Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

Dr. Obarecki had come to Obrzydlówek six years before, directly after completing his medical training, with a few exceptionally useful ideas in his mind and a few roubles in his pocket. There had been a great deal of talk at that time of the necessity of finding enlightened people who would settle in God-forsaken backwood places like Obrzydlówek. He had listened to the apostles of these schemes. Young, high-minded and reckless, he had within a month of settling in the town declared war against the local chemist and barbers, who encroached upon the medical profession. It was twenty-five miles to the nearest larger town, so the local chemist had exploited the situation. Those who wished to profit by his medicaments had to pay a high price for them. He and the barbers, who got a percentage on the business, played into each others' hands. Consequently they were able to build themselves fine houses and wear "kacalyas" trimmed with bearskin. They went about with an air of dignity like "supporters"[22] at the Corpus Christi procession. When gentle hints and heated arguments had broken against the chemist's resistance, who declared the doctor's point of view to be a youthful Utopia, he scraped together a small sum and bought a travelling medicine-chest, which he carried with him on his rounds. He made up the medicines on the spot, sold them at a nominal price or gave them away, taught hygiene, made experiments, and worked perseveringly and with the utmost enthusiasm, giving himself no time for proper rest and sleep. It was a foregone conclusion that when the news of his portable chemist's shop, his giving his services to the people free of charge, and other things illustrating his point of view, became known, his windows were smashed. As Baruch Pokoik, the only glazier in Obrzydlówek, was busy at the time celebrating the Feast of Tabernacles, the doctor was obliged to paste up the window-panes with paper, and keep watch at night, revolver in hand. The windows were, in fact, broken periodically, until wooden shutters were procured for them. Rumours were spread among the common people that the doctor had intercourse with evil spirits, while the better educated were told that he was ignorant of his profession. Patients who wished to consult him were kept away by threats and noisy demonstrations outside the house.

The young doctor paid no attention to all this, and relied on the ultimate triumph of truth. But truth did not triumph--it is difficult to say why not. By the end of the year his energy was slowly ebbing away. Close contact with the ignorant masses had disillusioned him more than words can say. His lectures on hygiene, entreaties and arguments had fallen like the seed on rocky ground. He had done all that was in his power--and it had been in vain.

To speak candidly, people can hardly be expected to restore their neglected health by simple laws of hygiene when they have to go without boots in winter, dig up rotten potatoes from other people's fields in March to get themselves a meal, and grind alderbark to powder so as to mix it with a very slender supply of pilfered rye flour.

Imperceptibly things began not to matter to the doctor. "If they will eat rotten potatoes, let them eat them! I can't help it, even if they eat them raw...."

The Jewish inhabitants of the little town were the only ones who continued to consult the idealist; they were not frightened by evil spirits, and the cheapness of the medicines greatly attracted them.

One fine morning the doctor awoke to the fact that the flame of inspiration burning brightly in him when he came to the little town, and to which he had trusted to illuminate his path, was extinguished. It had burnt out of its own accord. From that moment the travelling dispensary was locked up, and the doctor was the only one to profit by its contents. It was bitterly galling to him to own himself beaten by the chemist and barbers, and to end the war by locking his medicine-chest away in his cupboard. They had the right to boast that they had conquered, and to divide the spoil. Yet he knew it was not they; he had been conquered by his own weaker nature. He had allowed his high aims and noble actions to be suppressed, maybe because he had begun to attach too much importance to good dinners. Anyway they had been suppressed. He still carried on his practice, but no one seemed to reap any real benefit from his work.

By a strange coincidence all the neighbouring country-houses were in the possession of noble families of feudal character, who treated the doctor in an antiquated manner instead of conforming to the views of the present day. Dr. Pawel had once paid a call at one of these houses, which turned out rather a failure. The nobleman received him in the study, remained in his shirt-sleeves during the interview, and went on quietly eating ham, which he cut with a penknife. The doctor felt his democratic spirit rising within him, made a few unpleasant remarks to the Count, and paid no more visits in the neighbourhood.

He had therefore no other choice than the priest and the magistrate. It is dull, however, to get too much of the priest's company, and the stories told by the magistrate were not worth following. So the doctor was left very much to his own company. To counteract the evil consequences of living alone, he made up his mind to get nearer to Nature, to recover his calm and inner harmony, and regain strength and courage by the discovery of the links which unite man with her. He did not, however, discover these links, though he wandered to the edge of the forest, and on one occasion sank into a bog in the fields.

The flat landscape was surrounded on all sides by a blue-grey belt of forest. A few firs grew here and there on grey sandhills, and waste strips of ground, belonging to God knows whom, were scattered in all directions. The only relief was given by the meadows covered with goat's-beard and yellowish grass, but even this withered prematurely--it was as if the light did not possess enough intensity to develop colour. The sun seemed to shine on that desolate spot only in order to show how arid and depressing it was.

Daily the doctor trudged, umbrella in hand, along the edge of the sandy road, which was full of holes and marked by a tumbled-down fence. This road did not seem to lead anywhere, for it divided into several paths in the middle of the meadows, and disappeared among molehills. Later on it reappeared on the top of a sandhill in the shape of a furrow, and ran into a wood of dwarf pines.

