Part 2

At times, when the day was calm, and when amid silence the surface of the water took on a tinge almost violet, changing into gold, I sat in a boat and rowed toward the little island, on which pelicans, unused to the sight of man, looked at me less with fear than astonishment, as if wishing to ask, "What sort of seal is this that we have not seen till to-day?" Frequently I looked from that bank at sunsets which were simply marvellous; they changed the whole horizon into one sea, gleaming with gold, fire, and opal, which, passing into a brilliant purple, faded gradually until the moon shone on the amethyst background of the heavens, and the wonderful semi-tropical night had embraced the earth and the sky. The empty land, the endlessness of the ocean, and the excess of light disposed me somewhat toward mysticism. I became pantheistic, and had the feeling that everything surrounding me formed a certain single great soul which appears as the ocean, the sky, the plain, or diminishes into such small living existences as birds, fish, shells, or broom on the ocean shore. At times I thought also that those sand-hills and empty banks might be inhabited by invisible beings like the ancient Greek fauns, nymphs, or naiads. A man does not believe in such things when he turns to his own reason; but involuntarily he admits that they are possible when he lives only with Nature and in perfect seclusion. Life changes then, as it were, into a drowsiness in which visions are more powerful than thought. As for me, I was conscious only of that boundless calm which surrounded me, and I felt that it was pleasant to be in it. At times I thought of future "letters about my journey"; at times, too, I, as a young man, thought also of "her," the unknown whom I should meet and love some time. In that relaxation of thought, and on that empty, clear ocean shore, amid those uncompleted ideas, undescribed desires, in that half dream, in semi-consciousness, I was happier than ever in life before. But on a certain evening I sat long on the little island and returned to the shore after nightfall. The flowing tide brought me in--I scarcely had need to lift an oar then. In other regions the flow of the tide is tempestuous, but in that land of eternal good weather waves touch the sand shore with gentleness; the ocean does not strike land with an outburst. Such silence surrounded me that a quarter of a mile from the shore line I could have heard the conversation of men. But that shore was unoccupied. I heard only the squeak of the oars on my boat and the low plash of water moved by them.

Just then, from above, certain piercing cries reached me. I raised my head, but on the dark background of the sky I could discern nothing. When the cries were heard a second time, directly above, I recognized in them the voices of cranes.

Evidently a whole flock of cranes was flying somewhere above my head toward the island of Santa Catalina. But I remembered that I had heard cries like those more than once, when as a boy I journeyed from school for vacation--and straightway a mighty homesickness seized hold of me. I returned to the little room which I had hired in the cabin of the German, but could not sleep. Pictures of my country passed then before my mind: now a pine forest, now broad fields with pear trees on the boundaries, now pleasant cottages, now village churches, now white mansions surrounded by dense orchards. I yearned for such scenes all that night.

I went out next morning, as usual, to the sand-banks. I felt that the ocean and the sky, and the sand mounds on the shore, and the plains, and the cliffs on which seals were basking in the sunlight, were things to me absolutely foreign, things with which I had nothing in common, as they had nothing in common with me.

Only yesterday I had wandered about in that neighborhood and had judged that my pulse was beating in answer to the pulse of that immense universe; to-day I put to myself this question: What have I to do here; why do I not go back to my birthplace? The feeling of harmony and sweetness in life had vanished, leaving nothing behind it. Time, which before had seemed so quiet and soothing, which was measured by the ebb and flow of the ocean, now seemed unendurably tedious. I began to think of my own land, of that which had remained in it, and that which had changed with time's passage.

America and my journey ceased altogether to interest me, and immediately there swarmed in my head a throng of visions ever denser and denser, composed wholly of memories. I could not tear myself free from them, though they brought no delight to me. On the contrary, there was in those memories much sadness, and even suffering, which rose from comparing our sleepy and helpless country life with the bustling activity of America. But the more our life seemed to me helpless and sleepy, the more it mastered my soul, the dearer it grew to me, and the more I longed for it. During succeeding days the visions grew still more definite, and at last imagination began to develop, to arrange, to bring clearness and order into one artistic plan. I began to create my own world.

A week later, on a certain night when the Norwegians went out on the ocean, I sat down in my little room and from under my pen flowed the following words: "In Barania Glova, in the chancellery of the village mayor, it was as calm as in time of sowing poppy seed."

And thus, because cranes flew over the shore of the Pacific, I composed "Charcoal Sketches."

THE JUDGMENT OF PETER AND PAUL ON OLYMPUS

V

THE JUDGMENT OF PETER AND PAUL ON OLYMPUS

A POEM IN PROSE

It was a night of spring, calm, silvery, and fragrant with dewy jasmine. The full moon was sailing above Olympus, and on the glittering, snowy summit of the mountain it shone with a clear, pensive, greenish light. Farther down in the Vale of Tempe was a dark thicket of thorn-bushes, shaken by the songs of nightingales--by entreaties, by complaints, by calls, by allurements, by languor, by sighs. These sounds flowed like the music of flutes, filling the night; they fell like a pouring rain, and rushed on like rivers. At moments they ceased; then such silence followed that one might almost hear the snow thawing on the heights under the warm breath of May. It was an ambrosial night.

