SHORT STORIES FROM
THE BALKANS

SHORT STORIES FROM
THE BALKANS

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH
BY
EDNA WORTHLEY UNDERWOOD

BOSTON
Marshall Jones Company
MDCCCCXIX
COPYRIGHT·1919
BY MARSHALL JONES COMPANY
THE·PLIMPTON·PRESS
NORWOOD·MASS·U.S.A.
DEDICATED TO MY FATHER
ALBERT WORTHLEY

CONTENTS

YAROSLAV VRCHLICKÝ
VRCHLICKÝ

Yaroslav Vrchlický—whose real name is Emil Frida—is perhaps the most important personality in modern Bohemian literature. He was born in Laun in 1853, and was carefully educated in several different preparatory schools before going to the University of Prague where it was his intention to study theology. He changed his mind however and gave his time to philosophy, languages and literature. In this same university later, he held for many years the professorship of modern literature.

As a writer his productivity has been almost unparalleled, and it has expressed itself for the most part in the domain of poetry. Some thirty volumes of lyric verse have been published by him, and a number of volumes of poetic plays. It is as lyric poet that he ranks highest, being gifted with imagination and a sensitive ear.

In his position as professor of literature, he wished to introduce to his countrymen, and make easily accessible, in cheap editions, as many foreign writers as possible. He not only urged others to help do this, but he set an example himself. The leading poets of Germany, France, Italy and Spain, in their entirety, Yaroslav Vrchlický gave to his nation, in wonderfully fluent and sympathetic renderings. His translations are among the great monuments of modern scholarship.

His work in prose is less considerable, both as original writer and translator. His best prose works are “Bits of Colored Glass” and “Ironic and Sentimental Tales.”

The story, “Brother Cœlestin,” which we give, is from one of these collections and it is his most celebrated story.

It would be difficult to underestimate the influence of Vrchlický upon the youth of Bohemia who have for so many years come under his inspired tutelage. Yaroslav Vrchlický died in 1912.

None of the prose stories of Vrchlický have been published in English except one,[1] and of his verse we have seen but one small fragment, the exact name of which we do not remember, but it was written to the beautiful hands of a woman.

SHORT STORIES FROM THE BALKANS

BROTHER CŒLESTIN

HIGH in the Apennines it stood—a gloomy cloister. It towered blackly on the edge of a steep, forbidding, treeless abyss, and the sun beat pitilessly upon its bare, gray walls. There was something strange about this Cloister; here God and Satan dwelled side by side. God hid Himself behind the great altar in the church; Satan dwelled in the cell of the Prior, above his desk, and in fact right behind a picture. God knows to what school that picture belongs! It represented the Temptation of Saint Anthony. This had been a favorite subject for representation with a school of painters. Teniers and Tassaert had represented the subject with humor, Bosch with great imagination; it had been given by Callot to the modern world through the pen of Hoffman, that unjustly forgotten poet, and dreamer of golden vessels and magic draughts.

On one of these pictures, among the many shapeless and nameless monsters that surrounded the poor and holy hermit, moving in a hideously merry dance, there was in one corner of the canvas a great green frog with a bird-shaped beak, and a hugely swollen white goiter. Behind this frog dwelled Satan, and unobserved, through the eyes of the frog he watched—not holy Saint Anthony kneeling in prayer, but the living body of the Prior and his priestly comrades.

I am obliged to confess that for sometime Satan had been terribly bored in his quiet corner. The Prior was a pious man, and the monks hymned sleepily their breviaries. To tease them by means of sensual dreams was something altogether too commonplace, indeed Satan himself would be ashamed to do it, and at the same time he wished to amuse himself. Sometimes he closed the prayer book of the Prior ten times right before his nose, but with stoic calm, the Prior would open the book for the eleventh time and find the place of Scripture he was reading, and put in a book mark. On this book mark two flaming hearts were embroidered, and a cross sewn out of pearls; it was evidently a keepsake “from the world.” Satan tried to convince himself that it was childish to close the book the eleventh time. But the facts of the case are that he was ashamed to confess that he was not sufficiently emancipated mentally to be free of fear of the cross. He would not have confessed it himself, but I am confessing it for him strictly “sub rosa.”

In this Cloister a young monk lived. Shelley, that poetic interpreter of the human heart, would have named him Alastor, but here they called him Brother Cœlestin. His was a gentle, inspired dreamer’s soul, certainly worthy of a better fate than to wither away between gray, desolate walls. He was not especially beloved in the Cloister, and yet he was so quiet, so devoted. He did not coquette for a flattering look from the Prior, and when he met the brothers in the long, gloomy halls, he called out his “Memento” to them humbly—in the spirit of the Scriptures, not in the spirit of hypocrisy, which was something he knew nothing about.

Why Cœlestin entered the Cloister it would not be easy to say. Perhaps it was something that had to be. There are men in whose lives the fatalism of the past asserts its rights, that fatalism which the middle-age tried vainly to displace by means of faith in Providence, and which the modern world tried to make blind by the light of science, and succeeded only in dimming. It was easy to see that Cœlestin was not contented in the Cloister. What was to him the wonderful, magic beauty of nature, if he could look upon it only through the narrow window of his cell, which was covered with iron bars! The rest of the monks were old, too. They were unfriendly and cross. Perhaps the dreams with which they had stepped over the Cloister threshold had proved false as his own.

The cell of Brother Cœlestin was small; it looked bare and needy. It had one advantage, however; it was in an old tower, the remnant of an older fortification. This tower, with its one little iron-barred window, was the nest of all his dreams. A few boards made his bed; a Bible and breviary his library. The room to him seemed strange and bare. But the view out upon the mountain summits worked magic upon him, breathed into his soul such warmth and sweetness, as had done long ago the face of his mother.

For long, long hours Brother Cœlestin stood by the window, with greatest pleasure at the hour when the splendor of the sunset was poured over the mountains, when their harsh, dark outlines glowed in violet radiance, and the mist of evening floating down the terraced declivities, shimmered sweetly like a gentle rain of pale, blush-roses.

At night, too, for long, long hours Brother Cœlestin stood by the window when over the glooming, black heads of the mountains shot a yellow glow resembling the Aurora Borealis of the North. Then the distant stars trembled like little white flowers. What peace, what quiet, what perfume floated upon the night! Over there, in that corner between the mountains—thus thought Brother Cœlestin—there where the clouds and the mists, and the stars, and the birds are born, there sits an unknown divinity and dreams some mighty dream men call nature, world, human life.

By day, under the direct light of the sun, Cœlestin did not look across to the mountains; they were sad then, they seemed less lofty, humble, and oppressed.

I must remind the reader who has accompanied me through this dream of Brother Cœlestin that Satan was becoming fearfully bored in the cell of the Prior.

Likewise, I must communicate to him the fact that the Cloister was very poor. The monks depended wholly upon the benevolence of the country people who lived in this locality. That, however, was sufficient for their needs. Then times were different than they are now, the priest, and especially the monk, was as sacred to men as the friendly brown swallows that yearly nested under the eaves.

From time to time the Prior sent one of the monks into the mountains. He gave him two companions: Brother Andrew, who knew the mountain pathways as well as a bandit, and an old gray ass, which—laden with numberless empty baskets—brought back provisions. It was the duty of Brother Andrew to lead the ass. Perhaps that is the reason that the monks called the gray companion Andrew. And when they said: “Andrew is coming back from the mountains,” no one knew whether they meant the monk or the ass, or both. Brother Andrew was an old, crabbed, grumbling fellow who was never pleased with anything. When he was walking along the road he complained because the sun was hot. If the sun dipped down behind the mountains and set, he complained of the rough, pebbly road. When he was in the peasant homes he complained about the Cloister, and when he was in the Cloister he complained about the peasants. The shrewd Prior, who did not wish to displease the people because of this disagreeable disposition, always sent another Brother to accompany him. And because he wished to earn the gratitude of the Order, this one usually carried pictures, rosaries, and crosses for a gift to the peasant children, which he was careful, however, to distribute among the elders, ad captandam benevolentiam of the fathers and mothers.