Impatient anger seized the doctor when he looked at that landscape, and a vague feeling of fear made him restless....

The years passed.

The priest's mediation had brought about a reconciliation between the doctor and the chemist, now that it was clear that the doctor's zeal for innovations had cooled. Henceforward the rivals hobnobbed at whist, although the doctor always felt a sense of aversion towards the chemist. By degrees even this slightly lessened. He began to visit the chemist, and to make himself agreeable to his wife. On one occasion he was startled by the result of analyzing his heart, which showed that he was even capable of falling platonically in love with Pani Aniela, whose intellect was as blunt as a sugar-chopper. She was under the entirely mistaken impression that she was slim and irresistible, and talked unceasingly and with unexceptionable zeal of her servant's wickedness. Dr. Pawel listened to Pani Aniela's eloquence for hours together with the stereotyped smile that appears on the lips of a youth who is making himself agreeable to beautiful women while suffering tortures from toothache.

He was no longer capable of starting democratic ideas in Obrzydlówek, though for no better purpose than that of passing the time. He had intended at first to exchange visits with the butcher, but now he would not have done it at any price. If he talked, he preferred that it should be to people with at least a pretence to education. Not only had his energy given out, but also all respect for broader ideas. The wide horizon which once the idealist's eyes could hardly perceive had dwindled down to a small circle, measurable with the toe of a boot. When he had read socialistic articles during the first stages of his moral decay, it had been with bitterness and envy, alternating with the caution of a man who has a certain amount of experience in these matters. Gradually he came to reading them with distrust, then with contempt, and at last he could not conceive why he had ever troubled himself about these ideas which had become absolutely indifferent to him. The longing to make himself into a centre for intellectual life was far from him. He doctored according to routine methods, and succeeded in working up a fairly good practice with the maxim: "Pay me and take yourself off!" His loneliness and the boredom of Obrzydlówek had become familiar to him.

And yet, in spite of everything, at this moment when he sat drumming with his fingers on the table, "metaphysics" had taken hold of him again. Already towards the end of the sixteen hours during which he had been celebrating the priest's name-day by playing whist, he had begun to feel uncomfortable. This was due to the chemist's beginning to talk atheism. Dr. Obarecki knew the hidden reason for this sudden assault on the priest's feelings quite well.

He foresaw that it was meant to be a prelude to a friendship between him and the chemist for the purpose of joining hands in a common utilitarian aim. One would write prescriptions a yard long, and the other exploit the situation. Possibly the chemist would soon pay him a visit and make an open proposal for such a partnership, and the doctor foresaw that he would not have the strength of mind to kick him out. He did not know what reasons to give for the refusal. The course that the interview would take would be this: The chemist would touch on the matter gradually, skilfully, referring to the doctor's need of capital as the cause of his being in difficulties, then bring the conversation round to Obrzydlówek affairs, and point out how much they would benefit the community by joining hands; and the end would be their paddling in the mire together.

Supposing the partnership existed? What then...?

His heart overflowed with bitterness. What had happened? How could he have gone so far? Why did he not tear himself out of the mire? He was an idler, a dreamer, corrupting his own mind--a horrible caricature of himself.

As he looked out of the window, he began to scrutinize his own weaknesses of character in an extraordinarily minute and merciless examination. The snow had begun to fall in large flakes, veiling the melancholy landscape in mist and dimness.

This capricious and unprofitable train of thought was suddenly interrupted by loud expostulations from the housekeeper, who was trying to persuade someone to go away because the doctor was not at home. But wishing to break the tormenting chain of ideas, the doctor went out into the kitchen. A huge peasant was standing there, wearing an untanned sheepskin over his shoulders. He bowed very low to the doctor, so that his lamb's-wool cap brushed the floor; then he pushed the hair back from his forehead, straightened himself, and was preparing for his speech, when the doctor cut him short.

"What's the matter?"

"Please, sir, the Soltys[23] has sent me."

"Who is ill?"

"It's the schoolmistress in our village. She's been taken bad with something. The Soltys came to me, and he said: 'Go to Obrzydlówek for the doctor, Ignaz,' he said.... 'Perhaps,' he said...."

"I'll come. Have you got good horses?"

"Fine fast beasts."

The doctor welcomed the thought of this drive, with its physical fatigue and even possible danger. With sudden animation he put on his stout boots and sheepskin, slipped into a fur coat large enough to cover a windmill, strapped on his belt, and went out. The peasant's "beasts" were sturdy and well-fed, though not large. The sledge had high runners and a light wicker body; it was well supplied with straw and covered with homespun rugs. The peasant took the front seat, untied his hempen reins, and gave the horses a cut with the whip.

"Is it far?" the doctor asked as they started.

"A matter of about twenty miles."

"You won't lose your way?"

"Who?... I?" He looked round with an ironical smile.

The wind across the fields was piercing. The runners, crooked and badly carved, ploughed deep furrows in the freshly fallen snow, and piled it up in ridges on either side. Nothing could be seen of the road.

The peasant pushed his cap on one side with a businesslike air, and urged on his horses. They passed a little wood, and came out on an empty space bounded by the forest which stood out against the horizon. The twilight fell, overlaying this severe desert picture with a blue light, which deepened over the forest. Balls of snow thrown up by the horses' hoofs flew past the doctor's head. He could not tell why he longed to stand up in the sledge and shout like a peasant with all his might--shout into that deaf, voiceless, boundless space which fascinated by its immensity as a precipice does. A wild and gloomy night was coming on fast, night such as falls upon deserted fields.

