Chapter II: Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The guests entered the rest-house.

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

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

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

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

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

It was the night before Easter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s up, Sura?”

“A madman from Golia[2]--_escaped_.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leiba jumped up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sura was right; Leiba is seriously ill.

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

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

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

“He got up early.”

“But what if he had gone away?”

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

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

An oppressive weight burdened his head.

Could it be George?

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

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

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

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

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

Again Zibal sat down upon the threshold and listened.

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

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

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

They are talking softly--the men.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now hand me the saw,” commanded George.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have time!”

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

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

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

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

“Quicker!” prayed Leiba. “Quicker!”

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

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

At last!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day was coming.

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

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

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

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

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

It was over now.

Sura shrieked.

“Leiba!”

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

The smell of burning flesh was spreading through the corridor.

“_Leiba!_--what is it?”

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

“What is it? What is it?”

Then they understood what had happened.

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

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

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

SVATOPLUK ČECH

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

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

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

THE JOURNEY

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

Today the usually treacherous Black Sea was gentle. The waves rolled themselves calmly and regularly to their mountainous curves, and then spread out in white, gleaming foam. Sometimes the color was green, sometimes blue, but in the distance it was always black. Sometimes great white sea mews settled down upon the curving waves, moving their wings as if in rhythm with the water. Sometimes arrow swift a dolphin leaped over the surface.

A long time I stood motionless there, absorbed in the strangeness of this unknown picture. Then I looked up to the complex rigging above me; at length my eyes took in the space between, where the third class passengers were gathered in gay disorder. This quarter on ships that ply the shore of the Black Sea, is a veritable ethnographical display. On two sides of this covered lower deck there extended--just as in the people’s room in a mill--high benches, upon which reclined a strange assortment of men and women of different races and religions. Upon a faded rug here sits, with his legs crossed, a grave mussulman; his face expresses peace and happiness. He has procured space enough in which to enjoy himself, to place his _nargileh_ and his yellow slippers with the curving toes. Some tall fellows whose faces do not arouse confidence, lie restlessly beside him. Upon their black, unkempt hair one sees the red fez. They wore brown jackets edged with black braid; brown, galloon trousers, wide at the hips and tapering narrower. At the waist they are held by a sash. From the sash shine the long handles of pistols. They are Greeks. There, gleam the kindly eyes of an honest Russian peasant; he has blond hair and a blond beard, in caftan and flat cap; beside him, in picturesque pose leans an old time _commis--voyageur_, a dandy from Odessa, who expresses his superiority to his neighbors by whistling an aria from an opera. Over there is a rich Walachian family who are emigrating to the Caucasus. They are sunburned, dirty and disheveled, and yet they form an interesting group. The Walachian mother has all the dignity of the mother of the Gracchi. There is a tall Persian, with long smooth face and tall black cap; a crafty Armenian, a priest from Georgia in a long robe. This gayly assorted crowd sit side by side, chew garlic, count the beads of giant rosaries, talk and quarrel in various languages, and spread about an odor that rises to the upper deck.

They fitted well--these people--within the frame of this Eastern Sea, which was now lighted by the fiery rays of the sun. I enjoyed less the travelers upon the upper deck; here yawned the stupidity and stiffness of European society. A distinguished Englishman of the usual type, a French Governess, some Russian officers, a few emancipated Russian women, smoking their inevitable cigarettes. A stuck-up Greek who had tasted the civilization of the west, who was reading the Odyssey with a new Greek accent, and a German professor who was promenading for his health. The outward appearance of this professor was diametrically opposed to the visions of the fabulous old world of the East, which the turbans in Odessa call up.

How out of place against the background of this measureless sea was this thin, dried-up figure, in the long, carefully buttoned coat, a green umbrella under one arm, huge gold spectacles on the nose, and a spy glass in a worn case, hanging from one shoulder. The first time my eyes rested on this figure I wished the Black Sea would rise and swallow him and his pedantry. But now when the brilliantly colored pictures of the Orient had somewhat faded from my memory, I must confess that in those days I cherished a sort of hatred for all of that Western Europe from which the German professor came.

