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The Crushed Flower, and Other Stories

by Leonid Andreyev · English · Gutenberg #5779 · 484,363 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Crushed Flower, and Other Stories

Author: Leonid Andreyev

Translator: Herman Bernstein


        
Release date: May 1, 2004 [eBook #5779]
                Most recently updated: October 14, 2019

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5779

Credits: Produced by Jarrod Newton, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRUSHED FLOWER, AND OTHER STORIES ***




Produced by Jarrod Newton








THE CRUSHED FLOWER AND OTHER STORIES


By Leonid Andreyev

Translated by Herman Bernstein





CONTENTS

     The Crushed Flower
     A Story Which Will Never Be Finished
     On the Day of the Crucifixion
     The Serpent’s Story
     Love, Faith and Hope
     The Ocean
     Judas Iscariot and Others
     “The Man Who Found the Truth”





THE CRUSHED FLOWER




CHAPTER I


His name was Yura.

He was six years old, and the world was to him enormous, alive and
bewitchingly mysterious. He knew the sky quite well. He knew its deep
azure by day, and the white-breasted, half silvery, half golden clouds
slowly floating by. He often watched them as he lay on his back upon the
grass or upon the roof. But he did not know the stars so well, for he
went to bed early. He knew well and remembered only one star--the green,
bright and very attentive star that rises in the pale sky just before
you go to bed, and that seemed to be the only star so large in the whole
sky.

But best of all, he knew the earth in the yard, in the street and in the
garden, with all its inexhaustible wealth of stones, of velvety grass,
of hot sand and of that wonderfully varied, mysterious and delightful
dust which grown people did not notice at all from the height of their
enormous size. And in falling asleep, as the last bright image of the
passing day, he took along to his dreams a bit of hot, rubbed off stone
bathed in sunshine or a thick layer of tenderly tickling, burning dust.

When he went with his mother to the centre of the city along the large
streets, he remembered best of all, upon his return, the wide, flat
stones upon which his steps and his feet seemed terribly small, like
two little boats. And even the multitude of revolving wheels and horses’
heads did not impress themselves so clearly upon his memory as this new
and unusually interesting appearance of the ground.

Everything was enormous to him--the fences, the dogs and the people--but
that did not at all surprise or frighten him; that only made everything
particularly interesting; that transformed life into an uninterrupted
miracle. According to his measures, various objects seemed to him as
follows:

His father--ten yards tall.

His mother--three yards.

The neighbour’s angry dog--thirty yards.

Their own dog--ten yards, like papa.

Their house of one story was very, very tall--a mile.

The distance between one side of the street and the other--two miles.

Their garden and the trees in their garden seemed immense, infinitely
tall.

The city--a million--just how much he did not know.

And everything else appeared to him in the same way. He knew many
people, large and small, but he knew and appreciated better the little
ones with whom he could speak of everything. The grown people behaved
so foolishly and asked such absurd, dull questions about things that
everybody knew, that it was necessary for him also to make believe that
he was foolish. He had to lisp and give nonsensical answers; and, of
course, he felt like running away from them as soon as possible.
But there were over him and around him and within him two entirely
extraordinary persons, at once big and small, wise and foolish, at once
his own and strangers--his father and mother.

They must have been very good people, otherwise they could not have been
his father and mother; at any rate, they were charming and unlike other
people. He could say with certainty that his father was very great,
terribly wise, that he possessed immense power, which made him a person
to be feared somewhat, and it was interesting to talk with him about
unusual things, placing his hand in father’s large, strong, warm hand
for safety’s sake.

Mamma was not so large, and sometimes she was even very small; she was
very kind hearted, she kissed tenderly; she understood very well how he
felt when he had a pain in his little stomach, and only with her could
he relieve his heart when he grew tired of life, of his games or when he
was the victim of some cruel injustice. And if it was unpleasant to cry
in father’s presence, and even dangerous to be capricious, his tears
had an unusually pleasant taste in mother’s presence and filled his soul
with a peculiar serene sadness, which he could find neither in his games
nor in laughter, nor even in the reading of the most terrible fairy
tales.

It should be added that mamma was a beautiful woman and that everybody
was in love with her. That was good, for he felt proud of it, but that
was also bad--for he feared that she might be taken away. And every time
one of the men, one of those enormous, invariably inimical men who were
busy with themselves, looked at mamma fixedly for a long time, Yura felt
bored and uneasy. He felt like stationing himself between him and mamma,
and no matter where he went to attend to his own affairs, something was
drawing him back.

Sometimes mamma would utter a bad, terrifying phrase:

“Why are you forever staying around here? Go and play in your own room.”

There was nothing left for him to do but to go away. He would take a
book along or he would sit down to draw, but that did not always help
him. Sometimes mamma would praise him for reading but sometimes she
would say again:

“You had better go to your own room, Yurochka. You see, you’ve spilt
water on the tablecloth again; you always do some mischief with your
drawing.”

And then she would reproach him for being perverse. But he felt worst of
all when a dangerous and suspicious guest would come when Yura had to
go to bed. But when he lay down in his bed a sense of easiness came
over him and he felt as though all was ended; the lights went out, life
stopped; everything slept.

In all such cases with suspicious men Yura felt vaguely but very
strongly that he was replacing father in some way. And that made him
somewhat like a grown man--he was in a bad frame of mind, like a grown
person, but, therefore, he was unusually calculating, wise and serious.
Of course, he said nothing about this to any one, for no one would
understand him; but, by the manner in which he caressed father when he
arrived and sat down on his knees patronisingly, one could see in the
boy a man who fulfilled his duty to the end. At times father could not
understand him and would simply send him away to play or to sleep--Yura
never felt offended and went away with a feeling of great satisfaction.
He did not feel the need of being understood; he even feared it. At
times he would not tell under any circumstances why he was crying; at
times he would make believe that he was absent minded, that he heard
nothing, that he was occupied with his own affairs, but he heard and
understood.

