Chapter 2

Jadwiga (entering).--You must excuse me for keeping you waiting.

Leon.--It is my fault. I came too early, although I tried to be exact.

Jadwiga.--No, I must be frank and tell you how it happened. In former times we were such dear friends, and then we have not seen each other for two years. I asked you to come, but I was not sure that you would grant my request, therefore--when the bell rang--after two years--(smiling) I needed a few moments to overcome the emotion. I thought it was necessary for both of us.

Leon.--I am calm, madam, and I listen to you.

Jadwiga.--I wished also that we should greet each other like people who have forgotten about the past, who know that it will not return, and to be at once on the footing of good friends; I do not dare say like brother and sisters. Therefore, Sir, here is my hand, and now be seated and tell me if you accept my proposition.

Leon.--I leave that to you.

Jadwiga.--If that is so, then I must tell you that such an agreement, based on mutual well-wishing, excludes excessive solemnity. We must be natural, sincere, and frank.

Leon.--Frankly speaking, it will be a little difficult, still.

Jadwiga.--It would be difficult if there were no condition: "Not a word about the past!" If we both keep to this, a good understanding will return of itself and in time we may become good friends. What have you been doing during the past two years?

Leon.--I have been pushing the wheelbarrow of life, as all mortals do. Every Monday I have thought that in a week there would be another Monday. I assure you that there is some distraction in seeing the days spin out like a thread from a ball, and how everything that has happened goes away and gradually disappears, like a migratory bird.

Jadwiga.--Such distraction is good for those to whom another bird comes with a song of the future. But otherwise--

Leon.--Otherwise it is perhaps better to think that when all threads will be spun out from the ball, there will remain nothing. Sometimes the reminiscences are very painful. Happily time dulls their edge, or they would prick like thorns.

Jadwiga.--Or would burn like fire.

Leon.--All-wise Nature gives us some remedy for it. A fire which is not replenished must die, and the ashes do not burn.

Jadwiga.--We are unwillingly chasing a bird which has flown away. Enough of it! Have you painted much lately?

Leon.--I do nothing else. I think and I paint. It is true that until now my thoughts have produced nothing, and I have painted a very little. But it was not my fault. Better be good enough to tell me what has caused you to call me here.

Jadwiga.--It will come by itself. In the first place, I should be justified in so doing by a desire to see a great man. You are now an artist whose fame is world-wide.

Leon--I would appear to be guilty of conceit, but I honestly think that I was not the last pawn on the chessboard in the drawing-room, and that is perhaps the reason why I have been thinking during the past two years and could not understand why I was thrown aside like a common pawn.

Jadwiga.--And where is our agreement?

Leon.--It is a story told in a subjective way by a third person. According to the second clause in our agreement--"sincerity"--I must add that I am already accustomed to my wheelbarrow.

Jadwiga.--We must not speak about it.

Leon.--I warn you--it will be difficult.

Jadwiga.--It should be more easy for you. You, the elect of art and the pride of the whole nation, and in the mean while its spoiled child--you can live with your whole soul in the present and in the future. From the flowers strewn under one's feet, one can always chose the most beautiful, or not choose at all, but always tread upon them.

Leon.--If one does not stumble.

Jadwiga.--No! To advance toward immortality.

Leon.--Longing for death while on the road.

Jadwiga.--It is an excess of pessimism for a man who says that he is accustomed to his wheelbarrow.

Leon.--I wish only to show the other side of the medal. And then you must remember, madam, that to-day pessimism is the mode. You must not take my words too seriously. In a drawing-room one strings the words of a conversation like beads on a thread--it is only play.

Jadwiga.--Let us play then (after a while). Ah! How many changes! I cannot comprehend. If two years ago some one had told me that to-day we would sit far apart from each other, and chat as we do, and look at each other with watchful curiosity, like two people perfectly strange to each other, I could not have believed. Truly, it is utterly amusing!

Leon.--It would not be proper for me to remind you of our agreement.

Jadwiga.--But nevertheless you do remind me. Thank you. My nerves are guilty for this melancholy turn of the conversation. But I feel it is not becoming to me. But pray be assured that I shall not again enter that thorny path, if for no other reason than that of self-love. I, too, amuse myself as best I can, and I return to my reminiscences only when wearied. For several days I have been greatly wearied.

Leon.--Is that the reason why you asked me to come here? I am afraid that I will not be an abundant source of distraction. My disposition is not very gay, and I am too proud, too honest, and--too costly to become a plaything. Permit me to leave you.

Jadwiga.--You must forgive me. I did not mean to offend you. Without going back to the past, I can tell you that pride is your greatest fault, and if it were not for that pride, many sad things would not have happened.

Leon.--Without going back to the past, I must answer you that it is the only sail which remained on my boat. The others are torn by the wind of life. If it were not for this last sail, I should have sunk long ago.