So Brother Andrew returned to the Cloister with the baskets filled with butter, smoked meat, and various articles of food. And on the evening of his return the psalms of the choir resounded with a more solemn dignity, and the candles burned later in the great, barren, marble floored room which was the refectory.

Once Brother Andrew was standing with the empty baskets in front of the door waiting for a companion.

Andrew, the monk, had gone to the Prior, for his latest directions. Brother Cœlestin was gazing sadly away toward the mountains. His heart was filled with an indescribable longing. Then he looked up and saw the basket-laden ass. A wild desire mastered him to learn to know the intricacies of the mountains, to breathe deeply the fresh, free air, to rejoice with the soaring lark, and to look again upon the faces of living men,—not these dried mummies who were perishing in asceticism. He did not pause to consider. He went directly to the Prior, entered without being announced and without greeting.

“Father—I have a request. It is the first since I have been here. Hear me—in God’s name!”

The Prior looked surprised, but he replied gently, although there was reproach in his tone.

“You sin, my son, against the rules of the Order. You can have no requests. To express a request is to express a wish, and suppression of the individual will is the first step toward priestly perfection.”

Cœlestin was silenced. He blushed and tears came to his eyes.

The Prior spoke on. “I have sympathy for your youth. Tell me what you wish. Perhaps I will grant it, but in the future spare me a repetition and do not leave your cell until He summons you Whose unworthy servants we are.”

Hesitating, Cœlestin stated his wish. He asked to accompany Andrew into the mountains.

The Prior considered, then he said earnestly:

“Very good! Not because you asked me, but because it is really your turn to go. Go—and God be with you.”

Cœlestin kneeled at the Prior’s feet, and wet his hand with tears as he kissed it. The Prior could not understand the tears. The procession started.

Never before had Brother Andrew been so cross and disagreeable. He thought he had cause enough. He had a presentiment that their journey would be fruitless, and he was planning how to throw the blame upon Cœlestin. Cœlestin, for the first time in his life, was supremely happy. Anyone who has recovered from a serious illness, or a criminal who, after long years, has left his prison, can sympathize with the feelings of Cœlestin. It seemed to him that the world had just been created for him; everywhere he beheld his own soul; in the blossoms of the cyclamen, in the fearless wings of the eagle, which, high above, vanished in blue depths of air. If his training and his black gown had not hindered him, he would have followed the wild goats up the steep declivities where they leaped to nibble the berry bushes. His eyes sparkled. His hands trembled. Brother Andrew, I mean the monk, had predicted well. Just as if fate had closed the doors and the hands of the peasants and Brother Andrew—I mean now the ass—fell upon his back the results of the day. The old monk was right. Cœlestin had not taken along any pictures or rosaries, and he did not know how to praise the hens and the cattle of the peasant women nor to amuse their children. His heart was full to overflowing with his vision of the beautiful world, and his eyes spoke eloquently, but this speech the world does not understand. In short they were obliged to return with empty baskets. In one peasant house, all had gone to the village except the children, and these peered greedily through the papered windows, at the ill-assorted pair and refused them curtly. Poor Cœlestin! It was all his fault. Brother Andrew was in his worst temper. His gray namesake was secretly happy, however, because he did not have anything to carry. They moved slowly along the stony, treeless way. Andrew growled and grumbled, Cœlestin sought vainly in his mind for a safe explanation.

Just at this moment the swollen frog with the canary bird’s beak upon the painted canvas in the Prior’s cell, began to wiggle its white head, just as live frogs do, on the edge of ponds, when the warm spring rain falls. The Prior, however, observed nothing of this because he was so deeply absorbed in his breviary.

Our pilgrims reached at length the summit of the mountains. There stray trees grew, and berry bushes. They thought they would rest here a little, the ascent and the heat had tired them. But what thing did they see! There in shadow of a tree, with face pressed to earth, lay a man whose clothes were ragged. He was sleeping or dead. By his side lay a flute.

Brother Andrew began to grumble about vagabonds and thieves and wished to go on, but kind Cœlestin insisted that it was their duty to aid him. A quarrel arose out of which Andrew—the gray one—had the advantage. He lay down to rest in the coolness and began to eat grass and leaves. Brother Andrew resisted resolutely. One must be cautious, because how could they tell whom they were helping. To his great surprise Cœlestin resisted just as resolutely that the poor man must be lifted upon the ass and taken to the Cloister. It was evident that he was struggling between life and death. Cœlestin bent down and observed the face—an ordinary face without expression! “A musician! An idle, good-for-nothing wanderer in the mountains!” grumbled Andrew.

In the midst of continued resistance on one side, and a generous giving of biblical examples of brotherly love on the other side, they lifted the stranger to the back of the ass, and started for the Cloister, which peered forth from the mountain peak opposite, just as if it were eager to see what rich treasures of food Cœlestin was bringing back.

“A fine gift—this—we have,” declared Brother Andrew. Cœlestin picked up the flute. He had never seen such a thing before; he laughed because the slender black pipe pleased him. He hid it in his breast but Brother Andrew leaped upon him like a wild animal, and declared it must be given either to the Prior or the Cloister, as recompense for nursing—or perhaps the burial of the stranger. In order to end the quarrel Cœlestin gave the flute to the sick man, who opened his eyes from time to time and groaned.

On the terrace of the Cloister the monks had assembled, with the Prior in front, to await impatiently the return of the two Andrews. Food was low and more than usual now they felt need of sitting together in the lighted refectory, in front of well filled glasses and plates. But what a disappointment! Through the gate came Andrew number one, grumbling, and Andrew number two bore upon his back a drunken blackleg—was the universal opinion—while last came Cœlestin, his head bowed and hands folded, shyly, like a criminal who comes before his judge.

Astonishment, anger, complaints! No food. No smoked meat which Brother Cleofas enjoyed so, no artichokes, for which Brother Zeno was enthusiastic, and not a single melon of which Brother Sulpicius was so greedy. Instead of the promised meal, a beggar, an outcast in ragged clothes. O Cœlestin what have you done!

With a commanding look the Prior controlled the anger of the brothers, and with a still more commanding look he spoke to Brother Cœlestin. “Whom do you bring here, my son?”

“Jesus, the Christ!” he replied, and raised his blue eyes to the Prior.

Laughter resounded on all sides.

“He has lost his mind! He is laughing at us!”

Thus ran the opinions.

“Blaspheme not, my son,” answered the irritated Prior.

“I do not blaspheme, father, and I repeat: I bring Jesus the Christ. Did he not say himself: ‘What ye do to the least among men, that ye do unto me’? Consider, father! The poor fellow lay on the highway, suffering pain, in the sun. Did not God himself send us in his pity to lessen his suffering? It was for that reason that all the doors were shut against us, that we might succor this dying one and bring him here. If our baskets had been full of food, we could not have helped him, so everything was arranged wisely by Providence.”

A murmur circled the row of standing monks. The Prior was all but convinced. After a little meditation he said: “According to the commands of brotherly love you have done well, but likewise the Scriptures say: ‘Be cunning as the serpent.’ Is it not possible that this fellow is merely making believe? Who knows but he is an adventurer, who seeks our Cloister out in order later to fall upon it with his companions and plunder it!

“But it is done now and argument is useless. Let your punishment be—since you did this without consulting me—to take care of the sick man yourself. Come, Brothers, it is time for evening prayer!”

It was a sad and sorry-faced festival today! In the mind of Brother Zeno, who was singing, there were visions of artichokes cooked in fragrant oil; Brother Sulpicius was afraid to lift his eyes to the altar, lest he should behold fabulous, golden melons floating there; and good Cleofas thought that the incense was the smell of smoked meat. How sad was that evening meal. Nothing but dry bread, raw turnips, and cheese so old it was green. And Cœlestin was to be blamed.