The wind increased and roared monotonously, changing from time to time into a solemn largo. The snow was driving from the side.

"Be careful of the road, my friend, else we shall come to grief," the doctor shouted, immediately hiding his nose again in his fur collar.

"Aho, my little ones!" bawled the peasant to the horses, by way of an answer. His voice was scarcely audible through the storm. The horses broke into a gallop.

Suddenly the snowdrifts began to whirl round madly: the wind blew in gusts; it buffeted the side of the sledge; it howled underneath; it took the men's breath away. The doctor could hear the horses snorting, but could distinguish neither them nor the driver. Clouds of snow torn from the ground sped by like a team of horses, and the thud of their hoofs seemed to fill the air. A very pandemonium had burst loose, throwing the power of its sound upward to the clouds, whence it descended again with a crash. The smooth surface was dispersed into down which enveloped the travellers. It was as if monsters were reeling in a mad giant dance, overtaking the sledge from behind, running now in front, now at the sides, and pelting it with handfuls of snow. Somewhere far away a large bell seemed to be droning in a hollow monotone.

The doctor realized that they were no longer driving on the road; the runners moved forward with difficulty and struck against the edge of ruts.

"Where are we, my good fellow?" he exclaimed in alarm.

"I am going to the forest by the fields," the man answered; "we shall get shelter from the wind under the trees. You can go all the way to the village through the forest."

As a matter of fact, the wind soon dropped; only its distant roar could be heard and the snapping of branches. The trees, powdered with snow, stood out against the dark background of night. It was impossible to proceed quickly now, for they had to make their way between snowdrifts and the stems and projecting branches.

After an hour during which the doctor had felt truly uncomfortable and alarmed, he at last heard the sound of dogs barking.

"That's our village, sir."

Dim lights flickered in the distance like moving spots. There was a smell of smoke.

"Look sharp, little ones!" the driver cheerily called out to the horses, and slapped himself after the manner of drivers.

A few minutes later they passed at full gallop a row of cottages, buried in snow up to their roofs. Heads were outlined in shadow against the window-panes from which circles of light fell on to the road.

"People are having their supper," the peasant remarked unnecessarily, reminding the doctor that it was time for the supper which he had no hope of eating that day.

The sledge drew up in front of a cottage. When the driver had accompanied the doctor through the passage, he disappeared. The doctor groped for the latch, and entered the miserable little room, which was lighted by a flickering paraffin lamp.

A decrepit old hunchback woman, bent like the crook of an umbrella handle, started from her bed on seeing him, and straightened the handkerchief round her head. She blinked her red eyes in alarm.

"Where is the patient?" the doctor asked. "Have you a samovar?"

The old woman was so perturbed that she did not grasp the meaning of his words.

"Have you a samovar? Can you make me some tea?"

"There is the samovar; but as to sugar----"

"No sugar? What a nuisance!"

"None, unless Walkowa has some, because the young lady----"

"Where is the young lady?"

"Poor thing! she's lying in the next room."

"Has she been ill long?"

"She's been ailing as long as a fortnight. She was taken bad with something."

The woman half opened the door of the next room.

"Wait a moment; I must warm myself," the doctor said angrily, taking off his fur coat.

It was not difficult to get warm in that stuffy little den; the stove threw out a terrific heat, so that the doctor went into the "young lady's" room as quickly as possible.

The lamp that was standing on a table beside the invalid's pillow had been turned low. It was not possible to distinguish the schoolmistress's features, as a large book had been placed as a screen, and the shadow from it fell on her face. The doctor carefully turned up the lamp, removed the book, and looked at her face. She was a young girl.

She had sunk into a feverish sleep; her face, neck and hands, were flushed scarlet and covered with a rash. Her ashen-blonde hair, which was exceptionally thick, was tossed round her face, and lay in rich tresses on the pillow. Her hands were plucking deliriously at the coverlet.

Dr. Pawel bent right down to the sick girl's face, and suddenly, with a voice stifled by emotion, repeated:

"Panna Stanislawa, Panna Stanislawa, Panna St----"

Slowly and with difficulty the sick girl raised her eyelids, but closed them again immediately. She stretched herself, drew her head from one end of the pillow to the other, and gave a painful low moan. She opened her mouth with an effort and gasped for breath.

The doctor looked round the bare, whitewashed room. He noticed the windows which did not sufficiently keep out the draught, the girl's shoes, shrivelled with having been wet through constantly, the piles of books lying on the table, the sofa and everywhere.

"Oh, you mad girl, you foolish girl!" he whispered, wringing his hands. In distress and alarm he examined her, and took her temperature with trembling hands.

"Typhus!" he murmured, turning pale. He pressed his hand to his throat to stifle the tears which were choking him like little balls of cotton.

He knew that he could do nothing for her--that, in fact, nothing could be done for her. Suddenly he gave a bitter laugh when he remembered that he would be obliged to send the twenty miles to Obrzydlówek for the quinine and antipyrin he wanted.