Jadwiga.--And I think that it was a rock on which has been wrecked not only your boat--but no matter! So much the worse for those who believed in fair weather and a smooth sea. We must at least prevent ourselves from now being carried where we do not wish to sail.

Leon.--And where the sandy banks are sure--

Jadwiga.--What strange conversation! It seems to me that it is a net, in which the truth lies at the bottom, struggling in vain to break the meshes. But perhaps it is better so.

Leon.--Much better. Madam, you have written me that you wished to see me on an important matter. I am listening.

Jadwiga.--Yes (smiling). It is permitted a society woman to have her fancies and desires--sometimes inexplicable fancies, and it is not permitted a gentleman to refuse them. Well, then, I wished to see my portrait, painted by the great painter Leon. Would you be willing to paint it?

Leon.--Madam--

Jadwiga.--Ah! the lion's forehead frowns, as if my wish were an insult.

Leon.--I think that the fancies of a society woman are indeed inexplicable, and do not look like jokes at all.

Jadwiga.--This question has two sides! The first is the formal side and it shows itself thus: Mme. Jadwiga Karlowiecka most earnestly asks the great painter Leon to make her portrait. That is all! The painter Leon, who, it is known, paints lots of portraits, has no good reason for refusing. The painter cannot refuse to make a portrait any more than a physician can refuse his assistance. There remains the other side--the past. But we agreed that it is a forbidden subject.

Leon.--Permit me, madam--

Jadwiga (interrupting).--Pray, not a word about the past. (She laughs.) Ah, my woman's diplomacy knows how to tie a knot and draw tight the ends of it. How your embarrassment pleases me. But there is something quite different. Let us suppose that I am a vain person, full of womanly self-love; full of petty jealousy and envy. Well, you have painted the portrait of Mme. Zofia and of Helena. I wish to have mine also. One does not refuse the women such things. Reports of your fame come to me from all sides. I hear all around me the words: "Our great painter--our master!" Society lionizes you. God knows how many breasts sigh for you. Every one can have your works, every one can approach you, see you, be proud of you. I alone, your playmate, your old friend, I alone am as though excommunicated.

Leon.--But Mme. Jadwiga--

Jadwiga.--Ah, you have called me by my name. I thank you and beg your pardon. It is the self-love of a woman, nothing more. It is my nerves. Do not be frightened. You see how dangerous it is to irritate me. After one of my moods I am unbearable. I will give you three days to think the matter over. If you do not wish to come, write me then (she laughs sadly). Only I warn you, that if you will neither come nor write me, I will tell every one that you are afraid of me, and so I will satisfy my self-love. In the mean time, for the sake of my nerves, you must not tell, me that you refuse my request. I am a little bit ill--consequently capricious.

Leon.--In three days you shall have my answer (rising), and now I will say good-bye.

Jadwiga.--Wait a moment. This is not so easy as you think. Truly, I would think you are afraid of me. It is true that they say I am a coquette, a flirt. I know they talk very badly about me. Besides we are good acquaintances, who have not seen each other for two years. Let us then talk a little. Let me take your hat. Yes, that is it! Now let us talk. I am sure we may become friends again. As for me at least--what do you intend to do in the future besides painting my portrait?

Leon.--The conversation about me would not last long. Let us take another more interesting subject. You had better talk about yourself--about your life, your family.

Jadwiga.--As for my husband, he is, as usual, in Chantilly. My mother is dead! Poor mama! She was so fond of you--she loved you very much (after a pause). In fact, as you see, I have grown old and changed greatly.

Leon.--At your age the words "I have grown old" are only a daring challenge thrown by a woman who is not afraid that she would be believed.

Jadwiga.--I am twenty-three years old, so I am not talking about age in years, but age in morals. I feel that to-day I am not like that Jadwiga of Kalinowice whom you used to know so well. Good gracious! when I think to-day of that confidence and faith in life--those girlish illusions--the illusions of a young person who wished to be happy and make others happy, that enthusiasm for everything good and noble! where has all that gone--where has it disappeared? And to think that I was--well, an honest wild-flower--and to-day--

Leon.--And to-day a society woman.

Jadwiga.--To-day, when I see such a sceptical smile as I saw a few moments ago on your lips, it seems to me that I am ridiculous--very often so--even always when I sit at some ideal embroidery and when I begin to work at some withered flowers on the forgotten, despised canvas of the past. It is a curious and old fashion from times when faithfulness was not looked seriously on, and people sang of Filon.

Leon.--At that moment you were speaking according to the latest mode.

Jadwiga.--Shall I weep, or try to tie the broken thread? Well, the times change. I can assure you that I have some better moments, during which I laugh heartily at everything (handing him a cigarette). Do you smoke?

Leon.--No, madam.

Jadwiga.--I do. It is also a distraction. Sometimes I hunt _par force_ with my husband, I read Zola's novels, I make calls and receive visits, and every morning I ponder as to the best way to kill time. Sometimes I succeed--sometimes not. Apropos, you know my husband, do you not?

Leon.--I used to know him.