Scarcely was the sad meal ended when a Brother announced the death of the stranger. Fresh trouble, and another round of reproaches for Cœlestin. Even the Prior could not hold in any longer, and began to scold: “Expense! Useless expense!”

Brother Cœlestin remained with the dying man to the last breath. As soon as he closed his eyes, a strange feeling came over him; he felt as if he were going to commit theft. With trembling hand he felt the body of the dead man, and at last he found what he sought—the old flute. As if it had been a costly treasure he hid it in his breast. The entire day he walked about like one in a dream. The monks meanwhile buried the stranger by the Cloister wall. But instead of prayers they only flung a few remarks at him, along with some handfuls of dirt.

It was a fragrant evening of summer. Cœlestin stood by the window of his narrow cell and gazed across at the mountains. His soul was slowly bursting into bloom like a gigantic flower.

He had never seen a flute before. He drew it forth eagerly and looked at it just as a child looks at a new toy, and then tried awkwardly to put it to his lips and place his fingers upon the openings and move them up and down. He made the attempt of blowing his breath into it. A pure, sweet tone bubbled up from the flute and floated forth upon the air of evening. It was as if a swan upon a lake was singing its death song.

Cœlestin was astonished and repeated the attempt, and this time longer and with more courage. If the first note was like a quiet lament, the next note was a reproach, and did not perish suddenly, but ended with a sharp call.

In his inexperience Cœlestin thought it could not be otherwise, and that it all consisted in just blowing breath into the flute, and the flute itself would do the rest, and so he blew valiantly.

It was a strange melody!

All the poetry of the pleasant evening of summer mirrored itself in the waves of this mystic music. It was as if the crimson evening spread itself around the tones! And these tones which melted into a tender elegy, trembled like the wild, clinging vines, which pushed up between the hops, along the cloister wall, and lifted their large, variegated blossoms through iron window bars, and nodded into gloomy cells.

It was as if upon the edge of each huge flowercup an ethereal being sat, and this being was whiter than ivory, and more translucent than mist. And each tiny ethereal being kept time with its golden head, and bowed and nodded to the other flowers. And then they began to dance, as if a thousand bright butterflies were being cradled in the blossoms. Heaven bent nearer, the mountains grew loftier and lordlier. The river, which twisted between walls of rock, murmured as if in a dream, and the forbidding cliffs which watched it mirrored themselves in the golden sand and leaned nearer. The juniper bushes gleamed with a magical, emerald green. And each note—it was as if it found a brother! One found it in the tender tint of evening clouds, another in the silvered glory of the waves, and still another in the violet shadows of distant mountains. Every tone repeated itself in an echo which floated down through the crevasses of the old Cloister wall, wandering along the stained glass windows of the chapel, dancing over the graves of the monks who now slept in peace. And still Cœlestin played.

It seemed as if, by means of the music, all things that oppressed him fell away. His mood was the same as that morning when for the first time he went into the mountains; but he felt freer, like the eagle he had envied that day, happier than the blossoms of the cyclamen in whose slender cups he had found his soul. He played on and looked out upon the mountains behind which the sun was sinking amid enchanting colors. The landscape in front of him melted into broad strips of shimmering, floating colors, the little river arose from its rocky cavern, and threw into his window a rain of gems—onyx, pearls, and rubies. The evening red became a sea, the flowering vines of the Cloister wall grew in jars of crystal. Naked odalisques and sylphs arose from them and leaned toward him with beckoning mien. Everywhere resounded melodious, bizarre, grieving, passionate, imploring tones like the falling pearls of May rain upon the thick, blooming forest where the jasmine clings.

And Cœlestin played on and on; a flood of fancies broke over his head, like the flood of ocean over one who is drowning. There was something penetratingly sweet for him in this whirlpool of tone, like the clash of cymbals, like the pealing of bells. Gradually it grew stiller and stiller, only into his window peered the dew-wet magic night, with its sweet, star eyes.

Upon the threshold stood, as if turned to stone, Brother Cleofas. The flute fell from the hands of Cœlestin. Brother Cleofas announced the command of the Prior. Cœlestin must come at once to the refectory and bring the flute.

A formal meeting was in progress. Cœlestin, absorbed by his music, had forgotten the hour of evening prayer, and what was worse, he had disturbed the prayers of the others. The monks, who were already angry with Cœlestin, awaited joyously the punishment of the Prior. At first the Prior believed that Cœlestin knew how to play. But he insisted that he had never seen a flute before and thought all there was to it was just to blow in it. A storm of laughter was the answer to this. Some believed him a deceiver, others saw his innocence. The Prior meditated. The honest countenance of Cœlestin disarmed him. The Prior decided that the flute was the property of the convent, told Brother Cleofas to take and guard it.

Cœlestin spent a sleepless night. Continually he heard that enchanting music. The next day was dim and fog-filled. Cœlestin felt like a person after a nightly orgy. He felt as if there were a frightful emptiness in his soul, he walked about his cell and the church like a stranger. He suffered from a longing he could not express, he feared even to try to express it, and at the same time, he knew that it was because he was grieving over the lost flute.

Again evening came, and this time more gloomy and fog-hung than the day. The mountains looked like sorrowing widows hidden in their veils. With arms crossed upon his breast Cœlestin paced his cell. There was but one thought in his brain and that tortured him. The flute!

Someone knocked softly at the door. He opened it, and in the dim passage he saw a Brother. It was too dark to distinguish face or feature, but it seemed to resemble Brother Cleofas.

“Has the Prior sent for me again?” stammered the surprised Cœlestin.

In reply the dark figure touched a warning finger to its lips—and then held out the flute. Who else could it be but Brother Cleofas, the one who dreamed of the sweetness of smoked meat?

“Cleofas, Brother!” exclaimed Cœlestin, with delight. “Then there is one who has sympathy for me, who has not forgotten me, who braves the anger of the Prior for my sake! I thank you, Brother—and I always thought you were my enemy. Pardon me, Brother! Pardon me! My flute, my flute!”

The monk signalled him to be quiet. Before Cœlestin thanked him he had disappeared. In his excitement, good Cœlestin had quite forgotten that now all the Brothers were assembled in the church. He believed firmly that that silent monk must have been Cleofas. He went to the window and played.

The melody was sad and elegiac, as if it tried to harmonize with the mood of the evening. Suppressed sighs, restrained tears, were interwoven in the melody; a thousand nightingales sobbed their sorrow in the song. Then, upon the instant, it changed—it was a wild dance of a carnival, an unrestrained orgy, wherein from time to time shook the laughter of madness. I do not know how long Cœlestin played, but this time it was really Cleofas, who, raging like a tiger, came with a message from the Prior. Cœlestin declared that Brother Cleofas came to his cell and gave him the flute. The Prior knew that Brother Cleofas had been in the church with him. Cœlestin stuck to his statement and could not be shaken from it. It looked bad for Cœlestin. Everyone had seen Cleofas at vesper service; no one had seen Cœlestin.

The Prior put his hand to his brow as if in search for a reasonable decision. The Prior took the flute and carried it into his own room. Cœlestin was led to the Cloister prison, where he was to remain and eat only bread and water until he confessed to the truth. Night came on. Cœlestin did not know it. The little prison chamber under the roof was always dark. The one little barred window was right under the drain spout of the roof. The door opened. Brother Cleofas came in. Grumbling he placed a piece of bread by Cœlestin’s cot; and fastened a diminutive earthen lamp to the unpainted wall and left. Cœlestin tried to talk with him, but he shut the door in silence and turned the key.

He threw himself upon the miserable cot and tried to sleep. Feverish fancies crossed his brain, his forehead was hot, his eyes were heavy, but he could not sleep. Slowly the hours passed.