From time to time Stanislawa opened her glassy, delirious eyes, and looked without seeing from beneath her long, curling eyelashes. He called her by the most endearing names, he raised her head, which the neck seemed hardly able to support, but all in vain.

He sat down idly on a stool and stared into the flame of the lamp. Truly misfortune, like a deadly enemy, had dealt him a blow unawares from a blunt weapon. He felt as if he were being dragged helplessly into a dark, bottomless pit.

"What is to be done?" he whispered tremblingly.

The cold blast penetrated through a crack in the window like a phantom of evil omen. The doctor felt as if someone had touched him, as if there were a third person in the room besides himself and the patient.

He went into the kitchen and told the servant to fetch the Soltys immediately.

The old woman instantly drew on a pair of large boots, threw a handkerchief over her head, and disappeared with a comical hobble.

Shortly afterwards the Soltys appeared.

"Listen! Can you find me a man to ride to Obrzydlówek?"

"Now, doctor?... Impossible!... There's a blizzard; he'd be riding to his death. One wouldn't turn a dog out to-night."

"I will pay--I will reward him well."

The Soltys went out. Dr. Pawel pressed his temples, which were throbbing as though they would burst. He sat down on a barrel and reflected on something which happened long ago.

Footsteps approached. The Soltys brought in a farmer's boy in a tattered sheepskin which did not reach to his knees, sack trousers, torn boots, and with a red scarf round his neck.

"This boy?" the doctor asked.

"He says he will go--rash youngster! I can give him a horse. But wherever at this time of----"

"Listen! If you come back in six hours, you will get twenty-five ... thirty roubles from me ... you will get what you like.... Do you hear?"

The boy looked at the doctor as if he meant to say something, but he refrained. He wiped his nose with his fingers, shuffled awkwardly, and waited.

The doctor went back to the school-teacher's bedroom. His hands were shaking, and went up to his temples automatically. He thought of a prescription, wrote it, scratched through what he had written, tore it up, and wrote a letter to the chemist instead, begging him to despatch a horseman to the town at once, to ask the doctor to send him some quinine. He bent over the sick girl and examined her afresh; then he went into the kitchen and handed the letter to the boy.

"My dear boy," he said in a strange, unnatural voice, laying his hand on the lad's shoulder and slightly shaking him, "ride as fast as the horse will go--never mind him getting winded.... Do you hear, my boy?"

The lad bowed to the ground and went out with the Soltys.

"Is it long since the teacher settled here with you in the village?" Dr. Pawel asked the old woman who was cowering by the stove.

"It's about three winters."

"Three winters! Did no one live here with her?"

"Who should there be but me? She took me into her service, poor wretch that I am. 'You'll not find a place anywhere else, granny,' she said, 'but there isn't much to do for me, only just a bit here and there.' And now here we are; I'd promised myself that she would bury me.... God be merciful to us sinners!..."

She began unexpectedly to whisper a prayer, detaching one word from the other, and moving her lips from side to side like a camel. Her head shook and the tears flowed down the wrinkles into her toothless mouth.

"She was good----"

Granny began snivelling, and gesticulated wildly, as if she meant to drive the doctor away from her. He returned to the sick-room and began to walk up and down on tiptoe. Round after round he walked after his usual habit. Now and then he stopped beside the bed and muttered between his teeth with a rage that made his lips pale:

"What a fool you have been! It is not only impossible to live like that, but it is not even worth while. You can't make the whole of your life one single performance of duty. Those idiots will take it all without understanding; they will drag you to it by the rope round your neck, and if you let your foolish illusions run away with you, death will make you its victim; for you are too beautiful, too much beloved----"

As fire licks up dry wood, so a past and long-forgotten feeling took possession of him. It revived in him with the strength and the treacherous sweetness of former years. He persuaded himself that he had never forgotten her, that he had worshipped and remembered her up to that very moment. He gazed into the well-known face with an insatiable curiosity, and a dumb, piercing pain began to devour his heart as he thought that for three years she had been living here, near him, and he only heard of it when death was on the point of taking her away from him.

All that was befalling him this day seemed to be the consequence of his animal existence, which had led him nowhere except to burrow in the ground. Yet he felt as if suddenly a mysterious horizon opened out before him, an ocean spreading far away into the mist.

With all the effort of impatient despair he grasped at memories, seeking refuge in them from an intolerable reality; he plunged into them as into the rosy halo of a summer dawn. He felt he must be alone, if only for a moment, to think and think. He slipped into a third room which was filled with forms and tables. Here he sat down in the dark to collect his thoughts and contrive some way of saving his patient.

But he began to recall memories:

He was then a poor student in his last year. When he went to the hospital on winter mornings, he stepped carefully so that not everyone should notice how cleverly the holes in his boots had been mended with cardboard. His overcoat was as tight as a strait-jacket, and so threadbare that the old-clothes man would not even give a florin for it when he tried to sell it in the summer. Poverty made him pessimistic, and produced that state of sadness which is more than mere unpleasant depression, but less than actual suffering. To be roused from it, one need only eat a chop or drink a glass of tea; but he frequently had no tea to drink, to say nothing of a dinner to eat. He used to run along the muddy Dlvga Street so as to enter the gate of the Saski Gardens by a quarter to nine.