Jadwiga.--He is very fond of hunting, but only _par force_. We never hunt otherwise.

Leon.--Let us be frank. You had better drop that false tone.

Jadwiga.--On the contrary. In our days we need impressions which stir our nerves. The latest music, like life itself, is full of dissonances. I do not wish to say that I am unhappy with my husband. It is true that he is always in Chantilly, and I see him only once in three months, but it proves, on the other hand, that he has confidence in me. Is it not true?

Leon.--I do not know, and I do not wish to decide about it. But before all, I should not know anything about it.

Jadwiga.--It seemed to me that you ought to know. Pray believe that I would not be as frank with any one else as I am with you. And then, I do not complain. I try to surround myself with youths who pretend they are in love with me. There is not a penny-worth of truth in all of it--they all lie, but the form of the lie is beautiful because they are all well-bred people. The Count Skorzewski visits me also--you must have heard of him, I am sure. I recommend him to you as a model for Adonis. Ha! ha! You do not recognize the wild-flower of Kalinowice?

Leon.--No, I do not recognize it.

Jadwiga.--No! But the life flower.

Leon.--As a joke--

Jadwiga.--At which one cannot laugh always. If our century was not sceptical I should think myself wild, romantic, trying to drown despair. But the romantic times have passed away, therefore, frankly speaking, I only try to fill up a great nothing. I also spin out my ball, although not always with pleasure. Sometimes I seem to myself so miserable and my life so empty that I rush to my prayer-desk, left by my mother. I weep, I pray--and then I laugh again at my prayers and tears. And so it goes on--round and round. Do you know that they gossip about me?

Leon.--I do not listen to the gossip.

Jadwiga.--How good you are! I will tell you then why they gossip. A missionary asked a negro what, according to his ideas, constituted evil? The negro thought a while, and then said: "Evil is if some one were to steal my wife." "And what is good?" asked the missionary. "Good is when I steal from some one else." My husband's friends are of the negro's opinion. Every one of them would like to do a good deed and steal some one's wife.

Leon.--It depends on the wife.

Jadwiga.--Yes, but every word and every look is a bait. If the fish passes the bait, the fisherman's self-love is wounded. That is why they slander me (after a while). You great people--you are filled with simplicity. Then you think it depends on the wife?

Leon.--Yes, it does.

Jadwiga.--_Morbleu!_ as my husband says, and if the wife is weary?

Leon.--I bid you good-bye.

Jadwiga.--Why? Does what I say offend you?

Leon.--It does more than offend me. It hurts me. Maybe it will seem strange to you, but here in my breast I am carrying some flowers--although they are withered--dead for a long time. But they are dear to me and just now you are trampling on them.

Jadwiga (with an outburst).--Oh, if those flowers had not died!

Leon.--They are in my heart--and there is a tomb. Let us leave the past alone.

Jadwiga.--Yes, you are right. Leave it alone. What is dead cannot be resuscitated. I wish to speak calmly. Look at my situation. What defends me--what helps me--what protects me? I am a young woman, and it seems not ugly, and therefore no one approaches me with an honest, simple heart, but with a trap in eyes and mouth. What opposition have I to make? Weariness? Grief? Emptiness? In life even a man must lean on something, and I, a feeble woman, I am like a boat without a helm, without oar and without light toward which to sail. And the heart longs for happiness. You must understand that a woman must be loved and must love some one in the world, and if she lacks true love she seizes the first pretext of it--the first shadow.

Leon (with animation).--Poor thing.

Jadwiga.--Do not smile in that ironical way. Be better, be less severe with me. I do not even have any one to complain, and that is why I do not drive away Count Skorzewski. I detest his beauty, I despise his perverse mind, but I do not drive him away because he is a skilful actor, and because when I see his acting it awakens in me the echo of former days. (After a while.) How shall I fill my life? Study? Art? Even if I loved them, they would not love me for they are not living things. No, truly now! They showed me no duties, no aims, no foundations. Everything on which other women live--everything which constitutes their happiness, sincere sorrow, strength, tears, and smiles, is barred from me. Morally I have nothing to live on--like a beggar. I have no one to live for--like an orphan. I am not permitted to yearn for a noble and quiet life; I may only nurture myself with grief and defend myself with faded, dead flowers, and remembrances of former pure, honest, and loving Jadwinia. Ah! again I break my promise, our agreement. I must beg your pardon.

Leon.--Mme. Jadwiga, both our lives are tangled. When I was most unhappy, when everything abandoned me, there remained with me the love of an idea--love of the country.

Jadwiga (thoughtfully).--The love of an idea--country. There is something great in that. You, by each of your pictures, increase the glory of the country and make famous its name, but I--what can I do?

Leon.--The one who lives simply, suffers and quietly fulfils his duties--he also serves his country.

Jadwiga.--What duties? Give them to me. For every-day life one great, ideal love is not enough for me. I am a woman! I must cling to something--twine about something like the ivy--otherwise truly, sir, I should fall to the ground and be trampled upon (with an outburst). If I could only respect him!