“What a wretched existence!” thought Cœlestin, “It would be better to die.” He began to meditate about death. It seemed to him something desirable. The flickering flame of the lamp sent smoke and shadows across the barred window space, and stretched into thicker blackness in the corners. Right by the door Cœlestin watched the shadow grow thicker. Was it an illusion? He rubbed his eyes in order to see better. The shadows thickened into a form, and the form drew near to him. It was hidden in a brown robe of peculiar shape. The long, thin, yellow face resembled old parchment in the Cloister library. It came nearer and nearer and its steps were noiseless. Cœlestin looked straight at this phantom being; he did not feel the slightest fear. Now it stood beside him and looked down upon him with green, sparkling eyes.

“You are Satan!” declared Cœlestin calmly, without turning his eyes away.

“You may not be mistaken,” replied the stranger hoarsely.

There was silence a while.

“What a miserable thing is life!” sighed Cœlestin.

“Miserable?” laughed the strange guest. “That is because you do not know it, my boy! The old complaint of children and good-for-nothings. Life is an idea, a conception of the brain. It is your own fault if you do not enjoy it.”

“What? I do not know anything about life?” questioned Cœlestin, hastily. “Then what does my renunciation mean, my struggles, my dreams—”

“Renunciation, struggles, dreams, are not life!” said Satan, scornfully. “You have a presentiment of what it is—you child with the longing of a giant and the grief of an old man in your heart.”

“And why do I not know life?” questioned the monk, timidly.

“Because you do not know woman!” replied Satan, laughing.

“Woman?” repeated Cœlestin. “Did I not have a mother?”

“Do not speak of a mother!” interrupted Satan. “Mother is soul—God—but not woman. Woman is flesh—body—and that you do not know. You are very innocent, dear child.” A note of sympathy trembled upon the last words of Satan.

“But how could a woman help to make me happy? I would be happy if I could travel over the beautiful world, climb the mountains nimbly as the goats, fly across the blue with the eagle, or dwell in the blossom-cup of a flower—”

“And remain a fool, just as you are!” interrupted Satan. “No! You do not know what a woman is! Your unripe dreams are hung upon the stars, the eagle’s wings, but not where they belong. You do not know that your soul is a woman, that nature is a woman—death—eternity—You have renounced woman and that is the reason that you are a child, with the longing of a giant in your heart, and the grief of an old man. I pity you!”

Fear stood in the young priest’s eyes.

“Then teach me to know woman, and in return take my life, my soul!”

Satan laughed and came nearer.

“What is the use of this feeble light?”

With these words he extinguished it; stepped to the window and stretched his hand out into the night. Like white silk threads something gleamed outside, changed into a beam of light, and in a thrice floated between the bars a white star, which illumined the room. A sulphur glow filled the room, which gradually changed into different colors. Satan felt within his breast, drew out three round, black pieces of wood which he fitted together.

“My flute!” exclaimed Cœlestin, jumping up from the cot.

“Yes—your soul!” mimicked Satan, “Remain lying where you are.”

Cœlestin obeyed, and drew the covers up. Satan put the flute to his lips. Hardly was the first note sounded than a change took place in him. He was sitting upon his bed like a naked colossus, from whose gigantic shoulders two bat’s wings depended, like black banners. He played and kept time with his black head. The notes were bizarre, false, unlovely. Melody was lacking, and it seemed to Cœlestin that a rain of fire fell upon his temples. The notes grew sharp; they pierced like needles. Cœlestin was frightened, he drew the covers over his head. Something like a streak of mist floated over him and settled down with a certain restraint upon him. Picture-visions, strange and mighty, passed before him. He saw cities, uniquely towered, and houses, thick forests, and sandy wastes; ancient gardens, filled with sculptured stone. Evening came, and morning, and night again. Then he found himself in a wild garden where grew black cypress trees. Far in the rear were towers of a building of the middle-age. Yellow sand was spread upon the broad walks, and the flowers, whose cups were shaped like stars, spread abroad a perfume that was benumbing. In front of one of the fountains, under a cypress tree, stood a woman, a splendid commanding figure. She wore black velvet, and the neck was left open in front. He stretched his arms out toward her, but she melted into mist and disappeared. Again mist spread about him, it increased, and then melted into swifter and swifter whirling circles. Down into this sped the beam of light that had floated between the window bars, and at once threw out long jasmine-blue and emerald rays, and these rays turned, twisted, and then transformed themselves into the body of a woman, around whom white mist floated like silken muslins. That was she—the dream of his sleeping soul, the one whom he saw under the cypress tree. Very plainly he saw her, he felt her breath, but Satan he did not see at all, who kept marking the time with madder measure. While he looked at her, tears flowed over his face, his head was dizzy as if with intoxication. He spread his arms out toward her, but she hurried away to the window, and, dancing upon the moonlight, she beckoned him to follow. He got up from his cot like one drunk, the iron window bars fell clattering in the dust. He must get away, away—Upon the black chimney, blowing the flute, he saw Satan, and before him floated the resplendent summer night world of his dream—and that enticing woman. He must follow her. It was a strange road, over the roof tops. Satan was ahead, blowing the flute, then she, veiled in rosy mist, from which fell continually like rain, roses, ivy, blue bells, rhododendron, and these flowers were twined about her hair, and her snow-white limbs. Behind her came Cœlestin, with wildly outstretched arms. In front of all of them danced the moon, and threw its light in little fine threads over their feet. The stars cradled themselves in a phosphorescent splendor, and the top of the old Cloister swayed under their feet like the back of some fabulous, pre-historic monster. Where the roof made a turn, a great, black cat jumped out, with two red rubies for eyes, and long fur, from which fell sparks. The Cloister remained behind; they hurried away upon the moon-beam, and left it. Trees stood along the road like giant, veiled spectres. From their tops sometimes ravens rose. Beneath, blue flames trembled, over which seductive will-o’-the-wisps floated. By the shore sat huge frogs, whose emerald-green bodies showed yellow spots. The air became heavy. Mist veiled the moon; and now they floated away over the crest of the mountains and the flute song was heard no more. They stood upon the edge of an abyss, into this measureless depth the woman leaped, riding upon pallid moonlight—and disappeared. Upon the edge of the cliff above sat Satan; he put the flute aside and laughed loudly and scornfully. Cœlestin opened his eyes. Darkness surrounded him.

“Give me the flute!” he thundered to Satan. “Give me the flute and I will play that beautiful woman up out of the abyss!”

Shrill laughter was the answer.

“Give me the flute—and take my soul!”

Again the laughter echoed. In wild anger Cœlestin fell upon Satan and tried to take the flute away, but Satan embraced him, and spread his black wings over him. Together they sank slowly to the earth. Cœlestin did not wake again.

In the morning the monks found the window broken, but of Cœlestin they found no trace. The Prior could not find the flute which the day before he had placed under the picture of Saint Anthony. While he was searching for the flute, he observed the picture critically, and for the first time he saw in the eyes of the green frog the red scorn of laughter, and he saw the white goiter swell. That day he removed the picture from his cell. For a time the monks talked of the affair, and then they forgot it, as everything else is forgotten. Again Brother Andrew and his gray companion went out into the mountains for food. They were received in the most friendly manner by the good mountain people, and Brother Andrew drank more wine than was good for him. How could he help it when the heat was so great! It was late when, heavily laden, he started home, where the monks awaited him impatiently. But this time both Bacchus and Morpheus took good Andrew in charge. The ass lost the way, and in the darkness let himself be led by his namesake.

But the next morning! The sharp air awoke him and dispelled the intoxication. Rubbing his eyes, he looked about. Eternal God, with whom had he slept! Near him lay a man, his face buried in the earth, and wearing the rotting habit of his Order. It was really now only the skeleton of a man, it had been so long the prey of wind and rain. At a little distance lay a flute! Andrew shrieked with terror. He began hastily to beat his companion, and drive him up the steep mountain-side.