Here he would meet a young girl and walk past her, looking at her long, heavy, ashen-blonde pigtails. She would not look up, but knitted her brows, which reminded one of the narrow, straight wings of a bird. He used to meet her there daily in the same place. She always walked quickly to the suburb beyond, where she entered a tram going to Praga.

She was not more than seventeen, but looked like a little old maid in her handkerchief thrown carelessly over her fur cap, in her clumsy, old-fashioned cloak, and shoes a size too large for her small feet. She always carried books, maps, and writing materials under her arm. On one occasion, finding himself in possession of a few pence, which were to have paid for his dinner, he was resolved to discover what her daily destination was. He therefore set out in pursuit, and entered the same car, but after he had sat down all his courage had failed him. The unknown measured him with such a look of absolute disdain that he jumped out of the tram immediately, having lost his bowl of broth and achieved nothing.

Yet he felt no grudge towards her; on the contrary, this had only raised her in his estimation. He thought about her unconsciously and uninterruptedly; he strove through the course of whole hours to call to mind her hair, her eyes, her mouth, the colour of her lips. And yet he strained his memory in vain. For scarcely had she vanished from his sight than her features vanished from his memory. Instead there was left a vision like a white cloud without any distinct features; it seemed to hover over him. His thoughts pursued that cloud in longing and humble timidity, with a touch of unconscious regret, sadness, and sympathy, which dominated him altogether.

He used to go every morning to compare the living girl with his vision, and the reality seemed to him the more beautiful of the two; her eyes, thoughtful, and clear like a spring, filled him with a certain sense of awe.

At that time one of his fellow-students, nicknamed "Movement in Space," unexpectedly got married. He was a great "social reformer," continually writing endless prefaces to works he never finished for lack of the necessary books of reference. His wife was a feminist and as poor as a church mouse. Her dowry consisted in an old carpet, two stewing-pans, a plaster cast of Mickiewicz, and a pile of school prizes. The young couple lived on the fourth floor and promptly began to starve. They both gave private lessons so zealously that after separating in the morning they did not meet again till the evening. Nevertheless their house began to be the centre towards which each "social reformer" wended his way in his dirty boots, in order to sit for a while on the "Movement's" soft sofa, smoke his cigars, argue till he was hoarse, and in the end contribute a few pence towards the entertainment. The amiable hostess bought rolls and sausages, which she arranged artistically on a plate and handed round to her guests. You were always sure to meet someone interesting here, to become acquainted with great people as yet unknown to their age, and possibly you might even have a chance of borrowing sixpence.

Obarecki had turned pale with joy when one evening, on entering the room, he had found his beloved among the circle of friends. He had talked to her and lost his head completely. While walking home with the others that evening, he had had a longing to be alone--neither to dream nor to think of her, but just to steep his soul in her presence, see her and hear the sound of her voice, think as she did, and let the pictures which rose in his imagination take possession of him. He now distinctly remembered her wonderful eyes, with their bewildering depth, severe yet sympathetic, gentle and mysterious. He had experienced a feeling of joy and repose; as if, after a hot, wearisome journey, he had lighted upon a cool spring, hidden in the shade of pines on a high hill.

They had surrounded her with respect, and seemed to attach special importance to her words. In introducing Obarecki, the "Movement" had said, with an air of importance, "Obarecki, a thinker, a dreamer, a great idler, yet the coming man--Panna Stanislawa, our Darwinist."

The "great idler" had not been able to ascertain much about the "Darwinist"; merely that she had left the High School, was giving lessons, and intended to go to Paris or Zurich to study medicine, but had not a penny to bless herself with.

From that time onwards they frequently met in their friends' rooms. Panna Stanislawa would sometimes bring a pound of sugar under her cloak, or a cold cutlet wrapped in paper, or a few rolls; Obarecki never brought anything, for he had nothing to bring; but instead he devoured the rolls and the "Darwinist" with his eyes.

One night, when escorting her home, he got as far as proposing to her. She only broke into a hearty laugh and took leave of him with a friendly grasp of the hand. Shortly afterwards she had disappeared; he heard that she had gone as governess into some aristocratic family in Podolia.

And now he had found her again in this forsaken corner, in this forest village inhabited only by peasants, with not a single intelligent person near her. She had been living here all alone in this wilderness. And now she was dying.... All his former enthusiasm, and the unfulfilled dreams and desires of past days, suddenly sprang up within him and struck him like gusts of wind. A deadly pain seized his heart, and the poison of passion took hold of his blood. He returned on tiptoe to the sick-room, rested his elbows on the bed, and feasted on the sight of the marvellous contours of her bare shoulders and the lines of her bosom and neck. The girl was asleep; the veins on her temples were swollen, the corners of her mouth were moist, she exhaled fever heat, and drew in the air with a loud whistling sound. Dr. Pawel sat down beside her on the edge of the bed, gently fondled the ends of her soft, bright hair, and stroked it along his face, sobbing while he kissed it.

"Stasia, Stachna! Dearest!" he whispered low. "You are not going to run away from me again, are you?... Never! ... you will be mine for ever ... do you hear?--for ever...."

The exuberance of youth awoke in him from its lethargy. Henceforth everything would be different; he felt a great strength in him for doing his work with his heart in it. Pain and hope were mingled as in a flame which consumed him and gave him no respite.