And he had a terrible secret. He had noticed that these extraordinary
and charming people, father and mother, were sometimes unhappy and
were hiding this from everybody. Therefore he was also concealing his
discovery, and gave everybody the impression that all was well. Many
times he found mamma crying somewhere in a corner in the drawing room,
or in the bedroom--his own room was next to her bedroom--and one night,
very late, almost at dawn, he heard the terribly loud and angry voice of
father and the weeping voice of mother. He lay a long time, holding his
breath, but then he was so terrified by that unusual conversation in the
middle of the night that he could not restrain himself and he asked his
nurse in a soft voice:

“What are they saying?”

And the nurse answered quickly in a whisper:

“Sleep, sleep. They are not saying anything.”

“I am coming over to your bed.”

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Such a big boy!”

“I am coming over to your bed.”

Thus, terribly afraid lest they should be heard, they spoke in whispers
and argued in the dark; and the end was that Yura moved over to nurse’s
bed, upon her rough, but cosy and warm blanket.

In the morning papa and mamma were very cheerful and Yura pretended that
he believed them and it seemed that he really did believe them. But that
same evening, and perhaps it was another evening, he noticed his father
crying. It happened in the following way: He was passing his father’s
study, and the door was half open; he heard a noise and he looked in
quietly--father lay face downward upon his couch and cried aloud. There
was no one else in the room. Yura went away, turned about in his room
and came back--the door was still half open, no one but father was in
the room, and he was still sobbing. If he cried quietly, Yura could
understand it, but he sobbed loudly, he moaned in a heavy voice and his
teeth were gnashing terribly. He lay there, covering the entire couch,
hiding his head under his broad shoulders, sniffing heavily--and that
was beyond his understanding. And on the table, on the large table
covered with pencils, papers and a wealth of other things, stood the
lamp burning with a red flame, and smoking--a flat, greyish black strip
of smoke was coming out and bending in all directions.

Suddenly father heaved a loud sigh and stirred. Yura walked away
quietly. And then all was the same as ever. No one would have learned of
this; but the image of the enormous, mysterious and charming man who
was his father and who was crying remained in Yura’s memory as something
dreadful and extremely serious. And, if there were things of which he
did not feel like speaking, it was absolutely necessary to say nothing
of this, as though it were something sacred and terrible, and in that
silence he must love father all the more. But he must love so that
father should not notice it, and he must give the impression that it is
very jolly to live on earth.

And Yura succeeded in accomplishing all this. Father did not notice that
he loved him in a special manner; and it was really jolly to live on
earth, so there was no need for him to make believe. The threads of his
soul stretched themselves to all--to the sun, to the knife and the cane
he was peeling; to the beautiful and enigmatic distance which he saw
from the top of the iron roof; and it was hard for him to separate
himself from all that was not himself. When the grass had a strong and
fragrant odour it seemed to him that it was he who had such a fragrant
odour, and when he lay down in his bed, however strange it may seem,
together with him in his little bed lay down the enormous yard, the
street, the slant threads of the rain and the muddy pools and the whole,
enormous, live, fascinating, mysterious world. Thus all fell asleep
with him and thus all awakened with him, and together with him they
all opened their eyes. And there was one striking fact, worthy of the
profoundest reflection--if he placed a stick somewhere in the garden
in the evening it was there also in the morning; and the knuckle-bones
which he hid in a box in the barn remained there, although it was dark
and he went to his room for the night. Because of this he felt a natural
need for hiding under his pillow all that was most valuable to him.
Since things stood or lay there alone, they might also disappear of
their accord, he reasoned. And in general it was so wonderful and
pleasant that the nurse and the house and the sun existed not only
yesterday, but every day; he felt like laughing and singing aloud when
he awoke.

When people asked him what his name was he answered promptly:

“Yura.”

But some people were not satisfied with this alone, and they wanted to
know his full name--and then he replied with a certain effort:

“Yura Mikhailovich.”

And after a moment’s thought he added:

“Yura Mikhailovich Pushkarev.”



CHAPTER II


An unusual day arrived. It was mother’s birthday. Guests were expected
in the evening; military music was to play, and in the garden and upon
the terrace parti-coloured lanterns were to burn, and Yura need not go
to bed at 9 o’clock but could stay up as late as he liked.

Yura got up when all were still sleeping. He dressed himself and jumped
out quickly with the expectation of miracles. But he was unpleasantly
surprised--the rooms were in the same disorder as usual in the morning;
the cook and the chambermaid were still sleeping and the door was closed
with a hook--it was hard to believe that the people would stir and
commence to run about, and that the rooms would assume a holiday
appearance, and he feared for the fate of the festival. It was still
worse in the garden. The paths were not swept and there was not a single
lantern there. He grew very uneasy. Fortunately, Yevmen, the coachman,
was washing the carriage behind the barn in the back yard and though he
had done this frequently before, and though there was nothing unusual
about his appearance, Yura clearly felt something of the holiday in the
decisive way in which the coachman splashed the water from the bucket
with his sinewy arms, on which the sleeves of his red blouse were rolled
up to his elbows. Yevmen only glanced askance at Yura, and suddenly Yura
seemed to have noticed for the first time his broad, black, wavy beard
and thought respectfully that Yevmen was a very worthy man. He said:

“Good morning, Yevmen.”