Leon.--But, madam, you should remember to whom you are speaking of such matters. I have no right to know of your family affairs.

Jadwiga.--No. You have not the right, nor are you obliged nor willing. Only friendly hearts know affliction--only those who suffer can sympathize. You--looking into the stars--you pass human misery and do not turn your head even when that misery shouts to you. It is your fault.

Leon.--My fault!

Jadwiga.--Do not frown, and do not close your mouth (beseechingly). I do not reproach you for anything. I have forgiven you long ago, and now I, the giddy woman whom the world always sees merry and laughing--I am really so miserable that I have even no strength left for hatred.

Leon.--Madam! Enough! I have listened to your story--do not make me tell you mine. If you should hear it a still heavier burden would fall on your shoulders.

Jadwiga.--No, no. We could be happy and we are not. It is the fault of both. How dreadful to think that we separated on account of almost nothing--on account of one thoughtless word--and we separated forever (she covers her face with her hands), without hope.

Leon.--That word was nothing for you, but I remember it still with brain and heart. I was not then what I am to-day. I was poor, unknown, and you were my whole future, my aim, my riches.

Jadwiga.--Oh, Mr. Leon, Mr. Leon, what a golden dream it was!

Leon.--But I was proud because I knew that there was in me the divine spark. I loved you dearly, I trusted you--and nothing disturbed the security around me. Suddenly one evening Mr. Karlowiecki appeared, and already the second evening you told me that you gave more than you received.

Jadwiga.--Mr. Leon!

Leon.--What was your reason for giving that wound to my proud misery? You could not already have loved that man, but as soon as he appeared you humiliated me. There are wrongs which a man cannot bear with dignity--so those words were the last I heard from you.

Jadwiga.--Truly. When I listen to you I must keep a strong hand on my senses. As soon as the other appeared you gave vent to a jealous outburst. I said that I gave more than I took, and you thought I spoke of money and not sentiment? Then you could suspect that I was capable of throwing my riches in your face--you thought I was capable of that? That is why he could not forgive! That is why he went away! That is why he has made his life and mine miserable!

Leon.--It is too late to talk about that. Too late! You knew then and you know to-day that I could not have understood your words differently. The other man was of your own world--the world of which you were so fond that sometimes it seemed to me that you cherished it more than our love. At times when I so doubted you did not calm me. You were amused by the thought that you were stretching out to me a hand of courtly condescension, and I, in an excess of humiliation, I cast aside that hand. You knew it then, and you know it to-day!

Jadwiga.--I know it to-day, but I did not know then. I swear it by my mother's memory. But suppose it was even as you say. Why could you not forgive me? Oh God! truly one might go mad. And there was neither time nor opportunity to explain. He went away and never returned. What could I do? When you became angry, when you shut yourself up within yourself, grief pressed my heart. I am ashamed even to-day to say this. I looked into your eyes like a dog which wishes to disarm the anger of his master by humility. In vain! Then I thought, when taking leave, I will shake hands with him so honestly and cordially that he will finally understand and will forgive me. While parting my hand dropped, for you only saluted me from afar. I swallowed my tears and humiliation. I thought still he will return to-morrow. A day passed, two days, a week, a month.

Leon.--Then you married.

Jadwiga (passionately).--Yes. Useless tears and time made me think it was forever--therefore anger grew in my heart--anger and a desire for vengeance on you and myself. I wished to be lost, for I said to myself, "That man does not love me, has never loved me." I married in the same spirit that I should have thrown myself through a window--from despair--because, as I still believe, you never loved me.

Leon.--Madam, do not blaspheme. Do not provoke me. I never loved you! Look at the precipice which you have opened before me--count the sleepless nights during which I tore my breast with grief--count the days on which I called to you as from a cross--look at this thin face, at these trembling hands, and repeat once more that I never loved you! What has become of me? What is life for me without you? To-day my head is crowned with laurels and here in my breast is emptiness and exhaustless sorrow, and tears not wept--and in my eyes eternal darkness. Oh, by the living God, I loved you with every drop of my blood, with my every thought--and I was not able to love differently. Having lost you, I lost everything--my star, my strength, faith, hope, desire for life, and not only happiness, but the capacity for happiness. Woman, do you understand the dreadful meaning of those words? I have lost the capacity for happiness. I have not loved you! Oh, despair! God alone knows for how many nights I have cried to Him: "Lord, take my talent, take my fame, take my life, but return to me for only one moment my Jadwiga as she was of old!"

Jadwiga.--Enough! Lord, what is the matter with me? Leon, I love you!

Leon.--Oh, my dearest! (He presses her to his breast. A moment of silence.)

Jadwiga.--I have found you. I loved you always. Ah! how miserable I was without you! With love for you I defended myself from all temptations. You do not know it, but I used to see you. It caused me grief and joy. I could not live any longer without you, and I asked you to come--I did it purposely. If you had not come, something dreadful would have happened. Now we shall never separate. We shall never be angry--is it not so? (A moment of silence.)