My German professor was, to the honor of truth be it said, a man in the best years of life. He was shapely. He had thick blond hair and a blond beard and noble features. His exterior gave at once the impression of acuteness and depth, but these qualities unfortunately were united with a prosaic pedantry which at that time particularly displeased my Oriental mood. I was convinced that he was looking upon the Black Sea for the first time, perhaps this was his first experience in traveling upon any sea. He was probably looking upon the interesting group upon the lower deck for the first time, and yet he was promenading without any admiration or interest. His dull eyes rested upon the toes of his shoes, as if all his intellectual activity were focused upon counting the number of steps in today’s promenade. At length he paused and directed his walk toward my inconsequential self. He took a seat beside me, set his spectacles straight and--_was silent_. I made use of this opportunity to prove that I was correct in regard to his profession and nationality.

“It seems that we are going to have smooth weather today,” I ventured in the German language. Without the quiver of an eyelash, he replied in the same language:

“Don’t rejoice too soon. The Pontus Euxinus has a very unstable disposition. When there is no wind sometimes it rages, from the very depths, seamen say.”

The first half of my supposition was correct, and evidently a part of the second. This “Pontus Euxinus” smelled strongly of the Professor’s chair. The dry, sharp tone in which he spoke of the Black Sea irritated me. In an official voice he said to me:

“May I ask your name?”

I gave it.

“Thanks; where do you come from?”

“Bohemia, Prague.”

“And where are you going?”

“To Novorossysk.”

“What for?”

“On business.”

“My name is Heinrich Walter. I am a professor in Munich. With my wife and nephew I am on my way to the Crimea for _practical study_.”

He said these words in a tone just touched with irony. I meditated for a moment as just how best to classify the dry example of professorship.

“For geological study?”

“No--_Callobiotic_.”

I looked at him amazed. My glance met his. It rested calmly upon my face.

“The sound of this word means nothing to you, am I not correct? It is a new science. It has not yet been properly introduced. I hope to perform a service to humanity by introducing it to you.”

“Probably I have at least heard of it,” I replied, likewise ironically.

“All that has been done up to now in this science does not deserve a name. I hope I shall be successful in laying properly the foundation, upon which, in time, a proud and noble science will be erected.”

He paused a moment, then continued with fervor.

“It is not only a science, but an art--yes, the most exalted of all arts. It is not a question merely of projecting certain basic formulas, in accordance with which men--within defined limits--may enjoy the highest physical and intellectual rewards. It aims at something higher, namely, that human life instead of being a group of accidental and disconnected incidents, shall develop into a veritable work of art, inspired by one dominating idea. Life will become, my good sir, not a drama, but an epic! You will understand that the developing of such a science is no child’s undertaking. Just as a bee gathers honey from various flowers, so must I gather knowledge from all other sciences, press out their honey for the sweetening and ennobling of the life of man. I must distribute light and shade with skill, in order to create a beautiful and harmonious ideal of human existence.”

I confined myself merely to a shrug of the shoulders in reply to this daring thinking. Walter paid no attention to it and went on:

“As a usual thing man is unhappy because he is dissatisfied with his lot in life. Imagination pictures happiness always as something in the distance, but which does not exist in the present. If he ever succeeds in reaching this dreamed of realization, he finds that it is not what he thought it was. As a result, he becomes bitter and disillusioned, and then, in revenge, he begins to run after some fresh phantom of happiness--some gayer butterfly of joy--which in turn likewise becomes colorless and dull under the touch of his fingers.

“My object in life, my ambition, is to make dream and reality one. I have inherited a great fortune, and although wealth is not to be despised, I live without show or luxury, just as I did when I was poor. With perfect calmness I could read--in Sevastopol--a telegram announcing the loss of my fortune.” I permitted myself to doubt--in silence--the truth of this last report.

“I have just married a young and lovely girl,” the professor went on. “I love her and she loves me. I am happy and I hope always to remain so. After due consideration I concluded that it is better for earthly happiness not to follow the advice of St. Paul, and that is the reason I married. I did not look for an ideal; I looked for a good, educated girl, such as are common enough, and then I proposed to her without any somnambulistic fantasies. My honeymoon was not a sense destroying orgy, after which comes disillusion. I sought in marriage instead a calm and even happiness. I am educating my wife to this. Her imagination and modern methods of education had troubled her outlook in this respect. All sorts of romantic folly floated in her head. Now I intend to cure her of this romanticism.”

I imagined right then a tiny rose satin slipper, and under it the neck of the professor in a none too dignified position. He went on:

“I want her to travel, to see people and the world, and to learn to form judgments according to my instructions. But--there she comes now!”

Not only I, but the rest of the passengers upon the upper deck--looked with pleasure at the extremely pretty young woman who was approaching. With envy in my voice I whispered to Walter:

“You are living neither a play nor an epic, but instead a love song.”