On that night came Peter and Paul, and sat on the highest grassmound of the slope to pass judgment on the gods of antiquity. The heads of the Apostles were encircled by halos, which illuminated their gray hair, stern brows, and severe eyes. Below, in the deep shade of beeches, stood the assembly of gods, abandoned and in dread, awaiting their sentence.

Peter motioned with his hand, and at the sign Zeus stepped forth first from the assembly and approached the Apostles. The Cloud-Compeller was still mighty, and as huge as if cut out of marble by Phidias, but weakened and gloomy. His old eagle dragged along at his feet with broken wing, and the blue thunderbolt, grown reddish in places from rust, and partly quenched, seemed to be slipping from the stiffening right hand of the former father of gods and men. But when he stood before the Apostles the feeling of ancient supremacy filled his broad breast. He raised his head haughtily, and fixed on the face of the aged fisherman of Galilee his proud and glittering eyes, which were as angry and as terrible as lightnings.

Olympus, accustomed to tremble before its ruler, shook to its foundations. The beeches quivered with fear, the song of the nightingales ceased, and the moon sailing above the snows grew as white as the linen web of Arachne. The eagle screamed through his crooked beak for the last time, and the lightning, as if animated by its ancient force, flashed and began to roar terribly at the feet of its master; it reared, hissed, snapped, and raised its three-cornered, flaming forehead, like a serpent ready to stab with poisonous fang. But Peter pressed the fiery bolts with his foot and crushed them to the earth. Turning then to the Cloud-Compeller, he pronounced this sentence: "Thou art cursed and condemned through all eternity." At once Zeus was extinguished. Growing pale in the twinkle of an eye, he whispered, with blackening lips, "[Greek: Anagke]" ("Necessity"), and vanished through the earth.

Poseidon of the dark curls next stood before the Apostles, with night in his eyes, and in his hand the blunted trident. To him then spoke Peter:

"It is not thou who wilt rouse the billows. It is not thou who wilt lead the storm-tossed ships to a quiet haven, but she who is called the 'Star of the Sea.'"

When Poseidon heard this he screamed, as if pierced with sudden pain, and turned into vanishing mist.

Next rose Apollo, the Silver-bowed, with a hollow lute in his hand, and walked toward the holy men. Behind him moved slowly the nine Muses, looking like nine white pillars. Terror-stricken, they stood before the judgment-seat, as if petrified, breathless, and without hope; but the radiant Apollo turned to Paul, and, in a voice which resembled wondrous music, said:

"Slay me not! Protect me, lord; for shouldst thou slay me, thou wouldst have to restore me to life again. I am the blossom of the soul of humanity; I am its gladness; I am light; I am the yearning for God. Thou knowest best that the song of earth will not reach heaven if thou break its wings. Hence I implore thee, O saint, not to smite down Song."

A moment of silence came. Peter raised his eyes toward the stars. Paul placed his hands on his sword-hilt, rested his forehead on them, and for a time fell into deep thought. At last he rose, made the sign of the cross calmly above the radiant head of the god, and said:

"Let Song live!"

Apollo sat down with his lute at the feet of the Apostle. The night became clearer, the jasmine gave out a stronger perfume, the glad fountains sounded, the Muses gathered together like a flock of white swans, and, with voices still quivering from fear, began to sing in low tones marvellous words never heard on the heights of Olympus till that hour:

To thy protection we flee, holy Mother of God. We come with our prayers; deign thou not to reject us, But be pleased to preserve us from every evil, O thou, our Lady!

Thus they sang on the heather, raising their eyes like pious nuns with heads covered with white.

Other gods came now. Bacchus and his chorus dashed past, wild, unrestrained, crowned with ivy and grapevine, and bearing the cithara and the thyrsus. They rushed on madly, with shouts of despair, and fell into the bottomless pit.

Then before the Apostles stood a lofty, proud, sarcastic divinity, who, without waiting for question or sentence, spoke first. On her lips was a smile of derision.

"I am Pallas Athene. I do not beg life of you. I am an illusion, nothing more. Odysseus honored and obeyed me only when he had become senile. Telemachus listened to me only till hair covered his chin. Ye cannot take immortality from me, and I declare that I have been a shadow, that I am a shadow now, and shall remain a shadow forever."

At last her turn came to the most beautiful, the most honored goddess. As she approached, sweet, marvellous, tearful, the heart under her snow-white breast beat like the heart in a bird, and her lips quivered like those of a child that fears cruel punishment. She fell at their feet, and, stretching forth her divine arms, cried in fear and humility:

"I am sinful, I deserve blame, but I am Joy. Have mercy, forgive; I am the one happiness of mankind." Then sobbing and fear took away her voice.

But Peter looked at the goddess with compassion, and placed his aged palm on her golden hair, while Paul, bending toward a cluster of white field-lilies, broke off one blossom, and touching her with it, said:

"Joy, be henceforth like this flower, and live thou for mankind."