The night wore on. Though the hours went by slowly, more than six had passed since the messenger left. It was four o'clock in the morning. The doctor listened, starting up at every sound. He fancied each moment that someone was coming--opening the door--tapping at the window. He strained and strained with his whole organism to listen. The wind howled, the door of the stove rattled; then again there was silence. The minutes passed like ages; his nerves, overstrained by impatience, threw him into a state of trembling all over.

When he took her temperature for the sixth time, the sick girl slowly opened her eyes; they looked almost black under their shade of dark lashes. Straining to look at him, she said in a hoarse voice:

"Who's that?"

But she fell back at once into her former state of unconsciousness. He cherished this moment as if it were a treasure. Oh, if only he had some quinine to lessen the pain in her head and restore her to consciousness! But the messenger had not arrived, and did not arrive.

Before dawn Dr. Obarecki walked the length of the village through the deep snowdrifts, deluding himself with a last hope of seeing the boy. An evil foreboding penetrated his heart like the point of a needle. The wind still howled in the bare branches of the wayside poplars with a hollow sound, although the storm had abated. Women were coming out of the cottages to fetch water, their skirts tucked up above their knees. The farm lads were busy with the cattle; smoke was rising from the chimneys. Here and there a cloud of steam issued from a door which was opened for an instant.

The doctor found the Soltys' house, and ordered horses to be put in at once. Two pairs were harnessed, and a lad drove them up to the school. The doctor took leave of the patient with eyes dilated with fatigue and despair, got into the sledge, and drove to Obrzydlówek.

* * * * *

He returned at two o'clock in the afternoon, bringing drugs, wine, and a store of provisions. He had stood up in the sledge almost all the way, longing to jump out and run faster than the horses, which were going at a gallop. He drove straight up to the school, but what he saw made him powerless to move from his seat.... A short, stifled cry burst from his lips, twisted with pain, when he saw that the windows were thrown wide open. A throng of children were crowded together in the passage. White as a sheet he walked to the window and looked in, standing there with his elbows resting on the window-sill.

On a bench in the schoolroom lay the naked body of the young teacher; two old women were washing it. Tiny snowflakes flew in through the window and rested on the shoulders, damp hair, and half-open eyes of the dead girl.

Bent double, as though bearing a mountain-load on his shoulders, the doctor entered the little bedroom. He sat down and repeated dully: "It is so--it is so!" He felt as if huge rusty wheels were turning with a terrific rattle in his head.

Stasia's bed was all in disorder; the window-frames rattled monotonously; the leaves of her plants were being caught by the frost, and drooped.

Through the half-open door the doctor saw some peasants kneeling round the body, which was now clothed; the children too had come in and were reading prayers from books; the carpenter was taking measurements for the coffin. He went in and gave orders in a husky voice for the coffin to be made of unplaned boards, and a heap of shavings to be placed under the head.

"Nothing else ... do you hear?" he said to the carpenter with suppressed rage. "Four boards ... nothing else...."

He remembered that someone ought to be informed--her family.... Where was her family? With an aimless activity he began to arrange her books, school-registers, notebooks and manuscripts into a pile. Among the papers he came upon the beginning of a letter.

"DEAR HELENKA" (it ran)--"I have felt so ill for some days
past that I am probably going into the presence of Minos and
Rhadamanthus, Aeacus, Triptolemus, and many others of the
kind. In case of my removing to another place, please ask
the Mayor of my village to send you all my property,
consisting of books. I have at last finished my little
primer, _Physics for the People_, over which we have so often
racked our brains. Unfortunately I have not made a fair copy.
If you have time--in case of my removal--arrange for the
publication at once. Let Anton copy it out; he will do this
for me.

"Oh, bother!... I just remember I owe our bookseller eleven
roubles sixty-five kopeks; pay him with my winter coat, for I
have no money.... Take for yourself in remembrance...."

The last words were illegible. There was no address; it was not possible to send off the letter. The doctor discovered the manuscript of the _Physics_ in the table drawer. It consisted of notes on slips of paper, mixed up with rubbish of all kinds. There was a little underlinen, a cloak lined with catskin, and an old black skirt, in the wardrobe.

While the doctor busied himself in this way, he suddenly noticed the boy who had been sent for the remedies in the schoolroom. He was huddled against a corner of the stove, treading from one foot to the other. Savage hatred sprang up in the doctor's heart.

"Why did you not come back in time?" he cried, running up to the boy.

"I lost my way in the fields ... the horse gave out.... I arrived on foot in the morning ... the young lady was already----"

"You lie!"

The boy did not answer. The doctor looked into his eyes, and was overcome by a strange feeling. Those eyes were weary and terrible; a peasant's stupid, mute, wild despair lurked in them as in an underground cavern.

"Here, sir, I have brought back the books the teacher lent me," he said, drawing some worn, soiled books from under his coat.

"Leave me alone! Be off!" the doctor cried, turning away and hurrying into the next room.

Here he stood among the rubbish, the books and papers thrown on the floor, and asked himself with a harsh laugh: "What am I doing here? I am no good; I have no right to be here!"