She was following her steamer rug which hung from the arm of a tall, handsome youth. In the youth there was that commingling of timidity and boldness which distinguishes the students of German universities. His face was smooth and fair as a girl’s, and it showed an effort toward appearance of energy by a black court plaster upon the forehead, and the first shadow of down upon the upper lip. He was a youth who would be dangerous to women of a certain age.

Walter introduced me to his wife. A brief conversation convinced me that she was not one of those adorable statues into which nature has forgotten to breathe intelligence. I must confess that she was the most seductive proof possible of the value of his new science.

On a point of the monstrous circle, whose line the green sea marked sharply from the azure of the sky, a white sail appeared. It is not necessary to travel long upon the sea to comprehend the lively impression which the appearance of a distant sail causes. What wonder that our travelers assembled upon the upper deck, when the white dot blew up over the horizon!

Frau Walter let herself be swept along with the rest. Her husband hurried after her taking the spyglass out of its worn covering. As if with intention the nephew loitered behind. From an empty place near the pilot house, his blond curly head resting upon one hand, he observed the gay confusion of the lower deck. Soon I found that his persistent, dreamy gaze was riveted upon a young Jewess from the Crimea, whose slender, graceful body was draped in a black dress, and formed a pleasant contrast to the bright-hued crowd. We have many beautiful Jewesses with us, but beside those of the Orient our fairest Esthers are only field daisies. This particular Jewess was not pronounced in type; indeed, one could not at a glance be quite sure of her race. I would have taken her at first for a Greek. The pure pallor of her face, the black, finely arched brows, and the large dreamy eyes, from which the poetry of the Orient looked out, made her especially attractive.

Involuntarily I compared the two, the blond youth by the pilot house and the beautiful Jewess. Both were in the first bloom of youth, and yet they were so different. They exchanged glances which expressed eagerness and longing. I recalled Heine’s words of the pine in the North dreaming of a palm in the South. After watching them a while I sat down beside William and remarked.

“Just look at that handsome Jewess down there!” He looked at me shyly and blushed. Then as if conscious of his importance as a student, he moved his head carelessly and said in an unfriendly manner:

“Black, but beautiful! For such a Rachel I would not mind herding sheep.”

“But you wouldn’t take Leah along in the bargain, would you?”

“Why not?”

“I suppose you are a student of that new science of your uncle’s, are you not?”

“He has been boring you with that has he?” was the quick reply, his features suddenly becoming animated.

“Isn’t that the biggest piece of nonsense? I am genuinely sorry I was forced to travel with him. That constant school-mastering of his makes life gall and wormwood. If I am enjoying the wine in a hotel, he lifts his fingers and measures every drink. If I look at a girl he spoils my pleasure by a preachment on the subject of sexual impulses. His plan of travel disgusts me because he has thought it all out to the smallest detail. All the pleasure of traveling he estimates by that new science of his, and I rage in my heart. By heaven!--if it were not--” Here he paused and looked down. I tried to guess what that unfinished sentence might be. Evidently something chained the hot-headed youth to the uncle which he would not confide to any human ear. After a moment I said, looking him directly in the eye:

“And how does Frau Walter get on with her husband’s hobbies?”

He looked at me shyly and blushed. I did not look away.

“With patience,” he replied slowly. “Of course, like all women, she tries to get her own way, and sometimes she succeeds. But of course anyone can see that to a sympathetic person like her, that cold, pedantic treatment is not particularly pleasant.”

“Frau Walter is a woman to be worshiped,” I answered. I said the last words with emphasis. The young man did not answer; he seemed as if buried in thought and his silence continued.

The supper bell rang. The sound of this bell, to which Byron devotes a verse in his “Don Juan,” impresses one, whether it be heard in the peopled palace of a king, in a silent cloister, or here upon a ship in the crystal realm of Neptune.

I went down to the little second class salon, while my new acquaintances ate in the first class salon. At the well set table I drank good Crimean wine, and listened to the Russian conversation of the other occupants of the table, who talked of shipwreck and adventures by sea, and tarried at table until evening. When again I came upon deck, the sky was grey, rain drizzled down and cooled deck and rigging of our _Juno_, which were scorched with heat.

Upon deck the professor was walking with an umbrella.

“I have been pondering over our previous conversation, Herr Professor. We did not end it. I wish to ask you if you would put up as calmly with the loss of your wife, as you declare you would with loss of your fortune?”