Leon (as though awakening from slumber).--Madam, you must pardon me--I mistook the present for the past, and permitted myself to be carried away by an illusion. Pardon me!

Jadwiga.--Leon, what do you mean?

Leon (earnestly).--I forgot for a moment that you are the wife of another.

Jadwiga.--Oh, you are always honest and loyal. No, there shall be no guilty love between us. I know you, my great, my noble Leon. The hand which I stretch out to you is pure--I swear it to you. You must also forgive me a moment of forgetfulness. Here I stand before you, and say to you: I will not be yours until I am free. But I know that my husband will consent to a divorce. I will leave him all my fortune, and because I formerly offended your pride--it was my fault--yes, my own fault--you shall take me poor, in this dress only--will it suit you? Then I will become your lawful wife. Oh, my God! and I shall be honest, loving, and loved. I have longed for it with my whole soul. I cannot think of our future without tears. God is so good! When you return from your studio at night, you will come neither to an empty room nor to grief. I will share your every joy, your every sorrow--I will divide with you the last piece of bread. Truly, I cannot speak for tears. Look, I am not so bad, but I have been so miserable. I loved you always. Ah, you bad boy, if it were not for your pride we should have been happy long ago. Tell me once more that you love me--that you consent to take me when I shall be free--is it not so, Leon?

Leon.--No, madam!

Jadwiga.--Leon, my dearest, wait! Perhaps I have not heard well. For I cannot comprehend that when I am hanging over a precipice of despair, when I seize the edge with my hands, you, instead of helping me--you place your feet on my fingers! No! it is impossible. You are too good for that! Do not thrust me away. My life now would be still worse. I have nothing in the world but you, and with you I lost happiness--not alone happiness but everything in me which is good--which cries for a quiet and saintly life. For now it would be forever. But you do not know how happy you yourself will be when you will have forgiven me and rescued me. You have loved me, have you not? You have said it yourself. I have heard it. Now I stretch out my hands to you like a drowning person--rescue me!

Leon.--We must finish this mutual torture. Madam, I am a weak man. I would give way if--but I wish to spare you--if not for the fact that my sore and dead heart cannot give you anything but tears and pity.

Jadwiga.--You do not love me!

Leon.--I have no strength for happiness. I did love you. My heart throbbed for a moment with a recollection as of a dead person. But the other one is dead. I tell you this, madam, in tears and torture. I do not love you.

Jadwiga.--Leon!

Leon.--Have pity on me and forgive me.

Jadwiga.--You do not love me!

Leon.--What is dead cannot be resuscitated. Farewell.

Jadwiga (after a while).--Very well. If you think you have humiliated me enough, trampled on me, and are sufficiently avenged, leave me then (to Leon, who wishes to withdraw). No! no! Remain. Have pity on me.

Leon.--May God have pity on us both. (He goes away.)

Jadwiga.--It is done!

A Servant (entering).--Count Skorzewski!

Jadwiga.--Ha! Show him in! Show him in! Ha! ha! ha!

PART FOURTH

THE VERDICT

Apollo and Hermes once met toward evening on the rocks of Pnyx and were looking on Athens.

The evening was charming; the sun was already rolled from the Archipelago toward the Ionian Sea and had begun to slowly sink its radiant head in the water which shone turquoise-like. But the summits of Hymettus and Pentelicus were yet beaming as if melted gold had been poured over them, and the evening twilight was in the sky. In its light the whole Acropolis was drowned. The white walls of Propyleos, Parthenon, and Erechtheum seemed pink and as light as though the marble had lost all its weight, or as if they were apparitions of a dream. The point of the spear of the gigantic Athena Promathos shone in the twilight like a lighted torch over Attica.

In the space hawks were flying toward their nests in the rocks, to pass the night.

The people returned in crowds from work in the fields. On the road to Piraeus, mules and donkeys carried baskets full of olives and wine-grapes; behind them, in the red cloud of dust, marched herds of nannygoats, before each herd there was a white-bearded buck; on the sides, watchdogs; in the rear, shepherds, playing flutes of thin oat-stems.

Among the herds chariots slowly passed, carrying holly barlet, pulled by slow, heavy oxen; here and there passed a detachment of Hoplites or heavy armed troops, corseleted in copper, going to guard Piraeus and Athens during the night.

Beneath, the city was full of animation. Around the big fountain at Poikile, young girls in white dresses drew water, singing, laughing, or defending themselves from the boys, who threw over them fetters made of ivy and wild vine. The others, having already drawn the water, with the amphorae poised on their shoulders, were turned homeward, light and graceful as immortal nymphs.

A light breeze blowing from the Attic valley carried to the ears of the two gods the sounds of laughter, singing, kissing. Apollo, in whose eyes nothing under the sun was fairer than a woman, turned to Hermes and said:

"O Maya's son, how beautiful are the Athenian women!"

