoken
By God upon His rood.
And dreams are nearer,
Clearer :
Chill darkness earthward falls.
The last red glimmer
Dimmer
O'er blackened ridges crawls.
ANTON ARKERC 313
(b) SLOVENE.
ANTON ASKERC.
1. A PAGE FROM THE CHRONICLE OF
ZAJC.
Glorious saint in heavenly salvation.
Father of Carthusians, Holy Bruno,
Thou who 'mid the barren vale didst bear us,
Yonder 'mid the vale Chartreuse didst bear us,
Thou who spreadest over us thy mantle,
Here at Zajc assembled in the cloister ;
Be not angered, father, be not angered.
That thy son, the agM Marij6fil, —
Whilom the custodian of thy cloisters,
Prior now in this unworthy hostel,
Writes to-day this story in the annals.
To the parchment he consigns these tidings,
Tidings that perchance will sore afflict thee.
Thirty years have gone their endless journey,
Thirty years have slowly glided onward.
'Twas a day in autumn, warm and beauteous,
When I pilgrimaged unto this cloister,
314 ANTON ASKP:RC
Pilgrimaged bareheaded to this cloister.
In my right hand was the staff I fared with,
And the holy rosary in my left hand.
By the sanctuary I stayed my footsteps ;
To the wondrous shrine I crossed the threshold.
Pouring through the lofty Gothic windows.
Entered in the radiance of the sunshine.
Empty was the house of God, deserted.
I, methought, at meat shall find the brethren.
Thither I behold the portals opened.
All the tables still with fare are laden,
But within the hall no living creature.
Through long passages alone I wander,
Empty are the cells and all is silent,
Naught is heard there save my echoing footsteps.
Strange the echo sounds amid the vaultage.
From the walls the portraits eye me gravely.
Gazing down upon me, as in wonder.
Images of priors long departed,
Images of old Carthusian brothers.
Soon a gentle terror comes upon me,
Roamiug here and there, — how long I know not ;
Stay, for floorwards, in the gloomy passage
Standing but ajar I find a portal :
From the hall comes chatter, noise and chanting.
To this door I grope my way a-tiptoe.
And I hear, I hear the strangest discourse.
First a hush and then a voice sings loudly :
PAGE FKOM THE CHRONICLE OF ZAJC 315
" From divers lands and ages,
Books ceiling- high uprise ;
But yonder tome of verses
Above them all I prize.
*' For Horace I nor Pindar,
Sappho nor Ovid care.
Poesy's loftier spirit
My volume harbours there.
*' When its sweet contents bear me
Even to heaven's domain,
Then would I in that moment
Intone a gentle strain !"
Ha, the library is where they gather?
Tidings have I heard of these same scholars . . .
Thus it is !
Quoth then the second brother :
*' And old is my folio yonder,
I read from it gladly alway ;
Time has gnawed at the year of its making.
Who printed it? No man shall say.
" When I until late in the night-time
On the scribe's deep ponderings pore.
My gaze can encompass clearly
All nature's wonderful lore !"
Deeply then a solemn voice commences,
Through the hall the clamour of it reaches,
Setting o'er my head the walls aquiver :
31 6 ANTON A8KERC
*' Long years have I vainly for truth searched
around,
As I probed into numberless pages ;
But here ^mid this chamber each day I have
found
In these books the pure truth of the ages."
Then a merry clattering of glasses.
Opening the door, I enter, greeting :
*' Mementote mori."
Wondrous cellar !
Round me is its cool and roomy girdle.
There amid the hugeness of the barrels
Sit the fathers of this holy order
Round about a mighty oaken table;
Unto every monk a foaming flagon.
** Dearest brethren : Dominus vobiscum !
This is then the library ye boast of? —
Being straitly thus enjoined, has entered
Unto you your brother Marij6fil,
That he may behold your cloistered dwelling,
That he may regard your skill in learning,
Which within this library ye cope with."
I with heavy heart these lines have written,
I with heavy heart have marked this matter.
Saviour, thou whose cross is on my lectern,
Thou, up yonder. Mater Dolorosa !
Witness shall ye twain to-day vouchsafe me,
How demurringly my quill did office.
THE FEERYMAN 317
And the grievous sinner Marij6fil,
Hoary grown, inditing of this volume,
Chronicle concerning this, our cloister,
Neither could do otherwise, nor ciurst he.
True is true. Naught else but truth shall ever
By the trusty chronicler be written.
Neither left nor right his gaze shall wander ;
What to-day is spoken let him ask not.
What shall yet be spoken let him care not.