“Loss of my wife? I should yield to the law of life, and with all my strength rely upon the healing power of nature, with hope that at length the painful wound would be healed.”

“But what if her love for you should die? Of course you do not need ever to fear such a thing, but, for sake of argument--suppose she should be unfaithful?”

He looked at me sharply. I thought his brow clouded slightly.

In the meantime it had grown dark. We were walking in centre of the deck, around a little four-cornered light-tower whose glass walls let light into the salon of the first class. Now it was brightly lighted, and there I saw a scene which suddenly stopped my steps.

Frau Walter and the nephew were sitting facing each other upon an upholstered fauteuil, and amusing themselves by playing ball with a large yellow orange. The pretty woman threw it in dangerous proximity to the young man’s nose and face. She was delighted with this childish play. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks glowed, and teasing laughter played about her lips.

I looked so persistently at this picture that at length Walter’s eyes were drawn that way. When at length we took up our promenade, I observed: “You are certainly giving your nephew an excellent vacation.”

“I do not enjoy the companionship of the little wind-bag, but my wife insisted upon taking him along.” The last words he said as if to himself, and slowly.

Now we stood on the lookout bridge. The scene had changed. The fauteuils were side by side, and their two heads were bent so close together over the table, that the blond curls and brown curls touched. In front of them upon the table lay an illustrated weekly journal. They were looking at some pictures which showed the rendezvous of a pretty Signora and a slender youthful page, in an old forgotten park.

The professor murmured good night and left me. I, too, sought my cabin, which they tried to make comfortable with a hard mattress and a pillow, and soon the sea cradled me to sleep.

When I came upon the upper deck in the morning, I saw a narrow strip of land, upon it some little white houses, a richly decorated mosque, two slender minarets, a Russian Church, and a number of wind-mills. Our steamer was anchoring at Eupatoria. Upon the emerald green water about us numberless little boats of different shapes and sizes, filled with gayly dressed Greeks and Tartars, were offering their services. But our ears and purses remained closed to their enticements; the time of our stay at Zozlov, which has been officially changed to classic Eupatoria, was limited. We had to content ourselves with a glance at the white city, and the multitude of craft anchored in front, whose tall swaying masts and many-hued sails presented an interesting picture.

From Eupatoria we sailed on past low bare shore land. In the distance towered mighty Tschaterdagh (Tent Mountain), whose outlines really suggested a giant tent.

I walked about the deck for some time without catching glimpse of my interesting friends. At length the nephew appeared, took me confidingly by the arm, and drew me toward an empty seat by the pilot house!

“Imagine,” he began merrily, “the old man pulled us out at _day break_. I suppose you think he wanted us to observe a sunrise at sea. He wanted to tell us the story of the Crimean War before we reached Sevastopol. For this purpose he unpacked a lot of books and photographs, a map adorned with bright flags, and I think, also, a globe. He arranged this collection upon the table, placed one of us on his right, the other on his left, and began his lecture. He recited in order the Crimean Khans, reached the Russian occupation, and was just ready for the Crimean war. Just at the moment when the hero Kozarsky succeeded with unparalleled skill in freeing his ship _Mercury_ from the enemy ships of three nations, I managed to slip away. I pity my poor aunt, who by this time, probably, is right in front of the harbor of Sevastopol, and exposed to the guns of the English, French, and Turkish fleets.”

The poor youth could not rejoice in his freedom long. Hardly had he ended his confidence when he saw the green umbrella coming up the stairs, and looking out from under it, two sharp eyes.

“Now it’s all over with me,” whispered the nephew. “But I will not surrender without resistance.”

He got up and slipped away toward the stairs which led to the ethnographical display on the lower deck. My eyes rested upon the place where he had disappeared. There upon the deck I saw a folded paper. I picked it up. Upon it was writing in German without address or subscription. The writing was as follows:

“I do not live, I dream. Always I see you before me; your sweet dark eyes look at me reproachfully. You are so near me--so near! I breathe the fragrance of the fresh flowers in your hair. My arm can reach you--and yet what an abyss separates us!”

Upon the same paper, written in a woman’s hand were the words: “Vain longing!” Just at this moment some one touched my arm. I looked up and saw Walter. The grieved, angry expression upon his usually placid face surprised me. He was pale; his forehead was scowling.