"And virtuous too, my Radiant," answered Hermes; "they are under Pallas' tutelage."

The Silver-arrowed god became silent, and listening looked into space. In the mean while the twilight was slowly quenched, movement gradually stopped. Scythian slaves shut the gates, and finally all became quiet. The Ambrosian night threw on the Acropolis, city, and environs, a dark veil embroidered with stars.

But the dusk did not last long. Soon from the Archipelago appeared the pale Selene, and began to sail like a silvery boat in the heavenly space. And then the walls of the Acropolis lighted again, only they beamed now with a pale-green light, and looked even more like a vision in a dream.

"One must agree," said Apollo, "that Athena has chosen for herself a charming home."

"Oh, she is very clever! Who could choose better?" answered Hermes. "Then Zeus has a fancy for her. If she wishes for anything she has only to caress his beard and immediately he calls her Tritogenia, dear daughter; he promises her everything and permits everything."

"Tritogenia bores me sometimes," grumbled Latona's son.

"Yes, I have noticed that she becomes very tedious," answered Hermes.

"Like an old peripatetic; and then she is virtuous to the ridiculous, like my sister Artemis."

"Or as her servants, the Athenian women."

The Radiant turned to the Argo-robber Mercury: "It is the second time you mention, as though purposely, the virtue of the Athenian women. Are they really so virtuous?"

"Fabulously so, O son of Latona!"

"Is it possible!" said Apollo. "Do you think that there is in town one woman who could resist me?"

"I do think so."

"Me, Apollo?"

"You, my Radiant."

"I, who should bewitch her with poetry and charm her with song and music!"

"You, my Radiant."

"If you were an honest god I would be willing to make a wager with you. But you, Argo-robber, if you should lose, you would disappear immediately with your sandals and caduceus."

"No, I will put one hand on the earth and another on the sea and swear by Hades. Such an oath is kept not only by me, but even by the members of the City Council in Athens."

"Oh, you exaggerate a little. Very well then! If you lose you must supply me in Trinachija with a herd of long-horned oxen, which you may steal where you please, as you did when you were only a boy, stealing my herds in Perea."

"Understood! And what shall I get if I win?"

"You may choose what you please."

"Listen, my Far-aiming archer," said Hermes. "I will be frank with you, which occurs with me very seldom. Once, being sent on an errand by Zeus--I don't remember what errand--I was playing just over your Trinachija, and I perceived Lampecja, who, together with Featusa, watches your herds there. Since that time I have no peace. The thought about her is never absent from my mind. I love her and I sigh for her day and night. If I win, if in Athens there can be found a virtuous woman, strong enough to resist you, you shall give me Lampecja--I wish for nothing more."

The Silver-arrowed god began to shake his head.

"It's astonishing that love can nestle in the heart of a merchants-patron. I am willing to give you Lampecja--the more so because she is now quarrelling with Featusa. Speaking _intra parentheses_, both are in love with me--that is why they are quarrelling."

Great joy lighted up the Argo-robber's eyes.

"Then we lay the bet," said he. "One thing more, I shall choose the woman for you on whom you are to try your godly strength."

"Provided she is beautiful."

"She will be worthy of you."

"I am sure you know some one already."

"Yes, I do."

"A young girl, married, widow, or divorced?"

"Married, of course. Girl, widow, or divorcée, you could capture by promise of marriage."

"What is her name?"

"Eryfile. She is a baker's wife."

"A baker's wife!" answered the Radiant, making a grimace, "I don't like that."

"I can't help it. It's the kind of people I know best. Eryfile's husband is not at home at present; he went to Megara. His wife is the prettiest woman who ever walked on Mother-Earth."

"I am very anxious to see her."

"One condition more, my Silver-arrowed, you must promise that you will use only means worthy of you, and that you will not act as would act such a ruffian as Ares, for instance, or even, speaking between ourselves, as acts our common father, the Cloud-gathering Zeus."

"For whom do you take me?" asked Apollo.

"Then all conditions are understood, and I can show you Eryfile."

Both gods were immediately carried through the air from Pnyx, and in a few moments they were over a house situated not far from Stoa. The Argo-robber raised the whole roof with his powerful hand as easily as a woman cooking a dinner raises a cover from a saucepan, and pointing to a woman sitting in a store, closed from the street by a copper gate, said:

"Look!"

Apollo looked and was astonished.

Never Attica--never the whole of Greece, produced a lovelier flower than was this woman. She sat by a table on which was a lighted lamp, and was writing something on marble tables. Her long drooping eyelashes threw a shadow on her cheeks, but from time to time she raised her head and her eyes, as though she were trying to remember what she had to write, and then one could see her beautiful eyes, so blue that compared with them the turquoise depths of the Archipelago would look pale and faded. Her face was white as the sea-foam, pink as the dawn, with purplish Syrian lips and waves of golden hair. She was beautiful, the most beautiful being on earth--beautiful as the dawn, as a flower, as light, as song! This was Eryfile.