Therefore wilt thou let it not affront thee,
That to-day thy son, thy Marijofil,
Here hath chronicled this thing of wonder,
Which bechanced within our glorious cloister,
Here recorded, anno sixteen hundred
Four and sixty after Christ our Saviour ; —
Well I wot that thou me all f orgivest,
In thy heavenly glory. Father Bruno.
Amen.
2. THE FERRYMAN.
The Sava 'mid fastnesses roars.
In billows it mightily pours.
To its clutches the Danube it harries.
A skiff scuds away from the side.
With naught but a fisher as guide.
At the oar he in weariness tarries. . .
^' Old man, ho, the oars to thy hand,
And swift to yon opposite land
Shalt thou steer us through Sava's dark
thunder !
22
318 AKTOK ASKERC
Lo, glittering gold of the Turk
Shall richly requite thee thy work. . .
An thou wilt not, — thy head we will sunder! "
" Now silent are woodland and plain,
The Slavs in yon stronghold have lain.
Serene amid slumber abiding.
Enwrapped in the mantle of night,
We are sent to lay bare to our sight
Whereabouts here our foes are in hiding. . ."
" For your gold I have never a thought!
Doth it profit a fisherman aught?
Unbribed will I steer o'er the river !
My head, though 'tis verily grey.
This night I'll not yield to your sway.
But my will to your bests I deliver !"
Now streamward the ferryman fares.
And swift the three watchers he bears. . .
Rowing forth he with grimness then gazes
On the waters to whom it were joy
With the skiff in their eddies to toy
And suck it deep down in their mazes. . .
*' Yea, stalwart in sooth, is thy heart,
Most meet for our guidance thou art ;
In these marches there dwelleth none rarer l
Our chieftain's acclaim we shall earn.
Fair bounty awaits our return.
Ne'er yet was vouchsafed us a fairer !"
FEOM " SONNETS OF UNHAPPINESS " 319
" Make ready !" the fisherman cried,
And his oar he flung forth on the tide. . .
" For us both here the payment is tendered !"
" Curse thee, giaur !" came a shriek from the
wave,
From the Sava, their watery grave,
Then all to the stillness surrendered. . . .
F. PRESERN.
FROM "SONNETS OF UNHAPPINESS.''
(i.)
'Mid wastes of Africa a wanderer sped :
He finds no pathway ; night was now afield.
Through clouds no stealthy glimmer was
revealed.
Craving the moon, he made the grass his bed.
The heavens opened, moonbeams then were shed ;
He sees where poison-serpents are concealed,
And where their brood of cubs the tigers shield.
He sees the lion upraise his wrathful head.
Thus 'tis the wont of youth perforce to view
What now befalls, so long the veil yet drapes
The future from the road he doth pursue.
Clearer has grown the night, and from it gapes
Loathing of life ; of pangs and griefs not few,
The deep abyss from which none e'er escapes.
320 OTON ZUPANCIC
(ii.)
Life is a jail, and time grim warder there,
Sorrow the bride made young for him each day.
Woe and despair serve faithfully his sway.
And rue his watcher with unwearied care.
Sweet death, O do not overlong forbear,
Thou key, thou portal, thou entrancing way
That guideth us from places of dismay
Yonder where moulder gnaws the gyves we wear.
Yonder where ranges no pursuing foe.
Yonder where we elude their evil plot.
Yonder where man is rid of every woe.
Yonder where, bedded in a murky grot,
Sleeps, whoso lays him there to sleep below,
That the shrill din of griefs awakes him not.
OTON ZUPANCIC.
ASCENSION DAY.
Today an Ascension Day I divine.
My heart how it surges and simmers.
My spirit silkily shimmers,
As though it had drunk of magical wine.
Mark ye not? — Yonder from forests of gloom.
Hurricanes rage.
Fierce thunderings boom,
ASCENSION DAY 321
And from out of the haze, comes the iBtful blaze
Of a blood-red light, like a sword to the sight, —
'Tis the dawn of a coming age.
O, brothers apace, towards life's trace !
At the blood-red sword do not waver.
This sword was not shaped for the braver,
And for him who is hale.
Only tombs this sword overturns, and
But fallen dwellings it burns, and
He who is strong shall prevail.
O, brothers, brothers, the time is at hand !
O, brothers, brothers, how do ye stand?
Are your fields yet garnished for reaping?
Fair stars are in the ascendant,
Seed falls that is golden -resplendent, —
Are your fields yet garnished for reaping?
Shake ye stifling dreams away !
At lightning speed comes Ascension Day, —
In vain shall he cry who now goes astray, —
He only shall see it who bears the array !