Then all moved very rapidly. Suddenly the janitor appeared and started
to sweep the paths, suddenly the window in the kitchen was thrown open
and women’s voices were heard chattering; suddenly the chambermaid
rushed out with a little rug and started to beat it with a stick, as
though it were a dog. All commenced to stir; and the events, starting
simultaneously in different places, rushed with such mad swiftness that
it was impossible to catch up with them. While the nurse was giving Yura
his tea, people were beginning to hang up the wires for the lanterns in
the garden, and while the wires were being stretched in the garden, the
furniture was rearranged completely in the drawing room, and while the
furniture was rearranged in the drawing room, Yevmen, the coachman,
harnessed the horse and drove out of the yard with a certain special,
mysterious mission.

Yura succeeded in concentrating himself for some time with the greatest
difficulty. Together with father he was hanging up the lanterns. And
father was charming; he laughed, jested, put Yura on the ladder; he
himself climbed the thin, creaking rungs of the ladder, and finally both
fell down together with the ladder upon the grass, but they were not
hurt. Yura jumped up, while father remained lying on the grass, hands
thrown back under his head, looking with half-closed eyes at the
shining, infinite azure of the sky. Thus lying on the grass, with a
serious expression on his face, apparently not in the mood for play,
father looked very much like Gulliver longing for his land of giants.
Yura recalled something unpleasant; but to cheer his father up he sat
down astride upon his knees and said:

“Do you remember, father, when I was a little boy I used to sit down on
your knees and you used to shake me like a horse?”

But before he had time to finish he lay with his nose on the grass; he
was lifted in the air and thrown down with force--father had thrown him
high up with his knees, according to his old habit. Yura felt offended;
but father, entirely ignoring his anger, began to tickle him under his
armpits, so that Yura had to laugh against his will; and then father
picked him up like a little pig by the legs and carried him to the
terrace. And mamma was frightened.

“What are you doing? The blood will rush to his head!”

After which Yura found himself standing on his legs, red faced,
dishevelled, feeling very miserable and terribly happy at the same time.

The day was rushing fast, like a cat that is chased by a dog. Like
forerunners of the coming great festival, certain messengers appeared
with notes, wonderfully tasty cakes were brought, the dressmaker came
and locked herself in with mamma in the bedroom; then two gentlemen
arrived, then another gentleman, then a lady--evidently the entire city
was in a state of agitation. Yura examined the messengers as though they
were strange people from another world, and walked before them with
an air of importance as the son of the lady whose birthday was to be
celebrated; he met the gentlemen, he escorted the cakes, and toward
midday he was so exhausted that he suddenly started to despise life. He
quarrelled with the nurse and lay down in his bed face downward in order
to have his revenge on her; but he fell asleep immediately. He awoke
with the same feeling of hatred for life and a desire for revenge, but
after having looked at things with his eyes, which he washed with cold
water, he felt that both the world and life were so fascinating that
they were even funny.

When they dressed Yura in a red silk rustling blouse, and he thus
clearly became part of the festival, and he found on the terrace a long,
snow white table glittering with glass dishes, he again commenced to
spin about in the whirlpool of the onrushing events.

“The musicians have arrived! The musicians have arrived!” he cried,
looking for father or mother, or for any one who would treat the arrival
of the musicians with proper seriousness. Father and mother were sitting
in the garden--in the arbour which was thickly surrounded with wild
grapes--maintaining silence; the beautiful head of mother lay on
father’s shoulder; although father embraced her, he seemed very serious,
and he showed no enthusiasm when he was told of the arrival of the
musicians. Both treated their arrival with inexplicable indifference,
which called forth a feeling of sadness in Yura. But mamma stirred and
said:

“Let me go. I must go.”

“Remember,” said father, referring to something Yura did not understand
but which resounded in his heart with a light, gnawing alarm.

“Stop. Aren’t you ashamed?” mother laughed, and this laughter made
Yura feel still more alarmed, especially since father did not laugh but
maintained the same serious and mournful appearance of Gulliver pining
for his native land....

But soon all this was forgotten, for the wonderful festival had begun in
all its glory, mystery and grandeur. The guests came fast, and there was
no longer any place at the white table, which had been deserted but a
while before. Voices resounded, and laughter and merry jests, and the
music began to play. And on the deserted paths of the garden where but
a while ago Yura had wandered alone, imagining himself a prince in quest
of the sleeping princess, now appeared people with cigarettes and with
loud free speech. Yura met the first guests at the front entrance; he
looked at each one carefully, and he made the acquaintance and even the
friendship of some of them on the way from the corridor to the table.

Thus he managed to become friendly with the officer, whose name was
Mitenka--a grown man whose name was Mitenka--he said so himself. Mitenka
had a heavy leather sword, which was as cold as a snake, which could
not be taken out--but Mitenka lied; the sword was only fastened at the
handle with a silver cord, but it could be taken out very nicely; and
Yura felt vexed because the stupid Mitenka instead of carrying his
sword, as he always did, placed it in a corner in the hallway as a cane.
But even in the corner the sword stood out alone--one could see at once
that it was a sword. Another thing that displeased Yura was that another
officer came with Mitenka, an officer whom Yura knew and whose name was
also Yura Mikhailovich. Yura thought that the officer must have been
named so for fun. That wrong Yura Mikhailovich had visited them several
times; he even came once on horseback; but most of the time he came just
before little Yura had to go to bed. And little Yura went to bed, while
the unreal Yura Mikhailovich remained with mamma, and that caused him
to feel alarmed and sad; he was afraid that mamma might be deceived. He
paid no attention to the real Yura Mikhailovich: and now, walking
beside Mitenka, he did not seem to realise his guilt; he adjusted his
moustaches and maintained silence. He kissed mamma’s hand, and that
seemed repulsive to little Yura; but the stupid Mitenka also kissed
mamma’s hand, and thereby set everything aright.