“I see you have had the same experience that I have had. I have found a lost love letter too,” he said in a voice very different from the jesting manner he tried to assume. “Look here--yesterday evening I found two. Let us compare the writing.”

He drew from his pocket book two little notes, which were just like the one I held in my hand. With a peculiar smile he handed them to me. At a glance I saw that the writing was the same. Upon these likewise a woman’s hand had written. Upon one--

“_Old friends_,” and upon the other “_not enough_.”

“Give me your letter,” demanded Walter after hesitating; “I will make a collection of them. Perhaps before I reach the end of the trip I shall have a novel.”

The bitter tone of voice provided explanation. I did not wish such a gloomy suspicion to grow in his heart, so I said:

“There’s nothing of importance in them.”

“No. It has not reached the climax. We’ll wait for the chapters to follow. Thank you.”

He took my note and put it carefully away with the others, nodded his head and walked away. I remained, meditating, where he left me, until I was disturbed by voice of the nephew.

“My uncle wasn’t looking for me, was he?”

“He did not mention your name.”

“Out of gratitude I’ll go back and expose myself to the cross fire of the allied fleets in front of Sevastopol. Anyway, this being bossed about by my uncle is not going to last much longer. Then--_you’ll see_!”

With these words he glanced up at me with a merry laugh.

I, on the contrary, had lost all inclination to merriment. Deeply meditative I watched the fine, vigorous young fellow walk away.

When I considered, in cold blood, what I had seen in this short time, the individual peculiarity of each member of the Walter family, their relations to each other, the senseless lack of tact of the husband, the youth and beauty of the wife, the handsome nephew, the scene of the day before in the salon, the mysterious letters, and the last words of the youth, I could not put aside the fear that all was not as it should be.

Then excitement upon the upper deck drew my attention. The travelers were leaning excitedly over the railing; joy and interest were upon their faces. From mouth to mouth flew the word: “_Sevastopol! Sevastopol!_”

We were just entering the great Gulf of Sevastopol, which, with one or two other indentations, is cut out of the solid rock.

The hills on all sides, and the space of level land, gleamed brightly now under the mid-day sun, showed the ruins of those fortifications that had once been so formidable. Walls, redoubts, towers, houses. Across the Gulf the remains of the gigantic dock stared back at us from long rows of empty windows. Right beside upon a declivity, beside the ruins of numberless houses, stood the Russian Church, rejoicing in its imposing outlook. In the upper part of the harbor a magnificent stone archway attracted our attention, the remains evidently of some prince’s harbor. On the other side the steep, hanging Garden of Kozarsky charmed the eye.

We sailed close to shore and landed. The landing place was a merry sight. There were crowds of people; important and unimportant figures in trim uniforms, long caftans, richly colored skirts with turbans, a woolly cap, a fez, a low hat, wide or tight trousers, in high black boots, or low, yellow slippers. From moment to moment this kaleidoscopic, bright-hued scene changed. Some heads carried baskets or boards upon which pastry was displayed for sale. Oranges, melons, fish of all colors, resembling the rainbow, enticed to eat. Some merchants sat behind a little improvised counter where they sold pickles, garlic, cabbage; others offered rose-sherbet in cheap glasses. This picture was enriched when the passengers upon the lower deck of our steamer went ashore. We, the passengers of the first and second class, waited for the confusion to subside, before going ashore to make use of the three hours given us to see the ruins of Sevastopol. The passengers hired the light, comfortable vehicle of the Russian _isvochtschik_, and the little bells of the curved _duga_ chimed merrily as we drove away.

The Walter family and I determined to walk to the Boulevard Kozarsky. After we had passed the memorial of this hero of the sea, we remained standing by a little Kiosk. Our eyes traveled delightedly over the picturesque landscape outspread beneath us. Calmly the marvelous Gulf shone at our feet, a glittering blue sapphire set in sun-burnished shores.

After we had looked long enough we went down into the city. The Professor worked himself up into such furors of Ciceronian eloquence, that his brow cleared and he became happy. The nephew appeared nervous and impatient. He looked about shyly, and from time to time his eyes rested upon the form of Frau Walter, who was fluttering along beside her husband, in unalloyed delight.

In front of a ruin, whose half-fallen wall the enthusiastic professor began to climb, the nephew suddenly felt in his breast pocket, and after he had pulled his hand out empty, he went up to his aunt and began to whisper to her. She took from her dress a pretty little notebook, tore a leaf out and handed it to him, along with a handsome pencil.