LITERARY NOTES
PAGE
Asiiyk, Adam (1838-1897). Polish poet, the
pessimism of whose early work, issued
under the pseudonym El...y, became
modified by the contemplation of nature,
and ended on a note of complete recon-
ciliation. He was also the author of
historical plays and, more effectively, of
comedies, but his importance lies chiefly
in the perfection of form and harmony
of style which distinguish his lyric
verses. 208
ASkerc,* Anton (1856-1912). Slovene poet,
whose best work consists of ballads and
romances, in which, without attempting
any innovations of language, he con-
trives to write pleasant and effective
verse. In Slovene literature his poetry
finds a place midway between the classi-
cal diction of PreSern and the more
modern achievements of such a poet as
Zupan^dc. 313
* Pron. Ashkerts..
323
324 LITERARY NOTES
PAGE
Balmont, Konstantin Dmitrvevitch (b.
1867). Russian poet, whose lyrical dic-
tion is remarkable for its eminently
musical qualities. Balmont, as he him-
self proudly announces in " My Song-
craft," has enriched the Russian lan-
guage with new musical and rhythmical
devices. His work as a translator is
extensive — it includes Russian versions
of Shelley and Whitman — but rather
unequal in quality. Balmont has exerted
a great influence on the development of
modern Russian poetry. 191
Bezruc,* Petr (pseudonym, according to
" Cesk4 Lyra," of Vladimir Vasek, b.
1867). Czech poet, whose " Silesian
Songs " contain some of the most power-
ful verses in the whole of Slavonic liter-
ature. In this one small volume, Bezruc
has uttered the swan -song of the Silesian
Czechs, whose numbers (" The Seventy
Thousand ") are rapidly diminishing
through the encroachment of surround-
ing nationalities. Several of these
poems are of local interest and are
strongly coloured with dialect. But
about half a dozen of them attain such
a degree of tragic utterance, that the
* Pron. Bezrutch.
LITERARY NOTES 325
PAGE
rugged and spontaneous language re-
mains effective even in translation.
Bezru6 has, in fact, written revolution-
ary rhapsodies, whose blend of inspired
ferocity and pathos is entirely free from
empty rhetoric. 222
Bfezina,* Otakar (pseudonym for V4clav
Jebav^, b. 1868). Czech poet, whose five
small volumes represent the inner devel-
opment of a spirit, searching, often
tragically, for a solution of life's riddle.
Bfezina's first volume, '^ The Secret
Distances," issued in 1895, may be as-
sociated with the decadent movement
(using the epithet in its widest meaning)
which had affected Czech literature about
that period. But his later books show
him to be independent of contemporary
influences. In these works he has elab-
orated a poetical philosophy, for which
his unique style, with its wealth of ima-
gery, mystical atmosphere and singular
beauty of language, has proved a most
fitting medium of expression. At the
same time, its transcendental subject-
matter often renders Bfezina's poetry
obscure to all but the most disciplined
of readers. 232
• Pron. Bjezina (French j ; accent on ist syllable).
326 LITERARY NOTES
PAGE
Bryusov, Valery Yakovlevitch (b. 1873).
Russian poet, whose work has been
strongly influenced by the French sym-
bolists and also by Verhaeren. He has
made numerous translations from both
these sources. The polished and de-
liberate workmanship of his poems offers
a contrast and a counterpoise to the
impulsive and spontaneous lyricism of
Balmont. 194
Chekhov, Anton Pavlovitch (1860-1904).
Chekhov's work as a novelist and play-
wright is so well-known, that it is hardly
necessary to characterise it here. In the
humorous and satirical sketch, of which
a specimen is given in this collection,
Chekhov is perhaps less typically Rus-
sian than in his more serious writings,
but it is in this lighter medium that the
general reader will best appreciate his
literary qualities. 3
DuCid,* Jovan (b, 1874). Serbian poet,
whose artistic style has been influenced
by the French parnassians and symbol-
ists. The perfection of form which he
has derived from these sources, combined
with his individual temperament, has
endowed his verses with a delicate
elegiac charm and subtlety of atmo-
«P^^^^- • Pron. Dutchitch. ^87
LITERARY NOTES 327
PAGE
Gomulicki,* Wiktor (b. 1851). Polish poet
and novelist. His writings, both in
prose and verse, are admirable examples
of elegant style and well-balanced com-
position. Although his subject-matter
is derived mainly from various aspects of
life in Warsaw, he has also dealt with
the Polish peasant in a number of ef-
fective sketches. 71
Gorodetsky, f Sergey. A prominent disciple
of Vyatcheslav Ivanov (q. v.). He has
re-animated popular legends in language
whose primitive character has strong
pagan and barbaric qualities. This
poetry, which because of these features
is hardly to be translated, represents the
Russian spirit in its pure Slavonic
aspect, without Byzantine and other
admixtures. 196
Hippius, Zinaida Nikolayevna (b. 1870).