But soon the guests arrived in such numbers, and there was such a
variety of them, as if they had fallen straight from the sky. And some
of them seemed to have fallen near the table, while others seemed
to have fallen into the garden. Suddenly several students and ladies
appeared in the path. The ladies were ordinary, but the students had
holes cut at the left side of their white coats--for their swords.
But they did not bring their swords along, no doubt because of their
pride--they were all very proud. And the ladies rushed over to Yura and
began to kiss him. Then the most beautiful of the ladies, whose name was
Ninochka, took Yura to the swing and swung him until she threw him down.
He hurt his left leg near the knee very painfully and even stained
his little white pants in that spot, but of course he did not cry, and
somehow his pain had quickly disappeared somewhere. At this time father
was leading an important-looking bald-headed old man in the garden, and
he asked Yurochka,

“Did you get hurt?”

But as the old man also smiled and also spoke, Yurochka did not kiss
father and did not even answer him; but suddenly he seemed to have lost
his mind--he commenced to squeal for joy and to run around. If he had a
bell as large as the whole city he would have rung that bell; but as
he had no such bell he climbed the linden tree, which stood near the
terrace, and began to show off. The guests below were laughing and mamma
was shouting, and suddenly the music began to play, and Yura soon stood
in front of the orchestra, spreading his legs apart and, according to
his old but long forgotten habit, put his finger into his mouth. The
sounds seemed to strike at him all at once; they roared and thundered;
they made his legs tingle, and they shook his jaw. They played so loudly
that there was nothing but the orchestra on the whole earth--everything
else had vanished. The brass ends of some of the trumpets even spread
apart and opened wide from the great roaring; Yura thought that it would
be interesting to make a military helmet out of such a trumpet.

Suddenly Yura grew sad. The music was still roaring, but now it was
somewhere far away, while within him all became quiet, and it was
growing ever more and more quiet. Heaving a deep sigh, Yura looked at
the sky--it was so high--and with slow footsteps he started out to make
the rounds of the holiday, of all its confused boundaries, possibilities
and distances. And everywhere he turned out to be too late; he wanted
to see how the tables for card playing would be arranged, but the tables
were ready and people had been playing cards for a long time when he
came up. He touched the chalk and the brush near his father and his
father immediately chased him away. What of that, what difference did
that make to him? He wanted to see how they would start to dance and
he was sure that they would dance in the parlour, but they had already
commenced to dance, not in the parlour, but under the linden trees. He
wanted to see how they would light the lanterns, but the lanterns had
all been lit already, every one of them, to the very last of the last.
They lit up of themselves like stars.

Mamma danced best of all.



CHAPTER III


Night arrived in the form of red, green and yellow lanterns. While there
were no lanterns, there was no night. And now it lay everywhere. It
crawled into the bushes; it covered the entire garden with darkness, as
with water, and it covered the sky. Everything looked as beautiful as
the very best fairy tale with coloured pictures. At one place the house
had disappeared entirely; only the square window made of red light
remained. And the chimney of the house was visible and there a certain
spark glistened, looked down and seemed to think of its own affairs.
What affairs do chimneys have? Various affairs.

Of the people in the garden only their voices remained. As long as some
one walked near the lanterns he could be seen; but as soon as he walked
away all seemed to melt, melt, melt, and the voice above the ground
laughed, talked, floating fearlessly in the darkness. But the officers
and the students could be seen even in the dark--a white spot, and above
it a small light of a cigarette and a big voice.

And now the most joyous thing commenced for Yura--the fairy tale. The
people and the festival and the lanterns remained on earth, while he
soared away, transformed into air, melting in the night like a grain of
dust. The great mystery of the night became his mystery, and his little
heart yearned for still more mystery; in its solitude his heart yearned
for the fusion of life and death. That was Yura’s second madness that
evening--he became invisible. Although he could enter the kitchen as
others did, he climbed with difficulty upon the roof of the cellar over
which the kitchen window was flooded with light and he looked in; there
people were roasting something, busying themselves, and did not know
that he was looking at them--and yet he saw everything! Then he went
away and looked at papa’s and mamma’s bedroom; the room was empty; but
the beds had already been made for the night and a little image lamp was
burning--he saw that. Then he looked into his own room; his own bed was
also ready, waiting for him. He passed the room where they were playing
cards, also as an invisible being, holding his breath and stepping so
lightly, as though he were soaring in the air. Only when he reached the
garden, in the dark, he drew a proper breath. Then he resumed his quest.
He came over to people who were talking so near him that he could touch
them with his hand, and yet they did not know that he was there, and
they continued to speak undisturbed. He watched Ninochka for a long
time until he learned all her life--he was almost trapped. Ninochka even
exclaimed:

“Yurochka, is that you?”

He lay down behind a bush and held his breath. Thus Ninochka was
deceived. And she had almost caught him! To make things more mysterious,
he started to crawl instead of walk--now the alleys seemed full of
danger. Thus a long time went by--according to his own calculations
at the time, ten years went by, and he was still hiding and going ever
farther away from the people. And thus he went so far that he was seized
with dread--between him and the past, when he was walking like everybody
else, an abyss was formed over which it seemed to him impossible to
cross. Now he would have come out into the light but he was afraid--it
was impossible; all was lost. And the music was still playing, and
everybody had forgotten him, even mamma. He was alone. There was a
breath of cold from the dewy grass; the gooseberry bush scratched him,
the darkness could not be pierced with his eyes, and there was no end to
it. O Lord!