Not once did he dare look back, and he made constantly the sign of the cross.

He told the Prior that he had stayed all night at a peasant’s house. Whether he ever told what really happened that night I do not know.

A von VESTENDORF

FUROR ILLYRICUS
A STORY OF THE MONTENEGRIN BOUNDARY

WHEN he finished I reached him my hand, wished him joy, and promised that I would come to the wedding, and the rest of the army men, too, who were off duty.

It was in truth a good marriage for both. He was young and honest, even if he was a trifle hot-headed. She, the elder of two very pretty sisters, had been somewhat nervous during the period of betrothal in the house of her father, rich Perovic of Salona, so great was the change from the quiet convent in Triest where she had been educated.

I, myself, had played the part of wooer for my sergeant with the old man, after it had been found out that the tears of the women and the honest words of the young sergeant himself were helpless. What they could not effect, the gold braid and medals of the commanding officer effected easily. And so he gave in, and since the beginning had succeeded so well,—the dowry was arranged and the wedding day set in the midst of many cups of coffee and little glasses of céta and cigarettes.

One thing only stood in the way: the old man as a Montenegrin took the part of the Serbs, while Fabriccio was to all appearances useless as a soldier. In his heart he was on the side of the earlier lords of the land, from whom he had descended.

Then the wedding day drew near. The intervening time had not passed wholly free from disagreements—but at length it passed. The old man in fact seemed to take a liking to his future son-in-law, in somewhat the same manner in which he had been fond of his own son, who, against his will, had married a poor Italian girl. He disinherited the son. The pleading and tears of the women, the intercession of the priest, and the Archimandrite of S. Saba—could not move him. He would not permit the name of his son to be mentioned in the house because he was master there.

In the place of this disobedient fool, he was determined to turn over the wharf and the rope making plant to Fabriccio, until his term of army service had expired. He was a very different man from that poor, miserable musician, Pero.

The wedding day had come.

Through the multitude of carriages of an unbelievable range of styles, we made our way along the sand of the highway, then through tremulous chestnuts to the cathedral. There in the dusky, gold-shimmering interior the ceremony was performed according to the rites of the Eastern church.

Upon huge silver platters of an antique and barbarous make, bread was offered by young priests, who wore long hair. Noiselessly these two young priests walked in and out of the doors of the painted wall which hides the altar from the curious. Sometimes they carried heavy altar books and sometimes silver vessels.

Lower sinks the white-veiled head of the bride, who, with the handsome, earnest soldier, was kneeling by the front bench. Louder rose the shattering thunder of the chorus, with its strange rhythm, its monotonous repetitions in a long forgotten language. Like trumpets that mysterious singing rings out, then there comes the deep bell tone, and from the door to the right—seen through a cloud of incense—approaches the Archimandrite in an ornate robe of gold, with cap and staff, accompanied by priests, accompanied by little boys who are swinging censers.

My little companion who beside me to the right is standing behind the bridegroom, signals to me and lifts the little crown and holds it out over the head of the one kneeling in front. I follow her example and do the same for the bride. Then came the questions and answers. The white-bearded bishop embraces the young man and kisses him first on the right and then upon the left shoulder; he embraces the bride, who kisses his sleeve.

Then comes my turn and that of my little companion, whose shy glances tell me to do what the others have done. For a brief time I hear about me only the rustling of stiff garments, the soft scuffling of feet, as one face after the other bends to touch my shoulder and that of the maiden—old women, young women, men, boys, people whom I never saw and shall never see again.

And then came the procession back, a long string of carriages moving through a heat that resembled hades, moving slowly through the dust, between beechen hedges and tall cypress trees. The little one beside me spread out her white veil as well as she could to shield me from the sun, and her little crown of flowers, pale roses and myrtles,—is resting against my shoulder, and the dust circling round us shuts us in like a wall.

Cannons roar. We are in front of the villa of Perovic. It is really only a massive, four cornered tower dating from imperial days with frequent additions, which had been added to it in the course of centuries, having been built out of the heaps of surrounding ruins. It consisted of huge, unadorned, white-washed rooms, and provided most sparingly with furniture. Only in the great entrance way—the tinello—was there furniture.

Some art loving ancestor had adorned the walls with pictures. In the midst of bright red fields a little nymph—a little picture of a nymph making music, painted just as craftsmen painted on the walls of Pompeii, and framed in the most baroque old Italian manner. There are decorations above the doors, here and there a frieze—wreaths of flowers, fruit. In a huge room opening out of this the table is set, about it are coarse chairs with straw-woven seats, which before had been placed around the walls of the tinello. Beside the huge old candelabra, there are large fine mirrors, in heavily ornate frames, and some old ship’s chests, otherwise the room is empty.

A heavy odor of food pervades the house. Upon the damask cloths which cover the table and fall to the floor on all sides is placed—upon common little plates—the hors d’œuvre, which consists of black and green olives, sardines in oil, slices—paper thin—of splendid salami from Verona and Mailand, celebrated ham from Punta Rosa, dried figs and diminutive glasses of old Treberschnaps, which is not inferior to the finest Cognac.

In front of each guest a plate, and at first of fine porcelain of all brands, and then afterwards English stoneware; with them knives, forks, and spoons of finest silver, and later knives and forks with wooden handles and made of pewter, which had been borrowed from a road-house near by.

In front of the bridal couple are two vases of fragrant flowers.

A nephew of the head of the house acts as master of ceremony and points the guests their places. At the right of the bride the bishop, next the bride’s mother. On the left of my sergeant, I, beside me Gianettina, my charming little companion for the day. Opposite the bride sits the father, by him his friends and companions. They are insolent, much-bedecorated old men, with long, hanging beards; knives and silver pistols are stuck into their girdles. They wear little black caps on their heads, and they sit and stare greedily down at the little plates.

They are put out and constrained by the presence of the women, and perhaps likewise by me. They speak Serbian and my little neighbor blushes when she translates their speeches for me softly. She knows I know no Serbian, and she never forgets to add to the answer in Italian, that she hopes the gospodin will learn Serbian. She tells me the names of the men, who are for the most part relatives of her father. When she comes to a young man in a white coat, who has hard, crabbed features, her face grows sad: “Once he asked to marry my sister, and she refused him. Papa, however, liked him! Ah!—what blows fell on Nine then;—but she didn’t give in.” Would he like to marry you now I suggest? “No, no. She wouldn’t have him either. Besides she was altogether too young,” she hastened to explain.

The banquet begins.

Two serving maids and the nephew of the head of the house enter with huge, four cornered bottles; one little drink and a dried fig open the meal. That is the custom evidently to banish the taste of cigarettes which are always in evidence. Then wine is poured into glasses—the heavy, thick, ink-black wine of Lissa—and each one selects his favorite morsel from the plates. Before the sugared eggs are passed around the wine takes effect—only a few clean out their plates with rye bread—and next comes the minestra, then baked macaroni with hashée made from the entrails of young lambs; fowl roasted in sugar, small barboni baked in oil, baked ink-fish with citron, pullets cooked with fresh vegetables and beef and served upon huge platters. First one and then another of the guests hands over to the attendants first the silver pistols and then the knives; then they unfasten the heavy leathern girdles and loosen their neckbands. Louder and more boisterous rises the laughter, redder the faces, even the face of my little companion grows rosy when I insist that she translate for me some of the witticisms.

Now, fritolli are brought in, round sweet cakes fried in oil, turkeys, from which each one cuts a slice, or rather tears it off, as it happens. Fresh wine is continually brought, while the master of the house announces the year and place of vintage; wines from the islands, from Greece. Occasionally a guest rises and drinks the health of the bride’s father, the bridegroom or some guest. Outside in the court-yard are heard the noisy voices of workmen and servants who are eating at a long table. The Perovic family have never been niggards.