Russian poetess, the wife of Merezh-
kovsky. In addition to her verses, which
are distinguished by a rather obtrusive
modernity and leanings towards the
metaphysical, she has written fiction and
literary criticism. Her work, both in
prose and verse, is pervaded by a nervous
and restless atmosphere. 199
* Pron. Gomulftski.
t Accent on 3rd syllable.
328 LITERAKY NOTES
PACE
Hid,* Vojislav (1862-1894). Serbian poet,
a designation which he shares with his
father Jovan, and his brothers Milutin
and Dragutin. His chief merit lies in
precision of form, derived largely from
a study of the Russian romantic poets.
In his choice of subject-matter and also
in his rhythmical imitation of the hexa-
meter he shows a fondness for classical
antiquity. His poetical style, which
aroused much admiration among his
contemporaries, has been surpassed by
the more subtle methods of such poets
as Ducid and Stefanovic. 288
Ivanov,t Vyatcheslav Ivanovitch (b. 1866).
Russian poet, who has distinguished
himself by the technical qualities of his
verse, the individual diction of his
language and the originality of his ideas.
His poetry, sometimes liturgical in tone,
has been associated with the term " real-
istic symbolism." It is natural that such
a personality as Ivanov, in whom are
combined the poet, the scholar and the
philosopher, should achieve a style,
which, in spite of occasional obscurity,
always has the charm of polished work-
manship. 197
• Pron. Ilyitch.
t Accent on 2nd syllable.
LITERARY NOTES 329
PAGE
Kar^sek ze Lvovic,* J. (b. 1871). Czech poet
of pronounced decadent tendencies. His
pose of aristocratic aloofness, perhaps
not unconnected with the study of Pater
and Wilde, has led him to a cult of style
whose effects are to be traced in many
coldly beautiful verses. Whether his
cravings for the morbid and perverse are
sincere, is a matter which lies outside the
range of literature. 244
Kasprowicz,t Jan (b. 1860). Polish poet of
very strong racial individuality. His
peasant origin accounts for the demo-
cratic tendencies of his work, but he has
also written nature poems of great
beauty. In addition to his original
poetry, he is the author of translations
from various European literatures.
Amongst these are to be found render-
ings from Shakesjieare, Browning and
Swinburne. 209
Kl^stersky,t Antonin (b. 18G6). Czech poet
and disciple of Yrchlicky (q. v.). He is
a great admirer of English verse and has
translated (to name only a few) Byron
and Longfellow, together with p]lizabeth
* Pron. Zelvovits (as one word, with accent on ist syllable),
t Pron. Kasprovitch (accent on and syllable).
+ Pron. Klahshtersky (accent on isl syllable).
330 LITERARY NOTES
PAGE
Barrett-Browning's " Sonnets from the
Portuguese " and the complete poems of
Oscar Wilde. Among his numerous
volumes of original poetry, the most
conspicuous is the collection of " Iron-
ical Sicilian Octaves," which with their
delicate but unsparing malice, contain
some of the best modern Slavonic satire.
248
Konopnicka,* Marva (1846-1912). Polish
poetess, whose verses reveal a deep sym-
pathy with oppression and suffering.
She has also written excellent literary
criticism, sketches of travel and num-
erous poetical translations, especially
from the other Slavonic literatures. 211
Kosor, Josip (b. 1879). Croatian poet, novel-
ist and dramatist, four of whose plays,
under the title, '* People of the Uni-
verse," have already appeared in an
English translation. His first collec-
tion of stories earned him the name of
the Croatian Gorky. Kosor's work is
marked by an impulsive energy which is
not as yet sufficiently counterbalanced
by a sense of form. In his plays, for
example, the strength of the initial con-
ception often suffers through this in-
* Pron. Konopnitska (accent on 3rd syllable).
LITERARY NOTES 331
PACK
ability to maintain the central idea
within its appropriate medium, and a
curious blend of realism, symbolism and
lyricism is the result. When he out-
grows these defects, Kosor, who is of
peasant origin and without literary
training, will produce work of a very
high order. 291
Kostid,* Laza (1841-1910). Serbian poet of
very marked individuality. He rendered
the important service of introducing an
accentual iambic rhythm into Serbian
prosody, the basis of which is otherwise
syllabic. Another of his innovations
was free rhythm, a medium for which
his energetic and rhetorical diction was
peculiarly adapted. In addition to his
poems, and a number of original
dramas, he also produced translations
from Shakespeare (Romeo and Juliet,
Hamlet, King Lear and Richard ITT.).