Without any definite plan, in a state of utter despair, Yura now crawled
toward a mysterious, faintly blinking light. Fortunately it turned out
to be the same arbour which was covered with wild grapes and in which
father and mother had sat that day. He did not recognise it at first!
Yes, it was the same arbour. The lights of the lanterns everywhere had
gone out, and only two were still burning; a yellow little lantern was
still burning brightly, and the other, a yellow one, too, was already
beginning to blink. And though there was no wind, that lantern quivered
from its own blinking, and everything seemed to quiver slightly. Yura
was about to get up to go into the arbour and there begin life anew,
with an imperceptible transition from the old, when suddenly he heard
voices in the arbour. His mother and the wrong Yura Mikhailovich, the
officer, were talking. The right Yura grew petrified in his place; his
heart stood still; and his breathing ceased.

Mamma said:

“Stop. You have lost your mind! Somebody may come in here.”

Yura Mikhailovich said:

“And you?”

Mamma said:

“I am twenty-six years old to-day. I am old!”

Yura Mikhailovich said:

“He does not know anything. Is it possible that he does not know
anything? He does not even suspect? Listen, does he shake everybody’s
hand so firmly?”

Mamma said:

“What a question! Of course he does! That is--no, not everybody.”

Yura Mikhailovich said:

“I feel sorry for him.”

Mamma said:

“For him?”

And she laughed strangely. Yurochka understood that they were talking
of him, of Yurochka--but what did it all mean, O Lord? And why did she
laugh?

Yura Mikhailovich said:

“Where are you going? I will not let you go.”

Mamma said:

“You offend me. Let me go! No, you have no right to kiss me. Let me go!”

They became silent. Now Yurochka looked through the leaves and saw that
the officer embraced and kissed mamma. Then they spoke of something, but
he understood nothing; he heard nothing; he suddenly forgot the meaning
of words. And he even forgot the words which he knew and used before.
He remembered but one word, “Mamma,” and he whispered it uninterruptedly
with his dry lips, but that word sounded so terrible, more terrible than
anything. And in order not to exclaim it against his will, Yura covered
his mouth with both hands, one upon the other, and thus remained until
the officer and mamma went out of the arbour.

When Yura came into the room where the people were playing cards, the
serious, bald-headed man was scolding papa for something, brandishing
the chalk, talking, shouting, saying that father did not act as he
should have acted, that what he had done was impossible, that only bad
people did such things, that the old man would never again play with
father, and so on. And father was smiling, waving his hands, attempting
to say something, but the old man would not let him, and he commenced to
shout more loudly. And the old man was a little fellow, while father
was big, handsome and tall, and his smile was sad, like that of Gulliver
pining for his native land of tall and handsome people.

Of course, he must conceal from him--of course, he must conceal from
him that which happened in the arbour, and he must love him, and he felt
that he loved him so much. And with a wild cry Yura rushed over to the
bald-headed old man and began to beat him with his fists with all his
strength.

“Don’t you dare insult him! Don’t you dare insult him!”

O Lord, what has happened! Some one laughed; some one shouted. Father
caught Yura in his arms, pressed him closely, causing him pain, and
cried:

“Where is mother? Call mother.”

Then Yura was seized with a whirlwind of frantic tears, of desperate
sobs and mortal anguish. But through his frantic tears he looked at
his father to see whether he had guessed it, and when mother came in he
started to shout louder in order to divert any suspicion. But he did not
go to her arms; he clung more closely to father, so that father had to
carry him into his room. But it seemed that he himself did not want
to part with Yura. As soon as he carried him out of the room where the
guests were he began to kiss him, and he repeated:

“Oh, my dearest! Oh, my dearest!”

And he said to mamma, who walked behind him:

“Just think of the boy!”

Mamma said:

“That is all due to your whist. You were scolding each other so, that
the child was frightened.”

Father began to laugh, and answered:

“Yes, he does scold harshly. But Yura, oh, what a dear boy!”

In his room Yura demanded that father himself undress him. “Now, you
are getting cranky,” said father. “I don’t know how to do it; let mamma
undress you.”

“But you stay here.”

Mamma had deft fingers and she undressed him quickly, and while she was
removing his clothes Yura held father by the hand. He ordered the nurse
out of the room; but as father was beginning to grow angry, and he might
guess what had happened in the arbour, decided to let him go. But while
kissing him he said cunningly:

“He will not scold you any more, will he?”

Papa smiled. Then he laughed, kissed Yura once more and said:

“No, no. And if he does I will throw him across the fence.”

“Please, do,” said Yura. “You can do it. You are so strong.”

“Yes, I am pretty strong. But you had better sleep! Mamma will stay here
with you a while.”

Mamma said:

“I will send the nurse in. I must attend to the supper.”

Father shouted:

“There is plenty of time for that! You can stay a while with the child.”

But mamma insisted:

“We have guests! We can’t leave them that way.”

But father looked at her steadfastly, and shrugged his shoulders. Mamma
decided to stay.

“Very well, then, I’ll stay here. But see that Maria does not mix up the
wines.”

Usually it was thus: when mamma sat near Yura as he was falling asleep
she held his hand until the last moment--that is what she usually did.
But now she sat as though she were all alone, as though Yura, her son,
who was falling asleep, was not there at all--she folded her hands in
her lap and looked into the distance. To attract her attention Yura
stirred, but mamma said briefly:

“Sleep.”

And she continued to look. But when Yura’s eyes had grown heavy and he
was falling asleep with all his sorrow and his tears, mamma suddenly
went down on her knees before the little bed and kissed Yura firmly
many, many times. But her kisses were wet--hot and wet.

“Why are your kisses wet? Are you crying?” muttered Yura.

“Yes, I am crying.”

“You must not cry.”