The heat is insufferable despite open doors and windows; and I long for the fresh air and coffee. How long can this debauchery continue? At length the champagne comes and after that the special dish of honor.

Upon a long wooden tray, borne by two servants, a roast lamb is brought, and placed upon a serving table which is shoved up to the lower end of the large table. With a lordly gesture the master of ceremonies steps forward, takes up a large knife, ground thin as a hair. The master of the house speaks a few words. Then all the young people sitting round the table bow their heads quickly and cover their eyes with the edge of the table cloth. All laugh and talk and holler. My little companion whispers to me to do just what the others do. I see the master of ceremonies lift a huge knife, and then with one blow which makes the glasses dance, sever the entire roasted lamb. One more blow and the “jaraz” lies cut in four parts.

The guests drop the edge of the table cloth, wipe their eyes and hair—the ones who did not skilfully hide and shelter themselves with the cloth. The master of the house congratulates the master of ceremonies upon his skill and dexterity.

This officially ends the meal. To be sure cakes and fruit are brought in, but only the ladies taste of them. The men continue to drink. The Archimandrite rises, thanks the master of the house for the banquet. The kissing of shoulders begins again, and I attempt to take advantage of the opportunity by making my own adieux, when the hands of my little companion grab me by the arm and she whispers: “Please don’t go now. I’m afraid! I’m afraid!” I see that she is watching anxiously a little group at one end of the table.

Beside the master of the house stands that young gloomy looking man—the wooer whom Nine had rejected. He is smiling scornfully and whispering in the ear of the old man. The old man laughs in an ugly manner, swallows glass after glass of wine. Then he pounds on the table and roars: “Who mentions his name, he is dead!” The others nod approval, slap him on the back, and touch drinking glasses with him. In the meantime the gloomy looking man goes up to talk with the bride and groom. His face is sad and tragic. He is telling them something that affects them deeply. The young bride nods approval, my sergeant pulls down his coat, straightens up and clears his throat, and walks up to the old man.

I saw Fabriccio standing beside the old man. I saw him place his hand upon the old man’s shoulder, and then I heard his words as if echoing through a strange silence:

“Father—on this happy day, let us not forget poor Nicolo, who with wife and child and poverty—”

There was no way to help now. With distended eyes, white with rage, the old man jumped up. I saw Fabriccio stagger back, then start to run after the old man through the open door. There was noise and confusion on the stairs—then I saw the little bride throw herself upon the dead body of Fabriccio.

Three days later they found the old man in hiding in a house of ill-fame. Poor little Nine!

L. G. CARAGIALE

EASTER CANDLES

LEIBA ZIBAL, proprietor of the little rest-house by Podeni, is sitting thoughtfully under the projecting roof in front of the wine shop waiting for the stage which is already overdue an hour.

The life story of Zibal is long and it is not particularly merry. But now, in his present condition when he is suffering so from fever, it is a genuine amusement for him to parade before his mind its various incidents.

Huckster, petty merchant, general go-between—sometimes even more humble—dealer in rags and old clothes, once tailor and cleaner in a sad, dirty little street in Jassy. He had had to try his hand at all these things in the interval after losing his place as waiter in a large wine house. Under his supervision two porters had carried a cask of wine into the cellar. In the division of the labor they fell out. One seized a stick of wood and dealt his partner a blow on the head so severe that he dropped unconscious and blood spattered the walk.

Zibal shrieked with horror at the sight, but the porter was hastening to get away, and lifting a threatening hand to Zibal, who fainted from terror. As a result he was ill for several months, and when he came back he found his old place had been filled.

Then began a fight for existence, which was made harder by his marriage to Sura. But patience and endurance can overcome the most treacherous fortune.

Sura’s brother—proprietor of the rest-house by Podeni—died, and the little business was inherited by Zibal who carried it on on his own account. Here he had lived for five years. He had managed to scrape together a small competence in raw and well aged wine, which at any time has an equivalent in gold. Zibal had freed himself from poverty, but now they are all ill, he and his wife and the child—ill with the marsh fever.

The people in Podeni are bad tempered and quarrelsome. Harsh words, scorn, curses, constant complaints that they are being poisoned with vitriol. But worst of all are the threats. A threat for a sensitive, nervous nature, is worse than a blow. And now what makes Leiba Zibal suffer more than the fever, is a threat.

“Ah!—dog of a Christian!” he thinks sadly. The one he refers to is friend George. He wonders where he is hiding—this man with whom he had had an unpleasant experience.

It was on a morning in fall. George stumbled into the rest-house weary, saying he was just out of the hospital and must have work. Zibal hired him. But George proved to be coarse and rough and bad tempered. He cursed and grumbled. He was a lazy and unwilling servant, and he stole.

One day he threatened Zibal’s wife, who was soon to be confined, that he would give her a blow in the abdomen, and another time he set the dogs upon the baby. Leiba paid him and dismissed him. But George said at first that he would not go away, that he had been hired for a year. The proprietor retorted that he would go to the authorities and complain of him, and ask for the law to free him from him.

Then George grabbed for something hidden within his clothes and shrieked:—“Judas!” He started toward Leiba as if he were going to fall upon him.

Fortunately, just at this moment, guests came to the hostelry, because the stage had just driven up. George began to grin. “What? You weren’t afraid, were you, Mr. Leiba? See—I’m going!”

Then he bent over the table toward Leiba making him shrink back as far as possible, and whispered: “You just wait till Easter night! We’ll pick red eggs together! Then you’ll find I’ve reckoned up your account!”

The guests entered the rest-house.

“Goodbye till Easter, Mr. Leiba!” added George as he went out the door.

Leiba went to the authorities, put the case before them and asked for protection. The sub-prefect—a merry young fellow—was the first one to learn the modest request preferred by Leiba, and he began at once to laugh and to make fun of the trembling Jew. Leiba tried to make him comprehend the danger of the situation. He explained that the rest-house was in a lonely place, far from a village—yes, even off the highway. But the sub-prefect merely told him in a jocular manner to brace up and try to be sensible. Moreover he didn’t wish to talk about such things in a village where the people were so quarrelsome and poor, because it might put notions of insubordination into their heads.

Some days later George was sought by mounted police at command of the sub-prefect. A crime had been committed and suspicion pointed to him.

“How much better it would have been,” Leiba thought, “if he had put up with him until the people came! Because now no one knew where he was.”

Although this had happened a long time ago, it all lived again tonight in his memory, accelerated with fever and suffering. He saw him grab at his clothes as if for a concealed weapon, he heard again the threat, and he suffered again just as he did then at the import of the words. Why did the memory happen to come back so vividly just now, he kept asking himself.

It was the night before Easter.

In the little village, some two kilometers away upon the hills, between the big ponds—he could hear the church bells ringing. And they sound so strangely when they echo through a brain made sensitive with fever. Sometimes the bells are very loud and sometimes they scarcely whisper. Easter eve was at hand. This was the time set by George for fulfillment of his threat.

“Now, of course, he is safely in prison somewhere,” said Leiba, reassuringly.

However, it may be, Zibal will have to remain in Podeni until the next quarter is over. Then with his money he will move to Jassy and open a nice little business, on the Market square—then Leiba will have good health again and not shake with fever. He will be right beside police headquarters. He will give tips liberally to all the policemen—to the inspector of police—Who pays well, is safe.

On a great market square like the one in Jassy, night is noisy, and just as light as day. No darkness there—no silence either. Never such deep silence as in this lonely valley of Podeni, between the black hills and the great speechless water. In Jassy there is a rest-house—right in an angular building on the corner—which is the finest place in the world for a rest-house. There, all night long girls dance and sing in a Café chantant. What noise they make! What merry life! There any hour of the day or night you can look out your windows and see the gentlemen who enforce the law amusing themselves with other gentlemen of the law—in coquetting with the girls.

Why should he make himself miserable by staying here any longer, when the business grows worse daily, especially now since the railroad was built, which has to make a detour of miles because of the swamps?