Kosti('; was the first Serbian poet who
wrote in the Western manner. 294
Machar, Jan Svatopluk (b. 1864). Czech
author, whose work both in prose and
verse, is of considerable interest. His
early poems, included in the series
• Pron. Kostitch.
332 LITERARY NOTES
PAGE
'' Oonflteor," consist largely of senti-
mental lyric pieces which recall Byron,
Heine and de Musset. In " Tristium
Vindobona " and " Satiricon " he em-
ploys verse effectively for political satire,
with strong radical and anti-clerical
tendencies. His prose- works (in parti-
cular, the book " Rome ") also contain
much strongly polemical matter which
has gained him numerous adherents, on
the one hand, aroused great opposition
on the other, and caused frequent anxiety
to the Austrian censor. Among the
Czechs themselves he has made many
enemies by his liberal interpretation of
the term '^ patriotism." Machar's most
lasting poetical work is probably the
series beginning with the volume '* Gol-
gotha," in which, following Vrchlick;^
(who again was influenced by Victor
Hugo's ^' L6gende des Si^cles ") he set
out to depict the most important events
and personalities of history. The later
volumes of the cycle however, show signs
of haste, and the poetical style, never
very subtle, is apt to become dry and
mechanical. 117, 251
Matavulj, Simo (1852-1908). Serbian novel-
ist, a Dalmatian by birth, but with a
LITERARY NOTES 333
PAGE
close knowledge of all the Southern Slav
regions. Hence, whether the scene of his
stories is laid in Montenegro, on the
Adriatic or in Belgrade, they are marked
by the vivid reality which can be
achieved only by one who is reproducing
what he has constantly witnessed. Apart
from cheir topographical interest, the
stories of Matavulj have the merit of be-
ing written in a style whose leading
qualities are ease and clearness. 174
Merezhkovsky, Dmitri Sergey evitch (b. 1865).
Although Merezhkovsky is known in
England as a novelist and critic, his first
published work was a volume of poems,
which were followed by others at a later
date. Merezhkovsky 's poetry is interest-
ing, since it is that phase of his literary
activity which, more than any other, re-
flects the image of his personality. 10, 199
Minsky, Nicolai Maximovitch (pseudonym
for N. Vilenkin, b. 1855). A Russian
poet whose development covers a period
of transition beginning with the influ-
ence of Nadson's rather shallow pathos
and passing, after an interlude of sym-
bolism, to rhetorical verses inspired by
the revolution of 1905. 200
23
334 LITERARY NOTES
PAGE
Nazor, Vladimir (b. 1876). Croatian poet of
the younger generation. His sonnets and
lyrical phantasies are full of a delicate
charm and an admirable precision of
form. 296
Neruda, Jan (1834-1891). Czech author,
whose varied activity both in prose and
verse was of considerable importance.
As a poet Neruda showed a width of
range which up till his time had not been
achieved in Czech literature. His bal-
lads, his elegies, his patriotic poems,
unite brilliant clarity of diction and di-
rectness of utterance. By his prose-
works, Neruda has gained an almost
unique reputation in his native country.
His numerous feuilletons in '' Ndrodnl
Listy," the chief daily paper of Prague,
became almost proverbial for their versa-
tility and sparkling wit. He also wrote
many sketches of travel and short
stories, in which the homely humour is
often similar to the style of Dickens. 134
Novdk, Arne. Czech literary historian and
professor at the University of Prague.
His numerous works of criticism, which
already rank as authoritative, are distin-
guished by both erudition and insight. 140
LITERARY NOTES 385
PAOB
Preradovii^,* Petar (1818-1872). Croatian
poet. Although his life was spent in the
Austrian army, where he attained the
rank of major-general, his verses reveal
a deep attachment, not only to his own
nation, but to all the Slavonic races.
This tendency is strongly emphasised in
his '' Ode to Slavdom " (p. 300), one of
the classical documents of Slavonic liter-
ature. As a contrast to the ornate
rhetoric of this ode, Preradovid wrote
a number of delicate little poems in
which he skilfully reproduced the spirit
of Southern Slav folk-song. 300
Presern,t France (1800-1849). The practical
founder of modern Slovene literature.
He rendered great services to the Slo-
vene language which was still in the pro-
cess of development, and introduced new
metrical forms into Slovene poetry. His
work consists of ballads, in which he
took the German romantic poets as his
model, sonnets, influenced in style and
subject matter by Petrarch, and a lyric-
epic poem, ''The Baptism on theSavica."
In spite of the derivative element in his
* Pron. Preradovitch (accent on 2nd syllable),
t Pron. Preshern (accent on ist syllable).