A feeling of profound reverence made him think the dead girl's thoughts in deep humility. Had he remained an hour longer, he would have risen to the heights where madness dwells. Without wishing to confess it to himself, he knew that it was fear on his own account which was taking possession of him. Throughout all that was overwhelming him at this moment, he felt that, a great lack of balance was threatening to deprive him of the essence of human feeling--of egoism. To stifle egoism would mean his allowing himself to be enveloped by the same rosy mist which had transported this girl from the earth. He must escape at once. Having decided on this, he began to despair in beautiful phrases which immediately brought him considerable relief. He ordered the sledge to be brought round.... Bending over Stasia's body, he whispered all the beautiful, empty things which people say in praise of greatness. He lingered once more in the doorway and looked back; for a second he wondered whether it would not be better to die at once. Then he pushed past the peasants crowding round the door, sprang into the sledge, tripped himself up, tumbled on his face, and was carried off, stifled by spasmodic sobs.

* * * * *

Stanislawa's death exercised so much influence over Dr. Pawel's disposition that for some time afterwards, in his leisure moments, he read Dante's _Divine Comedy_; he gave up playing whist, and dismissed his housekeeper, aged twenty-four. But gradually he grew calm. He is now doing exceedingly well; he has grown stout, and has made a nice little sum. He has even revived some of his optimistic tendencies. For thanks to his energetic agitation, all the world in Obrzydlówek, with the exception of a few conservatives, is now smoking cigarettes rolled by themselves, instead of buying ready-made ones which are known to be injurious.

At last!...

FOOTNOTES:

[22] It is considered a special privilege to walk on either side of the priest and support his arms in the procession.

[23] Answers more or less to the old-fashioned term "beadle."

THE CHUKCHEE

BY WACLAW SIEROSZEWSKI

The country was shrouded in the bitter Arctic night. Cold mists swept along the ground below; a dark sky, spangled with stars, stretched above.

A man was standing on the steps of a little house with small windows and a flat roof; his head was bare, his hands were thrust deep into his pockets. He was gazing fixedly towards the south, where the first dawn was to break upon the long darkness. At times he fancied that he could already see it there, for something seemed to quiver in the infinite darkness; but then the changing mist merely swayed to and fro, and the stars trembled on the horizon. His weary eyes therefore turned towards the little town; his house stood on the outskirts of it. Lights were twinkling in the windows there, and the dogs in the various backyards were yelping and howling loudly in chorus. "Oh, how deadly this is!" he thought--"enough to drive anyone mad. And in a frost like this it's certain no one will come."

He was just turning to go indoors, when he caught the sound of snow creaking under quick footsteps. He began to listen; the footsteps turned into the path leading up to his house.

"Is that you, Józef?"

"Yes; how are you?" a voice, hoarse with the frost, cried from a distance; and presently a man of middle height, dressed in fur from head to foot, emerged from the darkness. "What are you doing, you silly fellow, standing out here in a blouse in cold like this? You are certain to catch pneumonia."

"And why not?... A year sooner or later----"

"All very fine! But I confess to you, Stefan, I shouldn't like to die here. One can't even decay like a human being; one would have to lie here for centuries like an ice statue, while the dogs would howl and howl----"

"Well, they are howling unbearably now; it's as if they scented something. They are worse than ever to-day."

"They are certain to smell something; in the town they say that the Chukchee are encamping here, and I have just come to tell you of it. But let us go indoors; it's terribly cold, worse than it has yet been this year."

They went in. Stefan lighted the fire and busied himself with getting tea ready; Józef threw off his furs and paced up and down the room with long strides.

"I say! This news is not quite without importance for us."

"What?"

"That they have come."

"The Chukchee?"

"Why, yes!"

Stefan burst out laughing.

"It's imperative for us to make friends with them; they are said to trade with America."

"Then with whom are we to make friends? With the Yankees?"

"No, with the Chukchee. Do be serious. You must do it, and it will be easy enough for you with your workshop,--all kinds of people constantly come to you. I will persuade Buza, the Cossack, to bring them; you will have a first-rate interpreter."

"By all means persuade Buza----"

"Oh, stop that! You always pretend to be indifferent to everything. If I had your health and strength, and were as clever----"

"Then you would be as homesick as I am, and pretend to care as little----"

"Do you think that I am not homesick?"

"No, I don't think you are--not in the least. You have a happy disposition, and can distract yourself with books and plans and dreaming, even if it is only for a short time. I must live, work, be active; I need impressions from outside. Otherwise I go utterly to pieces; I feel that I am slowly dying."

They sat down to tea and chatted until midnight. In that continuous darkness the late hours of night differed from the rest in the position of the stars, a harder frost with louder reports of the cracking ground, the fact that the fires in the cottages were extinguished, and the quieter but more dismal howling of the dogs.

"Then remember that I will bring them. Do something to take their fancy; you know how to do it."

"Very good. It just happens that I have the District Administrator's musical box here to repair; I will play it to them."

"That will delight them. 'A talking box'--I can imagine what they will say! And don't forget to buy vodka for them, and to entertain Buza also. We shall have need of him. I don't yet know what we shall decide upon--I don't even try to think about it; but I feel that something will come of this...."

"What?... Nothing will come of it. There will not even be any vodka left as a result, for they will drink it all up."

"You horrible pessimist! You always poison everything for me!" Józef cried from the hall, and he banged the door after him.