“Very well, I won’t,” answered mother submissively.

And again she kissed him firmly, firmly, frequently, frequently. Yura
lifted both hands with a heavy movement, clasped his mother around the
neck and pressed his burning cheek firmly to her wet and cold cheek.
She was his mother, after all; there was nothing to be done. But how
painful; how bitterly painful!





A STORY WHICH WILL NEVER BE FINISHED


Exhausted with the painful uncertainty of the day, I fell asleep,
dressed, on my bed. Suddenly my wife aroused me. In her hand a candle
was flickering, which appeared to me in the middle of the night as
bright as the sun. And behind the candle her chin, too, was trembling,
and enormous, unfamiliar dark eyes stared motionlessly.

“Do you know,” she said, “do you know they are building barricades on
our street?”

It was quiet. We looked straight into each other’s eyes, and I felt my
face turning pale. Life vanished somewhere and then returned again with
a loud throbbing of the heart. It was quiet and the flame of the candle
was quivering, and it was small, dull, but sharp-pointed, like a crooked
sword.

“Are you afraid?” I asked.

The pale chin trembled, but her eyes remained motionless and looked
at me, without blinking, and only now I noticed what unfamiliar, what
terrible eyes they were. For ten years I had looked into them and had
known them better than my own eyes, and now there was something new in
them which I am unable to define. I would have called it pride, but there
was something different in them, something new, entirely new. I took her
hand; it was cold. She grasped my hand firmly and there was something
new, something I had not known before, in her handclasp.

She had never before clasped my hand as she did this time.

“How long?” I asked.

“About an hour already. Your brother has gone away. He was apparently
afraid that you would not let him go, so he went away quietly. But I saw
it.”

It was true then; the time had arrived. I rose, and, for some reason,
spent a long time washing myself, as was my wont in the morning before
going to work, and my wife held the light. Then we put out the light and
walked over to the window overlooking the street. It was spring; it was
May, and the air that came in from the open window was such as we
had never before felt in that old, large city. For several days the
factories and the roads had been idle; and the air, free from smoke,
was filled with the fragrance of the fields and the flowering gardens,
perhaps with that of the dew. I do not know what it is that smells so
wonderfully on spring nights when I go out far beyond the outskirts of
the city. Not a lantern, not a carriage, not a single sound of the city
over the unconcerned stony surface; if you had closed your eyes you
would really have thought that you were in a village. There a dog was
barking. I had never before heard a dog barking in the city, and I
laughed for happiness.

“Listen, a dog is barking.”

My wife embraced me, and said:

“It is there, on the corner.”

We bent over the window-sill, and there, in the transparent, dark depth,
we saw some movement--not people, but movement. Something was moving
about like a shadow. Suddenly the blows of a hatchet or a hammer
resounded. They sounded so cheerful, so resonant, as in a forest, as
on a river when you are mending a boat or building a dam. And in the
presentiment of cheerful, harmonious work, I firmly embraced my wife,
while she looked above the houses, above the roofs, looked at the young
crescent of the moon, which was already setting. The moon was so young,
so strange, even as a young girl who is dreaming and is afraid to tell
her dreams; and it was shining only for itself.

“When will we have a full moon?...”

“You must not! You must not!” my wife interrupted. “You must not speak
of that which will be. What for? IT is afraid of words. Come here.”

It was dark in the room, and we were silent for a long time, without
seeing each other, yet thinking of the same thing. And when I started
to speak, it seemed to me that some one else was speaking; I was not
afraid, yet the voice of the other one was hoarse, as though suffocating
for thirst.

“What shall it be?”

“And--they?”

“You will be with them. It will be enough for them to have a mother. I
cannot remain.”

“And I? Can I?”

I know that she did not stir from her place, but I felt distinctly that
she was going away, that she was far--far away. I began to feel so cold,
I stretched out my hands--but she pushed them aside.

“People have such a holiday once in a hundred years, and you want to
deprive me of it. Why?” she said.

“But they may kill you there. And our children will perish.”

“Life will be merciful to me. But even if they should perish--”

And this was said by her, my wife--a woman with whom I had lived for ten
years. But yesterday she had known nothing except our children, and had
been filled with fear for them; but yesterday she had caught with terror
the stern symptoms of the future. What had come over her? Yesterday--but
I, too, forgot everything that was yesterday.

“Do you want to go with me?”

“Do not be angry”--she thought that I was afraid, angry--“Don’t be
angry. To-night, when they began to knock here, and you were still
sleeping, I suddenly understood that my husband, my children--all these
were simply temporary... I love you, very much”--she found my hand and
shook it with the same new, unfamiliar grasp--“but do you hear how
they are knocking there? They are knocking, and something seems to be
falling, some kind of walls seem to be falling--and it is so spacious,
so wide, so free. It is night now, and yet it seems to me that the sun
is shining. I am thirty years of age, and I am old already, and yet it
seems to me that I am only seventeen, and that I love some one with my
first love--a great, boundless love.”

“What a night!” I said. “It is as if the city were no more. You are
right, I have also forgotten how old I am.”

“They are knocking, and it sounds to me like music, like singing of
which I have always dreamed--all my life. And I did not know whom it was
that I loved with such a boundless love, which made me feel like crying
and laughing and singing. There is freedom--do not take my happiness
away, let me die with those who are working there, who are calling the
future so bravely, and who are rousing the dead past from its grave.”

“There is no such thing as time.”

“What do you say?”

“There is no such thing as time. Who are you? I did not know you. Are
you a human being?”

She burst into such ringing laughter as though she were really only
seventeen years old.

“I did not know you, either. Are you, too, a human being? How strange
and how beautiful it is--a human being!”