336 LITERAKY NOTES
PAGE
verses, they are sufficiently marked by
his own individuality to stamp them as
the work of a national poet. 319
Prus, Boleslaw (pseud, for Aleksander
Glowacki, 1847-1912). Polish novelist.
In such works as " The Emancipated "
and '' The Outpost " he deals with the
problems of feminism and the position of
the Polish peasant, thus preparing the
ground for the younger generation of
Polish novelists, who have treated simi-
lar subjects with more artistic finesse.
His * ^Pharaoh " is a historical novel
which has been compared with Flau-
bert's " Salambo." Prus is perhaps
most successful in his short tales and
sketches, whose kindly humour is well in
keeping with the humane tendencies they
pursue. 76
Przybyszewski,* Stanislaw (b. 1868). Polish
author, who has, however, written exten-
sively also in German. His plays
i" Snow," " The Golden Fleece," " The
Guests") and novels (*^Homo Sapiens,"
'' Satan's Children ") are strongly
*' modern " in tendency, and their psy-
chological dissection of the human soul'
* Pron. Pshybyshevski (accent on 3rd syllable).
LITERARY NOTES 337
PAGE
frequently encroaches on the pathologi-
cal. His unbalanced and even hysteri-
cal style is doubtless a genuine manifes-
tation of Przybyszewski's temperament.
But this minutely analytical method is
certainly effective when applied to the
criticism of an artistic personality, as in
his essay on Chopin (p. 88). 88
Rakid,* Milan (b. 1876). Serbian poet, the
patriotic and racial subject-matter of
whose work is treated with admirable
artistic finish. In his subjective lyric
poetry a strongly elegiac and pessimistic
tone prevails. 308
Reymont, Wladyslaw Stanislaw (b. 1868).
Polish novelist. After the short sketches
which constitute his early work, he re-
vealed great i)owers of style and compo-
sition in a series of longer novels. . *^ The
Promised Land " (2 vols.) depicts mi-
nutely the conditions prevailing in Lodz,
the great manufacturing centre of Po-
land. In this novel, conceived and exe-
cuted on a large scale, Reymont has cre-
ated a remarkable gallery of the most di-
verse personalities. His greatest work,
however, is probably '* The Peasants "
• Pron. Rakitch.
338 LITEKAKY NOTES
PAGE
(4 vols.) a prose-epic dealing with the
events of a single year in a Polish village.
Keymont's powers of description, his de-
tailed knowledge of Polish folk-lore and
his masterly insight into human charac-
ter have combined to produce a work
which will remain one of the classics of
Polish literature. Ill
Rydel, Lucyan (b. 1870). Polish poet and
dramatist, much of whose lyric poetry is
inspired by Polish folk-song. His his-
torical drama, ^' The Magic Circle,"
which achieved a great success, is a faith-
ful depiction of popular manners and in
its style is strongly coloured by the lan-
guage of the peasants. On the other
hand, Kydel has also written purely ar-
tistic verses in the manner of Verlaine,
while in his mythological sonnets he at-
tains highly decorative effects. 212
Shevtchenko,* Taras (1814-1861). The great-
est of Ukrainian poets. From his early
years he was familiar with the rich store
of Ukrainian folk-song, and it was from
this source that he derived both the var-
iety of his rhythms and the strength and
purity of his language. In the easy un-
* Accent on 2nd syllable.
LITERARY NOTES 339
PAGE
studied directness of his poetry, Shevt-
chenko may be compared with Burns,
whom he recalls also in the unhappy cir-
cumstances of his life, during which he
suffered serfdom, imprisonment and per-
secution. Besides his poems and draw-
ings, Shevtchenko also produced an au-
tobiographical novel entitled '' The Ar-
tist." 61, 204
Sologub,* Fyodor Kuzmitch (pseud, for
Teternikov), b. 1863. The novels and
short stories of Sologub are becoming fa-
miliar to English readers. His verses
often present the same morbid qualities
as his prose ; but, as the examples in this
anthology will show, neither the one nor
the other is exclusively occupied with
the darker aspects of the soul. 25, 201
Sova, Antonin (b. 1864). Czech poet. If
Bfezina's name is associated with sym-
bolism, Machar's with realism, Sova
may be credited with a mastery of im-
pressionism. His early work consisted
largely of descriptive and decorative po-
etry which records the effective obser-
vation of town and country scenes. In
subsequent volumes Sova is concerned
with the more complex matters which lie
* Accent on 3rd syllable.