When she dropped her eyes she appeared quiet and sweet; when she lifted them, inspired. The Radiant's divine knees began to tremble; suddenly he leaned his head on Hermes' shoulder, and whispered:

"Hermes, I love her! This one or none!"

Hermes smiled ironically, and would have rubbed his hands for joy under cover of his robe if he had not held in his right hand the caduceus.

In the mean while the golden-haired woman took a new tablet and began to write on it. Her divine lips were disclosed and her voice whispered; it was like the sound of Apollo's lyre.

"The member of the Areopagus Melanocles for the bread for two months, forty drachmas and four obols; let us write in round numbers forty-six drachmas. By Athena! let us write fifty; my husband will be satisfied! Ah, that Melanocles! If you were not in a position to bother us about false weight, I never would give you credit. But we must keep peace with that locust."

Apollo did not listen to the words. He was intoxicated with the woman's voice, the charm of her figure, and whispered:

"This one or none!"

The golden-haired woman spoke again, writing further:

"Alcibiades, for cakes on honey from Hymettus for Hetera Chrysalis, three minae. He never verifies bills, and then he once gave me in Stoa a slap on the shoulder--we will write four minae. He is stupid; let him pay for it. And then that Chrysalis! She must feed with cakes her carp in the pond, or perhaps Alcibiades makes her fat purposely, in order to sell her afterwards to a Phoenician merchant for an ivory ring for his harness."

Again Apollo paid no attention to the words--he was enchanted with the voice alone and whispered to Hermes:

"This one or none!"

But Maya's son suddenly covered the house, the apparition disappeared, and it seemed to the Radiant Apollo that with it disappeared the stars, that the moon became black, and the whole world was covered with the darkness of Chimera.

"When shall we decide the wager?" asked Hermes.

"Immediately. To-day!"

"During her husband's absence she sleeps in the store. You can stand in the street before the door. If she raises the curtain and opens the gate, I have lost my wager."

"You have lost it already!" exclaimed the Far-darting Apollo.

The summer lightning does not pass from the East to the West as quickly as he rushed over the salt waves of the Archipelago. There he asked Amphitrite for an empty turtle-shell, put around it the rays of the sun, and returned to Athens with a ready formiga.

In the city everything was already quiet. The lights were out, and only the houses and temples shone white in the light of the moon, which had risen high in the sky.

The store was dark, and in it, behind a gate and a curtain, the beautiful Eryfile was asleep. Apollo the Radiant began to touch the strings of his lyre. Wishing to awake softly his beloved, he played at first as gently as swarms of mosquitoes singing on a summer evening on Illis. But the song became gradually stronger like a brook in the mountain after a rain; then more powerful, sweeter, more intoxicating, and it filled the air voluptuously.

The secret Athena's bird flew softly from the Acropolis and sat motionless on the nearest column.

Suddenly a bare arm, worthy of Phidias or Praxiteles, whiter than Pantelican marble, drew aside the curtain. The Radiant's heart stopped beating with emotion. And then Eryfile's voice resounded:

"Ha! You booby, why do you wander about and make a noise during the night? I have been working all day, and now they won't let me sleep!"

"Eryfile! Eryfile!" exclaimed Silver-arrowed. And he began to sing:

"From lofty peaks of Parnas--where there ring In all the glory of light's brilliant rays The grand sweet songs which inspired muses sing To me, by turns, in rapture and praise-- I, worshiped god--I fly, fly to thee, Eryfile! And on thy bosom white I shall rest, and the Eternity will be A moment to me--the God of Light!"

"By the holy flour for sacrifices," exclaimed the baker's wife, "that street boy sings and makes love to me. Will you go home, you impudent!"

The Radiant, wishing to pursuade her that he was not a common mortal, threw so much light from his person, that all the earth was lighted. But Eryfile, seeing this, exclaimed:

"That scurrilous fellow has hidden a lantern under his robe, and he tries to make me believe that he is a god. O daughter of mighty Dios! they press us with taxes, but there is no Scythian guard to protect us from such stupid fellows!"

Apollo, who did not wish yet to acknowledge defeat, sang further:

"Ah, open thine arms--rounded, gleaming, white-- To thee eternal glory I will give. Over goddess of earth, fair and bright, Thy name above immortal shall live. I kiss the dainty bloom of thy cheek, To thy lustrous eyes the love-light I bring, From the masses of thy silken hair I speak, To thy beauty, peerless one, I sing. White pearls are thy ruby lips between-- With might of godly words I thee endow; An eloquence for which a Grecian queen Would gladly give the crown from her brow. Ah! Open, open thine arms!

"The azure from the sea I will take, Twilight its wealth of purple shall give too; Twinkling stars shall add the sparks which they make, And flowers shall yield their perfume and dew. By fairy touch, light as a caress, Made from all this material so bright, My beloved rainbow, in Chipryd's rich dress Thou shalt be clothed by the God of Light."