That which I am writing happened long ago, and those who are sleeping
now in the sleep of grey life and who die without awakening--those will
not believe me: in those days there was no such thing as time. The sun
was rising and setting, and the hand was moving around the dial--but
time did not exist. And many other great and wonderful things happened
in those days.... And those who are sleeping now the sleep of this grey
life and who die without awakening, will not believe me.

“I must go,” said I.

“Wait, I will give you something to eat. You haven’t eaten anything
to-day. See how sensible I am: I shall go to-morrow. I shall give the
children away and find you.”

“Comrade,” said I.

“Yes, comrade.”

Through the open windows came the breath of the fields, and silence,
and from time to time, the cheerful strokes of the axe, and I sat by the
table and looked and listened, and everything was so mysteriously new
that I felt like laughing. I looked at the walls and they seemed to me
to be transparent. As if embracing all eternity with one glance, I saw
how all these walls had been built, I saw how they were being destroyed,
and I alone always was and always will be. Everything will pass, but
I shall remain. And everything seemed to me strange and queer--so
unnatural--the table and the food upon it, and everything outside of me.
It all seemed to me transparent and light, existing only temporarily.

“Why don’t you eat?” asked my wife.

I smiled:

“Bread--it is so strange.”

She glanced at the bread, at the stale, dry crust of bread, and for some
reason her face became sad. Still continuing to look at it, she silently
adjusted her apron with her hands and her head turned slightly, very
slightly, in the direction where the children were sleeping.

“Do you feel sorry for them?” I asked.

She shook her head without removing her eyes from the bread.

“No, but I was thinking of what happened in our life before.”

How incomprehensible! As one who awakens from a long sleep, she surveyed
the room with her eyes and all seemed to her so incomprehensible. Was
this the place where we had lived?

“You were my wife.”

“And there are our children.”

“Here, beyond the wall, your father died.”

“Yes. He died. He died without awakening.”

The smallest child, frightened at something in her sleep, began to cry.
And this simple childish cry, apparently demanding something, sounded
so strange amid these phantom walls, while there, below, people were
building barricades.

She cried and demanded--caresses, certain queer words and promises to
soothe her. And she soon was soothed.

“Well, go!” said my wife in a whisper.

“I should like to kiss them.”

“I am afraid you will wake them up.”

“No, I will not.”

It turned out that the oldest child was awake--he had heard and
understood everything. He was but nine years old, but he understood
everything--he met me with a deep, stern look.

“Will you take your gun?” he asked thoughtfully and earnestly.

“I will.”

“It is behind the stove.”

“How do you know? Well, kiss me. Will you remember me?”

He jumped up in his bed, in his short little shirt, hot from sleep, and
firmly clasped my neck. His arms were burning--they were so soft and
delicate. I lifted his hair on the back of his head and kissed his
little neck.

“Will they kill you?” he whispered right into my ear.

“No, I will come back.”

But why did he not cry? He had cried sometimes when I had simply left
the house for a while: Is it possible that IT had reached him, too? Who
knows? So many strange things happened during the great days.

I looked at the walls, at the bread, at the candle, at the flame which
had kept flickering, and took my wife by the hand.

“Well--‘till we meet again!”

“Yes--‘till we meet again!”

That was all. I went out. It was dark on the stairway and there was
the odour of old filth. Surrounded on all sides by the stones and the
darkness, groping down the stairs, I was seized with a tremendous,
powerful and all-absorbing feeling of the new, unknown and joyous
something to which I was going.





ON THE DAY OF THE CRUCIFIXION


On that terrible day, when the universal injustice was committed and
Jesus Christ was crucified in Golgotha among robbers--on that day, from
early morning, Ben-Tovit, a tradesman of Jerusalem, suffered from an
unendurable toothache. His toothache had commenced on the day before,
toward evening; at first his right jaw started to pain him, and one
tooth, the one right next the wisdom tooth, seemed to have risen
somewhat, and when his tongue touched the tooth, he felt a slightly
painful sensation. After supper, however, his toothache had passed, and
Ben-Tovit had forgotten all about it--he had made a profitable deal on
that day, had bartered an old donkey for a young, strong one, so he was
very cheerful and paid no heed to any ominous signs.

And he slept very soundly. But just before daybreak something began to
disturb him, as if some one were calling him on a very important matter,
and when Ben-Tovit awoke angrily, his teeth were aching, aching openly
and maliciously, causing him an acute, drilling pain. And he could no
longer understand whether it was only the same tooth that had ached on
the previous day, or whether others had joined that tooth; Ben-Tovit’s
entire mouth and his head were filled with terrible sensations of pain,
as though he had been forced to chew thousands of sharp, red-hot nails,
he took some water into his mouth from an earthen jug--for a minute the
acuteness of the pain subsided, his teeth twitched and swayed like a
wave, and this sensation was even pleasant as compared with the other.

Ben-Tovit lay down again, recalled his new donkey, and thought how
happy he would have been if not for his toothache, and he wanted to fall
asleep. But the water was warm, and five minutes later his toothache
began to rage more severely than ever; Ben-Tovit sat up in his bed and
swayed back and forth like a pendulum. His face became wrinkled and
seemed to have shrunk, and a drop of cold perspiration was hanging on
his nose, which had turned pale from his sufferings. Thus, swaying back
and forth and groaning for pain, he met the first rays of the sun, which
was destined to see Golgotha and the three crosses, and grow dim from
horror and sorrow.