340 LITERARY NOTES
PAGE
beneath the surface of life. These poems,
in which Sova's subtle and exquisite
lyrical style (a mean between Machar's
rather prosaic directness and Bfezina's
shadowy music) develops to a high de-
gree of perfection, reveal the conflicts of
a sensitive spirit with inner and outer
circumstances. And as Bfezina in his
last and ripest volume, " The Hands,"
arrives at a passionate optimism, so in
" The Harvests," the struggles and tor-
ments of Sova's earlier manhood are
clarified in a placid affirmation of life. 260
Staff, Leopold (b. 1878). Polish poet of the
younger generation. His verses are
often marked by an elemental vigour
which contrasts with the keynote of pes-
simism sounded by many of his contem-
poraries. Besides his lyric poems, he
has written an epic, " Master Twardow-
ski," based upon the Polish version of
the Faust legend. 215
Stefanovid,* Svetislav (b. 1877). Serbian
poet. Just as Du6i6 has enriched mod-
ern Serbian poetry by studying the work
of the French symbolists, so Stefanovid
has come under the influence of the Eng-
lish poets, especially of the pre-Raphael-
• Pron. Stefanovitch (accent on 2nd syllable).
LITERARY NOTES 341
PAGE
ite school. The poetry of Stefanovid,
who handles the sonnet with great skill,
has that polished stateliness for which
the Serbian language is so adapted. He
has also translated Wilde's " Ballad of
Reading Gaol," several of Shakespeare's
sonnets, together with various poems of
Keats, Tennyson, Swinburne and Ros-
setti. 309
Szczepanski,* Ludwik (b. 1872). Polish lyric
poet, whose verses reveal a tendency to-
wards mysticism, as in the collection
*' Lunatica," and towards realism in his
'* Viennese Sonnets." 216
Santid, Alexander (b. 1868). Serbian poet
from Mostar. His work is distinguished
by strong racial qualities. In addition to
verses in which he reveals his close sym-
pathy with the peasants, he has taken
the picturesque scenery of his native dis-
trict as the theme for a number of charm-
ing poems. His subjective lyric poetry
is elegiac in character. As a master of
metrical form Santid ranks high among
modern Serbian poets. His translation
of Heine's " Intermezzo," for example,
is regarded as a great achievement. 312
* Pron. Shchepanski (accent on 2nd syllable).
342 LITERARY NOTES
PAGE
grdmek,* Fr^iia (b. 1877). Czech author,
whose work, both in prose and
verse, shows considerable promise. In
'^ Flames," a volume of fragile, impres-
sionistic short stories, the influence of
such writers as Gorky and Dostoyevsky
is very pronounced, but here, as also in
the one-act play, " June," (p. 150),
Sramek gives adequate evidence of indi-
vidual artistic qualities. 150
Tetmajer (Kazimierz Przerwa-Tetmajer, b.
1865). Polish poet and novelist. His
literary career began in 1888, when, with
Adam Asnyk as judge, he was awarded
the first prize for a poem on Mickiewicz.
Tetmajer' s work consists partly of pure-
ly SBsthetic writing, such as the " Poems
in Prose," and partly of that very differ-
ent type of production in which he is in-
spired by the wild scenery of his native
Carpathians and the strange national
type who dwell there. It is in this phase
that Tetmajer's lyric temperament is re-
vealed at its strongest. (See, for ex-
ample, the poem entitled ^' Czardas," p.
220). In a number of prose-sketches
Tetmajer has admirably reproduced the
* Pron. Shrahmek.
LITERARY NOTES 343
PACK
character of the district and inhabitants,
not by paraphrasing their legends and
traditions, but by narrating purely im-
aginative incidents in the spirit and
often in the language of the people. His
novels dealing with society life present,
in tone and feeling, a complete contrast
to the naivity and freshness of these
peasant tales. 218
Tsensky (N. S. Sergeyev-Tsensky). Russian
novelist, whose early work, written
under the influence of Andreyev, is con-
sequently pessimistic in character. In
his prose style he has endeavoured to cre-
ate new devices for the vivid presentment
of objects and ideas. Although this de-
sire to avoid the hackneyed has led him
into the use of affected impressionistic
images, he often succeeds admirably in
reproducing the atmosphere suited to
the setting of his stories. 58
Theer, Otakar (b. 1880). One of the most
gifted among the younger Czech poets.
The rather obtrusive decadence of his
very early verses was followed, after an
interval of over ten years, by the collec-
tion " Anguish and Hope," in which his
personality is revealed in stronger and
U4: LITERARY NOTES
PAGE
riper manifestations. Pessimism is not
absent, but it is modified by a wider
knowledge of life. In this volume,
Theer gives proof of great technical skill.