Then came dawn--the divine dawn that looked out from beyond a depression between two peaks. The nightingales stopped singing, and immediately finches, linnets, and wrens began to draw their sleepy little heads from under their moistened wings, shaking the dew from their feathers, and repeating in low voices, "_Svit! svit!_" ("Light! light!").

The earth awoke, smiled, and was delighted, because Song and Joy had not been taken from it.

_THE ZAGLOBA ROMANCES by Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin._

WITH FIRE AND SWORD

An Historical Novel of Poland and Russia. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. $1.50.

The first of the famous trilogy of historical romances of Poland, Russia, and Sweden. Their publication has been received as an event in literature. Charles Dudley Warner, in _Harper's Magazine_, affirms that the Polish author has in Zagloba _given a new creation to literature_.

_A capital story._ The only modern romance with which it can be compared for fire, sprightliness, rapidity of action, swift changes, and absorbing interest is "The Three Musketeers" of Dumas.--_New York Tribune._

THE DELUGE

An Historical Novel of Poland, Sweden, and Russia. A Sequel to "With Fire and Sword." With map. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. $3.00.

Marvellous in its grand descriptions.--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._

Has the humor of a Cervantes and the grim vigor of Defoe.--_Boston Gazette._

PAN MICHAEL

An Historical Novel of Poland, Russia, and the Ukraine. A Sequel to "With Fire and Sword" and "The Deluge." Crown 8vo. $1.50.

The interest of the trilogy, both historical and romantic, is splendidly sustained.--_The Dial_, Chicago.

QUO VADIS

A Narrative of the Time of Nero. By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish by JEREMIAH CURTIN. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. $1.50.

One of the greatest books of our day.--_The Bookman._

The book is like a grand historical pageant.--_Literary World._

Of intense interest to the whole Christian civilization.--_Chicago Tribune._

Interest never wanes; and the story is carried through its many phases of conflict and terror to a climax that enthralls.--_Chicago Record._

As a study of the introduction of the gospel of love into the pagan world typified by Rome, it is marvellously fine.--_Chicago Interior._

The picture here given of life in Rome under the last of the Caesars is one of unparalleled power and vividness.--_Boston Home Journal._

One of the most remarkable books of the decade. It burns upon the brain the struggles and triumphs of the early church.--_Boston Daily Advertiser._

It will become recognized by virtue of its own merits as the one heroic monument built by the modern novelist above the ruins of decadent Rome, and in honor of the blessed martyrs of the early Church.--_Brooklyn Eagle._

Our debt to Sienkiewicz is not less than our debt to his translator and friend, Jeremiah Curtin. The diversity of the language, the rapid flow of thought, the picturesque imagery of the descriptions are all his.--_Boston Transcript._

THE KNIGHTS OF THE CROSS

An Historical Romance of Poland and Germany. By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish by JEREMIAH CURTIN. Illustrated. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. $2.00.

The greatest work Sienkiewicz has given us.--_Buffalo Express._

It seems superior even to "Quo Vadis" in strength and realism.--_The Churchman._

The construction of the story is beyond praise. It is difficult to conceive of any one who will not pick the book up with eagerness.--_Chicago Evening Post._

There are some scenes in the book that for power and excitement remind one of the great encounter between Ursus and the bull in "Quo Vadis."--_Minneapolis Tribune._

Vivid, dramatic, and vigorous.... His imaginative power, his command of language, and the picturesque scenes he sets combine to fascinate the reader.--_Philadelphia Bulletin._

A book that holds your almost breathless attention as in a vise from the very beginning, for in it love and strife, the most thrilling of all worldly subjects, are described masterfully.--_The Boston Journal._

Another remarkable book. His descriptions are tremendously effective; one can almost hear the sound of the carnage; to the mind's eye the scene of battle is unfolded by a master artist.--_The Hartford Courant._

Thrillingly dramatic, full of strange local color and very faithful to its period, besides having that sense of the mysterious and weird that throbs in the Polish blood and infects alike their music and literature.--_The St. Paul Globe._

_OTHER NOVELS AND ROMANCES by Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin._

CHILDREN OF THE SOIL

Crown 8vo. $1.50.

It must be reckoned among the finer fictions of our time, and shows its author to be almost as great a master in the field of the domestic novel as he had previously been shown to be in that of imaginative historical romances.--_The Dial_, Chicago.

HANIA, AND OTHER STORIES

With portrait. Crown 8vo. $1.50.

At the highest level of the author's genius.--_The Outlook._

SIELANKA, A FOREST PICTURE

And Other Stories. With frontispiece. Crown 8vo. $1.50.

They exhibit the masterly genius of Sienkiewicz even better than his longer romances. They abound in fine character-drawings and beautiful descriptions.--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._

LIFE AND DEATH AND OTHER LEGENDS AND STORIES

Illustrated. 16mo. Decorated cloth, $1.00.

WITHOUT DOGMA

A Novel of Modern Poland. (Translated from the Polish by Iza Young.) Crown 8vo. $1.50.

A human document read in the light of a great imagination.--_Boston Beacon._

LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

Transcriber's Notes:

Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_.

The original text includes Greek characters. For this text version these letters have been replaced with transliterations.