And the voice of the God of Light was so beautiful that it performed a miracle, for, behold! in the ambrosian night the gold spear standing on the Acropolis of Athens trembled, and the marble head of the gigantic statue turned toward the Acropolis in order to hear better. Heaven and Earth listened to it; the sea stopped roaring and lay peacefully near the shore; even the pale Selene stopped her night wandering in the sky and stood motionless over Athens.

And when Apollo had finished, a light wind arose and carried the song throughout the whole of Greece, and wherever a child in the cradle heard only a tone of it, that child became a poet.

But before Latona's son had finished his divine singing, the angry Eryfile began to scream:

"What an ass! He tries to bribe me with flowers and dew; do you think that you are privileged because my husband is not at home? What a pity that our servants are not at hand; I would give you a good lesson! But wait; I will teach you to wander during the night with songs!"

So saying she seized a pot of dough, and, throwing it through the gate, splashed it over the face, neck, robe, and lyre of the Radiant. Apollo groaned, and, covering his inspired head with a corner of his wet robe, he departed in shame and wrath.

Hermes, waiting for him, laughed, turned somersaults, and twirled his caduceus. But when the sorrowful son of Latona approached him, the foxy patron of merchants simulated compassion and said:

"I am sorry you have lost, O puissant archer!"

"Go away, you rascal!" answered the angry Apollo.

"I shall go when you give me Lampecja."

"May Cerberus bite your calves. I shall not give you Lampecja, and I tell you to go away, or I will twist your neck."

The Argo-robber knew that he must not joke when Apollo was angry, so he stood aside cautiously and said:

"If you wish to cheat me, then in the future be Hermes and I will be Apollo. I know that you are above me in power, and that you can harm me, but happily there is some one who is stronger than you and he will judge us. Radiant, I call you to the judgment of Chronid! Come with me."

Apollo feared the name of Chronid. He did not care to refuse, and they departed.

In the mean time day began to break. The Attic came out from the shadows. Pink-fingered dawn had arisen in the sky from the Archipelago. Zeus passed the night on the summit of Ida, whether he slept or not, and what he did there no one knew, because, Fog-carrying, he wrapped himself in such a thick cloud that even Hera could not see through it. Hermes trembled a little on approaching the god of gods and of people.

"I am right," he was thinking, "but if Zeus is aroused in a bad humor, and if, before hearing us, he should take us each by a leg and throw us some three hundred Athenian stadia, it would be very bad. He has some consideration for Apollo, but he would treat me without ceremony, although I am his son too."

But Maya's son feared in vain. Chronid waited joyfully on the earth, for he had passed a pleasant night, and was gladsomely gazing on the earthly circle. The Earth, happy beneath the weight of the gods' and people's father, put forth beneath his feet green grass and young hyacinths, and he, leaning on it, caressed the curling flowers with his hand, and was happy in his proud heart.

Seeing this, Maya's son grew quiet, and having saluted the generator, boldly accused the Radiant.

When he had finished, Zeus was silent a while, and then said:

"Radiant, is it true?"

"It is true, father Chronid," answered Apollo, "but if after the shame you will order me to pay the bet, I shall descend to Hades and light the shades."

Zeus became silent and thoughtful.

"Then this woman," said he finally, "remained deaf to your music, to your songs, and she repudiated you with disdain?"

"She poured on my head a pot of dough, O Thunderer!"

Zeus frowned, and at his frown Ida trembled, pieces of rock began to roll with a great noise toward the sea, and the trees bent like ears of wheat.

Both gods awaited with beating hearts his decision.

"Hermes," said Zeus, "you may cheat the people as much as you like--the people like to be cheated. But leave the gods alone, for if I become angry I will throw you into the ether, then you will sink so deep into the depths of the ocean that even my brother Poseidon will not be able to dig you out with his trident."

Divine fear seized Hermes by his smooth knees; Zeus spoke further, with stronger voice:

"A virtuous woman, especially if she loves another man, can resist Apollo. But surely and always a stupid woman will resist him.

"Eryfile is stupid, not virtuous; that's the reason she resisted. Therefore you cheated the Radiant, and you shall not have Lampecja. Now go in peace."

The gods departed.

Zeus remained in his joyful glory. For a while he looked after Apollo, muttering:

"Oh, yes! A stupid woman is able to resist him."

After that, as he had not slept well the previous night, he called Sleep, who, sitting on a tree in the form of a hawk, was awaiting the orders of the Father of gods and people.

PART FIFTH

WIN OR LOSE.

_A Drama in Five Acts_.

CHARACTERS:

Prince Starogrodzki. Stella, his daughter. George Pretwic, Stella's fiancé. Karol Count Drahomir, Pretwic's friend. Countess Miliszewska. Jan Count Miliszewski. Anton Zuk, secretary of the county. Dr. Jozwowicz. Mrs. Czeska. Mr. Podczaski. Servants.