“Leiba,” calls Sura. “The stage is coming. I can hear the bells.”

The valley of Podeni is just like the bottom of a kettle—all surrounded by hills. Down in the southern part, the springs that come from the mountains, spread out into lakes, where grouped water grasses grow like bushes. Between the swamps and the high hills in the middle of the valley stands Leiba’s lonely rest-house as brave as a fortification. Despite the wet land the walls are dry as powder.

At sound of Sura’s voice he gets up painfully and stretches his legs cramped with fever. He looks long toward the East. There is no sign of the stage.

“It isn’t coming. You just thought so,” he replied to the woman and sank down again.

Exhausted, he crosses his arms upon the table, and his head drops down upon them. Relaxation steals over his weary nerves, and his mind wanders in the strange visions of illness.

George—Easter eve—criminals—Jassy—a little safe rest-house in the Market square—a thriving business—health. He falls asleep.

Sura and the child are no longer in the house. Leiba walks to the door of his hotel and surveys the street along which they must come. Life is busy in that great street, along which the carriage wheels spin, accompanied by the rhythmic tread of horses’ feet upon shining asphalt.

Suddenly the traffic is held up and from Copou—a suburb of Jassy—a crowd of foot people approach, all gesticulating and hollering. They seem to accompany some one: soldiers, watchmen, spectators. In all the windows and doors are crowds of greedy observers.

“Ah, ha,” thinks Leiba. “Now they have caught a robber!”

The crowd comes nearer. Sura slips out of the crowd and comes up to where Leiba is standing on the rest-house steps.

“What’s up, Sura?”

“A madman from Golia[2]—escaped.”

“Let’s close up so he can’t attack us.”

“Oh, they’ve bound him. But before they did it, he beat the soldiers. The bad tempered Christians shoved a Jew out of the crowd, and the madman bit him on the cheek.”

From the front steps Leiba has a fine vantage point from which to see. On the step below Sura stands holding the baby.

There he goes—the madman whom two soldiers are trying to hold. His arms are bound by strong ropes. The man has the body of a giant. His head is just like a bull’s; black, thick-curled. Hair covers his face—dark, in disorder. What a mass of hair covers his head! He is bare-footed; he keeps spitting blood and the hair he bit from the cheek of the Jew. Now the crowd pauses. What is the trouble?

The soldiers free the madman. The people step aside and make an open space about him. The madman pauses and sweeps the circle with his eyes, which at length pause by Zibal’s door. He gnashes his teeth, then darts for the steps. In the space of a second he seizes the head of the baby with his right hand and the head of Sura with his left, dashes them together and they split open like egg shells.

When the two heads smash together there is a noise like the thunder.

With agony of soul, like a man plunged from a high cliff, Leiba calls: “A world stands by and looks on calmly while we are made the sacrifice of a madman!”

But somehow he cannot say the words; they stick to his lips.

“Up—Jew!” a voice calls, and a great whip strikes upon the table.

“That’s a stupid joke!” remarks Sura from the door-step of the rest-house. “The idea of startling a man out of sleep like that: miserable peasant-dog!”

Leiba jumped up.

“You’re afraid, are you, Jew?” a scornful jester asks.

“Sleeping in broad daylight?—Get up—guests are coming. The stage is here.”

And after the old custom—which sets the Jews in agony—he put his arms around him and began to tickle him.

“Let me alone,” he cried, trying to wiggle away. “Don’t you see I’m sick? Let me alone!”

At length the stage comes, after almost three hours delay. There are two travelers who sit down together at one table. From the conversation of the travelers he learns the following facts. At the last post station, there was a murder committed the night before in a rest-house run by a Jew. The post horses were always changed here. But the robbers stole the horses and escaped to another village, and until other horses could be procured, the travelers were forced to observe the scene of the crime.

If the house had not been robbed one would have thought it an act of revenge or religious fanaticism. In stories told about certain religious sects, there were just such crimes. Even in the fever that was consuming him, Leiba began to shiver.

Then followed something that evidently filled the conductor of the stage with deep respect.

The passengers were two students—one of philosophy and one of medicine. Between the students now arose a debate. Atavism—alcoholism and its pathological results. Theories of heredity—mistakes of training and education—neurosis! All the discoveries of modern science. But first—reversion to type—Darwin—Haeckel—Lombroso—Between Darwin and Lombroso the enthusiastic guests had found time to sip a little of Schopenhauer, too,—“toward Heaven and toward the light!”

Zibal was a long way from comprehending these enlightened theories. Perhaps for the first time exalted words like these vibrated upon the feverish swamp-air of Podeni.

But one thing Leiba had understood better than all the rest, and that was “reversion to type”—that was an exact description of George. This picture, which he had only visioned dimly, now blazed out in his mind with the vividness of reality. He saw it in its most unessential details.

The stage was far away now. Leiba watched it out of sight until it turned around a corner of the mountains. The sun had just dipped behind one of the black peaks and evening began to veil with its shadows the lonely valley of Podeni. Restless and unhappy he drops down upon the chair again and turns over in his mind all that he has heard.

In the lonely night, in the darkness, a man, two women and two children were snatched from sleep and murdered. The shrieks of the children which brutal blows silence, when they slit their bellies open—and then the last one to die, who had to sit in a corner and watch all that happened—until his own turn came. It was worse than an execution, and there is no hope for a Jew when he falls into the hands of the Christians.

The feverish lips of Leiba follow all these thoughts mechanically. Shivers run down his back; with trembling step he walks along the passageway in the rest-house.

“Without doubt,” thinks Sura—“Leiba is bad. He’s ill. He has queer thoughts in his head.”

How else could she explain the peculiarities of the past few days?

He closed the rest-house and lighted the candles just as Shabbes was drawing to a close. Three times guests knocked on the doors and friendly voices asked admittance. At every knock he jumped up and kept his wife from opening the door, while he whispered, his eyes rolling with terror: “Don’t move—I won’t let a Christian in tonight.”

Then he went into the passageway and began to sharpen the ax on the threshold. He trembled so he could with difficulty keep to his feet. He answered his wife harshly and at length sent her to bed, with command to put out the light. At first she refused but he repeated the command so strangely that she did not dare disobey, but she made up her mind that later she would find out the cause.

Sura had put out the lamp and now she was sleeping beside Strul.

Sura was right; Leiba is seriously ill.

It is night now—black night. Leiba sits beside the step that leads to the passageway and listens—What is he listening to?

Far, far in the distance there is an indistinguishable sound like horses’ feet—a dull mysterious murmur as of conversation. When night makes the eye useless then the ear takes upon itself increased distinguishing power.

There’s no mistake about it now. Upon the road that leads from the highway here is heard the beat of horses’ hoofs. Zibal gets up and tiptoes to the great door of the passageway. It is well protected by a bar shoved into the masonry on both sides. At the first step sand creaks under his shoes. He takes off his shoes and walks in his stockings. He reaches the door just at the moment the horsemen go by. They are talking. He catches the following words:

“He got up early.”

“But what if he had gone away?”

“Then his turn will come another time. I could have wished—”

He hears no more. The men are too far away now. Of whom were they talking? Who had gone to bed or ridden away? Whose turn will come another time? Who was it who wished it had been different? And what were they after on this lonely side-road, which was used only by people who come to the rest-house?

An oppressive weight burdened his head.

Could it be George?

Leiba felt his strength giving way and dropped down on the threshold. In the confusion of his head he could not hit upon a clear thought. Without knowing what he did he turned back and lighted a little lamp.

It was only a ghost of light, the wick was so nearly burned. It gave off very dim, vertical rays that were scarcely visible. But it was sufficient for him to observe the well known corners and see what was there. Ah! there was much less difference between the sun and this pitiful little lamp, than between this and pitch darkness.

The clock ticked loudly. The sound hurt Zibal. He seized the pendulum and stopped it.