The variety of his metres and the melodi-
ous diction of his language are admir-
able. His later poems in free rhythm,
which are rather of an experimental na-
ture, appear to be lacking in the spon-
taneous qualities of his best verses. 274
Vrchlicky,* Jaroslav (pseudonym for Emil
Frida, 1853-1912). The greatest name
in Czech literature. The mere quantity
of his work is astonishing. It consists
of (1) over 80 volumes of lyric and epic
poetry, (2) 30 plays, (3) 12 libretti for
operas, (4) over 12 volumes of prose, (5)
nearly 50 volumes of translated verse,
(6) over 35 translations of plays, (7) 6
volumes of translated prose. These
translations include the whole of Ari-
osto, Camoens, Dante, Tasso, together
with extensive selections from Byron,
Victor Hugo, Shelley, Tennyson, Whit-
man, Calderon, Goethe (the complete
'' Faust "), and several anthologies of
modern English, French and Italian po-
etry. By this^^normous body of work,
* Pron. Verchlitsky (ch as in loch).
LITERARY NOTES 345
PAGE
Vrchlick^^ enriched the Czech language
and widened its metrical resources, while
he influenced the progress of the litera-
ture to an extent which it is difficult to
estimate. In his original work Vrchlick^
was most effective as a lyric poet. He
wrote in this medium with a freshness, a
fervour and a melodious charm which,
in his best poems, can be compared with
the lyrical style of Swinburne or d'An-
nunzio. The facility with which he com-
posed, led him at times into rather
shallow improvisations, and some of his
critics are apt to lay stress upon these
weaker aspects of his productions, al-
though such lapses are comparatively
rare. In the same way, Vrchlickf has
been reproached for the close attention
he paid to foreign literatures, while other
Czecth poets were more exclusively
national. But the critics who urged
this against him did not realize that be-
fore Czech literature could become truly
national, it must first be made inter-
national. By Vrchlick.^'s efforts, it wa«
raised to this higher plane, and before
the close of the 19th century, it had ac-
quired the status of a European litera-
ture. Both as an original poet and as
346 LITERARY NOTES
PAGE
a translator, Vrchlick;^ influenced a
number of writers who, often with
marked success, have continued and am-
plified the work which was begun mod-
estly in 1874 with a small volume of
translations from Victor Hugo. 276
ZupanCic,* Oton (b. 1879). The most promi-
nent Slovene poet of to-day. His lyric
verses, which soon passed through an
early decadent phase, urge the younger
generation to seek for noble ideals. To-
gether with a warmth and freshness
which often recall the style of Slavonic
folk-songs, they combine the technical
finesse of the ripest modern artistic
poetry. 320
Pron. Zhupantchitch (ch as French j, accent on ist syllable).
BIBLIOGRAPHY
In addition to the works of individual authors,
the following have been found useful in selecting
material : —
Russian
flyMH H niCHH. CdopHHKl. HOBUX-L nbCeHl
(Ed. by A. Tchebotarevskaya, Moscow, 1911).
IIojiHLiH ^Tei;'L-JI|eKJiaMaTop'B (Ed. by I. D.
Shemyakin).
CoBpeMeHHHe PyccKie JlypHKH 1907-1912 (Ed.
by E. Stern, Petrograd, 1913).
Polish
Mloda Polska w Pie^ni (Ed. by Czeslaw Jankow-
ski, Warsaw, 1903).
Najmlodsza Polska w Pie^ni (Ed. by Zygmunt
R6zycki, Warsaw, 1903).
Czytanki Polskie (Ed. by Henryk Galle, Warsaw,
1907).
Wsp61czesni Pisarze Polscy w najcelniejszych
wyjatkach (Ed. by W. Feldman, Warsaw,
1910).
347
348 BIBLIOGRAPHY
Czech
Nov^ Ceska Poesie (Ed. by Dr. Arne Novdk,
Prague, 1907).
Cesk^ Lyra (Ed. by Fr. S. Proch^zka. 2nd, en-
larged edition. Prague, 1913).
Almanah na Rok 1914 (Prague, 1914).
Serbo-Croatian
Hrvatska Antologija (Ed. by Hugo Badalid, Zag-
reb, 1892).
Antologija Novije Srpske Lirike (Ed. by Bogdan
Popovid, Zagreb, 1911).
Srpskohrvatski Almanah za Godinu 1911 (Bel-
grade and Zagreb, 1911).
Printed in Oreat Britain by Ebenezer Baylis Sr Son, Worcester.
A 000 675 887 4
Live Music Archive
Librivox Free Audio
Metropolitan Museum
Cleveland Museum of Art
Internet Arcade
Console Living Room
Books to Borrow
Open Library
TV News
Understanding 9/11