Stefan stood in the middle of the room for a long while, listening to Józef's brisk footsteps. He was smiling, for he liked to be accused of being a pessimist.

A few days later, sitting at the table with his back towards the door, and busy with his work, he heard a curious noise outside--someone stamping and pulling at the strap which served as a latch, as if unused to it.

Stefan turned his head inquiringly, and at the same moment a flat, brown face appeared in the doorway.

"Go in! Go in! You will let the cold into the cottage," someone cried from the hall.

Stefan recognized Buza's voice.

"Come in, by all means!"

"They have no manners. They are real Chukchee. This one is called Wopatka; he has been baptized. He is rather a drunkard, and rather a thief, but a good fellow. And this one--it's better not to touch him--is Kituwia.... Don't touch him!"

The natives stood quietly in the middle of the room, and looked round inquisitively, but without the slightest bewilderment. Their furs, which they wore with the skin turned to the inside, hung about them heavily and clumsily. They appeared to Stefan to be very much alike. But Kituwia had a darker complexion, and there was evidence in his unmoving face, erect head, and compressed lips of a hard pride, amounting to contempt for all and everything.

Wopatka fell into a broad grin as he glanced eagerly with his slanting eyes round the room, which was so large and well furnished in comparison with his own tent.

"Take off your cap," Buza said to him, nudging him with his elbow.

Wopatka hastily pulled off his cap and showed the usual conical-shaped Chukchee head.

Kituwia had no cap. His long, thick, tousled hair was held back by a narrow strap tied just above his forehead. A similar strap from his low-cut skin jerkin crossed his bare chest and neck. He gave Stefan a sharp look, and uttered a few disconnected guttural sounds to his companion.

"There! Do you hear?" Buza said with a laugh. "They speak exactly like reindeer. They believe in reindeer, too; they think they will always have them in the next world. But Pan Józef told me to bring them, so I have brought them."

"Very good. I will get tea for you at once--or perhaps vodka would be better?"

"That would be better, for they don't think much of tea."

Stefan showed them a magnet, and made the cuckoo-clock strike to amuse them. He had a certain amount of success with the clock; Wopatka was delighted, but Kituwia's restrained manner threw a chill over everything. The fire crackled merrily in the chimney; the guests threw off their furs and lolled on the benches; Buza burst out laughing from time to time, and Wopatka chuckled quietly, but Kituwia ran his keen glance from one object to another. However, at last even his face lighted up, and, uttering a smothered cry, he pointed to some large stones tied as a weight to the drying reindeer sinews. The guests formed a circle round these and tried to lift them with outstretched arms, but only Kituwia could do this.

When Stefan did the same, the native's face brightened with a look of friendliness. He called Stefan "brother," and passed his hand caressingly over his back and shoulders.

"He is praising you and asking why he never sees you among the people round the tavern."

"Tell him that I haven't time; I am busy."

While Buza was explaining this, Kituwia's face assumed an expression of stony contempt.

"He doesn't believe that you are a smith--and that you are respected by the District Administrator all the same. He is just an ignorant native. With them a strong man only drinks and fights, and looks upon the rest as low."

The guests conscientiously ate and drank what was offered them. At parting Wopatka said, "Brother! Brother!" a countless number of times. The disagreeable smell of badly tanned reindeer skin and rancid reindeer grease remained behind them when they were gone.

"Your fame will spread among the Chukchee; you will have no peace now," Buza said to Stefan in the hall. "We thank you for your invitation. When will you send for us again?"

"Ask Pan Józef!"

* * * * *

"Well, did they come?" Józef asked on the following day.

"I should rather think so! I was obliged to air the room for several hours afterwards."

"Did they not invite you to visit them?"

"No."

"We must have patience. They will invite us. Buza told me they are enchanted."

"Buza himself seemed to be the most enchanted. He ate and drank enough for three."

"And Wopatka?"

"What is there to say about him? He certainly seems a good hand at vodka. He is not up to much."

"No need to despise people like that; they will prepare the way excellently, and others will follow. One must wait patiently; I beg you be patient. I will arrange it. Last night I went to see Father Pantelay, the missionary. He is learning Chukchee. By-and-by we may be able to do something. We must learn to understand their customs and be friendly with them, so that they may get to like us. Don't grumble about them."

"I am not grumbling, but--they sat here too long."

"Well, we also have been sitting here too long."

Several days passed. The Chukchee did not show themselves. Despite his assumed indifference and incredulity, Stefan was a little anxious, and looked round hastily every time the door opened.

It was late. Having just finished his work, and blown out the candle for the sake of economy, Stefan was musing in the firelight, when his attention was attracted by unusual sounds from outside--a curious noise and shuffling. Then the house door opened violently and banged to; someone rushed panting into the room and held the door against someone else who tried to open it. Stefan jumped up in astonishment and hastily lighted the candle. A Chukchee was standing at the door, covered with snow. He had wound the latch strap round his hand, and, steadying himself with his foot against the door, was pulling at it with all his might. It shook in the struggle. The native looked at Stefan, made an imploring gesture, and showed that he was defenceless. From the hall came the sound of an impatient, hoarse voice cursing, accompanied by heavy kicks on the door. Stefan fancied that he recognized the voice.