His mouth was dry. He suffered from thirst. He washed a glass in the wooden trough by the serving counter and tried to pour out some brandy. But the bottle clinked against the glass. These sounds hurt his head so he had to give it up.

He let the glass sink softly in the trough of water and tried to drink from the bottle. Then he put the bottle in its place with a noise that jarred him. He became breathless with terror. He picked up the lamp and placed it upon the projection of a window edge in the passageway; upon the door, the ceiling, and the opposite wall, it threw feeble, vertical lines scarcely bright enough to be seen.

Again Zibal sat down upon the threshold and listened.

Easter bells were pealing from the church upon the heights. It was the signal of the resurrection of the Christ. Midnight then was long past. Day was not so far away. Oh, if the remainder of this night of horror would only slip away.

A crunching of sand under feet! He is in his stockings and has not moved. The sound is repeated,—again—again. Someone is outside—near. He stands up, grabs his chest convulsively. He tries to swallow the bunch in his throat. Men are outside.—George!

Yes, it is he. The bells have rung out the hour of the resurrection!

They are talking softly—the men.

“But I tell you that he is asleep! I saw him put the light out!”

“All the better—we’ll clean the place out then.”

“I can open the door. I know just how it works. We’ll break one of the little windows in. The bolt is near it—”

Then one heard fingers groping in the darkness—and making measurements. An auger is thrust into the dry oak of the old door and begins to turn. Zibal has to lean against the wall for support; with the left hand he supports himself upon the door, while the right covers his eyes.

Then because of the peculiar working of the brain the ear of Zibal heard distinctly these words: “Leiba, the stage is coming!”

It was Sura’s voice. A beam of hope touched him—a moment of happiness. Leiba draws his left hand back. The point of the auger has come through, it has pierced his hand.

Could he save himself—? Ridiculous thought! In his burning brain that whirling auger he was watching took on startling dimensions. It whirled around and around, and the opening was growing larger and larger. What passed through that brain then transcends the power of human expression. Life had leaped to heights of exaltation from whose vantage point of vision, chaotic complications were displayed.

Outside the work went on methodically. Leiba had watched the auger penetrate in four different places.

“Now hand me the saw,” commanded George.

A slender saw was slipped through the opening and began swiftly to unite the four symmetrical holes made by the auger. Now their plan was clear. Four holes; four corners—to be united by four lines. When this was done the square of wood would fall out, and an opening be made. Through this opening a hand would enter, reach for the bolt and unbar the door—and the Christians would enter Leiba’s house.

Then Zibal and all his family would be martyrs. Two of the vagabonds would hold upon the floor their bodies, while George would put his foot upon their bellies, and then turn that auger around and around in their breasts.

The sweat of death bathed the body of Zibal; his limbs gave way and he drops upon the floor.

With wide foolish eyes he stares at that timid light by the window. Then he laughed and said with a look that resembled that of a beast: “Soon the saw will hit the other hole!”

Then something astonishing happened. A change took place. The shaking of his body stopped. The weakness vanished. Something that resembled merriment slipped across his face.

He got up with the swiftness and security of health. He moved like a man going toward an assured act.

The line between the two highest points of the auger holes was all but sawn. Leiba approached cautiously. Now his laughter was undissembled. He nodded his head.

“I have time!”

The saw snapped off the last wood of the upper line. Now it began its work on the next line.

“There are still three,” thought Leiba, and groped his way carefully to the tavern room. He groped in a drawer, found what he wanted, and hiding it with care, tiptoed back to watch the boring auger. But the work outside had ceased.

“What is the cause? Have they gone?” the questions flashed like lightning through his brain.

“Ha—ha—ha!” What a mistake! The work begins anew and he watches it now with pleasure and interest. He was filled with impatience. He wished them to finish it as speedily as possible.

“Quicker!” prayed Leiba. “Quicker!”

Again the Easter bells rang out, high above, in that church on the hill.

“Quicker,” ordered a voice outside. “Day will overtake us.”

At last!

The borer carefully removed the square piece of wood. A huge, sinewy hand is thrust through. Before the hand can shove the bolt, a noose of rope encircles the wrist, is drawn tight, and then fastened to a block of wood near the door.

In a trice the operation was over. Two shrieks accompany it, one of pain and one of triumph. The hand was just as if it had been cut off.

Steps hastily running away are heard. The accomplices of George were deserting him.

The Jew went again to the tavern room, took up the lamp, cut off the burned wick, turned it up high and refreshed it. Now it gave forth light merrily and victoriously, and all objects in the room could be seen plainly.

Zibal bore the lamp to the passageway. The vagabond was suffering. It was evident that he had given up resistance. The hand was swelling and the fingers were cramped. The Jew came nearer with the lamp. Fear assailed him; the fever came back. Trembling he brought the lamp so near the hand that he burned it, the fingers shook, there was a howl of pain—

At sight of the swollen hand, Zibal jumped; a wild, eccentric light shone from his eyes. He began to laugh aloud, so that the hollow passageway resounded.

Day was coming.

Sura awoke. She had dreamed she heard a cry. Leiba was not in the room. The events of the day before passed through her mind. Something had happened. She jumped up and made a light. Leiba’s bed had not been slept on. He had not even lain down.

Where was he? She looked though the window. Far away upon the hills, she saw the bright twinkling of little lights moving on and on. Here they disappeared; then they came back again. People were coming from the celebration of the resurrection of Christ. Sura opened the window a little; she heard a sound of groaning. Frightened, she slipped softly down the little stairs. There was light everywhere. When she reached the threshold the sight amazed her.

Upon a high stool, his elbows upon his knees, his chin in his hands, sat Zibal. The eyes of Zibal were riveted upon a black and shapeless object, beneath which a light burned brightly.

Without a quiver of an eyelid, he watched the destruction of the hand—the hand which would not have spared him.

He did not even hear the howls of the sufferer outside. What he looked at was so horrible he could hear nothing. He had watched with unblinking eyes, every quiver, every cramped contraction until the power of motion within it had ceased.

It was over now.

Sura shrieked.

“Leiba!”

Zibal made a sign that she was not to disturb him.

The smell of burning flesh was spreading through the corridor.

“Leiba!—what is it?”

Day had come. Sura shoved the bolt. The door freed from its holding, slid against the body of George, who hung there with one arm. Village people, with burning Easter candles in their hands rushed in.

“What is it? What is it?”

Then they understood what had happened.

Zibal, who had not moved before, got down from his high stool heavily. He shoved the people aside and walked toward the door.

“What’s up, Jew?” some one questioned.

“Leiba Zibal” declared the innkeeper solemnly, and with a lofty gesture, “Leiba Zibal is going to Jassy to tell the Rabbi that he is no longer a Jew—Leiba Zibal is a Christian—because, in honor of the Christ, Leiba Zibal burned candles—at the Easter!” And he walked away meditatively toward the hills—toward the East. He walked slowly like an experienced wanderer who knows that one must not begin a long journey with hasty steps.

SVATOPLUK ČECH

Svatopluk Čech (1846-) is the successor in both prose and verse of Neruda and like him he is greater as a poet than as a prose writer, and like him, too, he has tried his hand at every variety and style of writing.

Among his books of verse are—“The Smith of Lešetin,” “In Shadow of the Linden”; many delightful ballades—such as “The Lark”—have been written by him.

We include perhaps his best short story—“The Journey.” None of the verse of Čech has appeared in English. Of his prose we know of only one other translated story.[3]

THE JOURNEY

PROUD Odessa disappeared in the distance. It was the first time that my eyes had beheld only sky and water. The circle of the sea rolled in splendor on all sides, and nothing disturbed the first overpowering impression. Peculiar emotions arose within me, as I gave myself over to this spectacle. The dimensions of the sea exalted my spirit, and at the same time oppressed it. At sight of the measureless horizon my chest expanded in blessed sensations of freedom.