Ben-Tovit was a good and kind man, who hated any injustice, but when his
wife awoke he said many unpleasant things to her, opening his mouth with
difficulty, and he complained that he was left alone, like a jackal,
to groan and writhe for pain. His wife met the undeserved reproaches
patiently, for she knew that they came not from an angry heart--and she
brought him numerous good remedies: rats’ litter to be applied to his
cheek, some strong liquid in which a scorpion was preserved, and a real
chip of the tablets that Moses had broken. He began to feel a little
better from the rats’ litter, but not for long, also from the liquid and
the stone, but the pain returned each time with renewed intensity.

During the moments of rest Ben-Tovit consoled himself with the thought
of the little donkey, and he dreamed of him, and when he felt worse he
moaned, scolded his wife, and threatened to dash his head against a rock
if the pain should not subside. He kept pacing back and forth on the
flat roof of his house from one corner to the other, feeling ashamed to
come close to the side facing the street, for his head was tied around
with a kerchief like that of a woman. Several times children came
running to him and told him hastily about Jesus of Nazareth. Ben-Tovit
paused, listened to them for a while, his face wrinkled, but then he
stamped his foot angrily and chased them away. He was a kind man and
he loved children, but now he was angry at them for bothering him with
trifles.

It was disagreeable to him that a large crowd had gathered in the street
and on the neighbouring roofs, doing nothing and looking curiously at
Ben-Tovit, who had his head tied around with a kerchief like a woman. He
was about to go down, when his wife said to him:

“Look, they are leading robbers there. Perhaps that will divert you.”

“Let me alone. Don’t you see how I am suffering?” Ben-Tovit answered
angrily.

But there was a vague promise in his wife’s words that there might be a
relief for his toothache, so he walked over to the parapet unwillingly.
Bending his head on one side, closing one eye, and supporting his cheek
with his hand, his face assumed a squeamish, weeping expression, and he
looked down to the street.

On the narrow street, going uphill, an enormous crowd was moving forward
in disorder, covered with dust and shouting uninterruptedly. In the
middle of the crowd walked the criminals, bending down under the weight
of their crosses, and over them the scourges of the Roman soldiers were
wriggling about like black snakes. One of the men, he of the long light
hair, in a torn blood-stained cloak, stumbled over a stone which was
thrown under his feet, and he fell. The shouting grew louder, and the
crowd, like coloured sea water, closed in about the man on the ground.
Ben-Tovit suddenly shuddered for pain; he felt as though some one had
pierced a red-hot needle into his tooth and turned it there; he groaned
and walked away from the parapet, angry and squeamishly indifferent.

“How they are shouting!” he said enviously, picturing to himself their
wide-open mouths with strong, healthy teeth, and how he himself would
have shouted if he had been well. This intensified his toothache, and he
shook his muffled head frequently, and roared: “Moo-Moo....”

“They say that He restored sight to the blind,” said his wife,
who remained standing at the parapet, and she threw down a little
cobblestone near the place where Jesus, lifted by the whips, was moving
slowly.

“Of course, of course! He should have cured my toothache,” replied
Ben-Tovit ironically, and he added bitterly with irritation: “What dust
they have kicked up! Like a herd of cattle! They should all be driven
away with a stick! Take me down, Sarah!”

The wife proved to be right. The spectacle had diverted Ben-Tovit
slightly--perhaps it was the rats’ litter that had helped after all--he
succeeded in falling asleep. When he awoke, his toothache had passed
almost entirely, and only a little inflammation had formed over his
right jaw. His wife told him that it was not noticeable at all, but
Ben-Tovit smiled cunningly--he knew how kind-hearted his wife was and
how fond she was of telling him pleasant things.

Samuel, the tanner, a neighbour of Ben-Tovit’s, came in, and Ben-Tovit
led him to see the new little donkey and listened proudly to the warm
praises for himself and his animal.

Then, at the request of the curious Sarah, the three went to Golgotha to
see the people who had been crucified. On the way Ben-Tovit told Samuel
in detail how he had felt a pain in his right jaw on the day before,
and how he awoke at night with a terrible toothache. To illustrate it
he made a martyr’s face, closing his eyes, shook his head, and groaned
while the grey-bearded Samuel nodded his head compassionately and said:

“Oh, how painful it must have been!”

Ben-Tovit was pleased with Samuel’s attitude, and he repeated the story
to him, then went back to the past, when his first tooth was spoiled
on the left side. Thus, absorbed in a lively conversation, they reached
Golgotha. The sun, which was destined to shine upon the world on that
terrible day, had already set beyond the distant hills, and in the
west a narrow, purple-red strip was burning, like a stain of blood. The
crosses stood out darkly but vaguely against this background, and at the
foot of the middle cross white kneeling figures were seen indistinctly.

The crowd had long dispersed; it was growing chilly, and after a glance
at the crucified men, Ben-Tovit took Samuel by the arm and carefully
turned him in the direction toward his house. He felt that he was
particularly eloquent just then, and he was eager to finish the story
of his toothache. Thus they walked, and Ben-Tovit made a martyr’s
face, shook his head and groaned skilfully, while Samuel nodded
compassionately and uttered exclamations from time to time, and from the
deep, narrow defiles, out of the distant, burning plains, rose the black
night. It seemed as though it wished to hide from the view of heaven the
great crime of the earth.





THE SERPENT’S STORY


Hush! Hush! Hush! Come closer to me. Look into my eyes!

I always was a fascinating creature, tender, sensitive, and grateful.
I was wise and I was noble. And I am so flexible in the writhing of my
graceful body that it will afford you joy to watch my easy dance. Now
I shall coil up into a ring, flash my scales dimly, wind myself around
tenderly and clasp my steel body in my gentle, cold embraces. One in
many! One in many!

Hush! Hush! Look into my eyes!

You do not like my writhing and my straight, open look? Oh, my head
is heavy--therefore I sway about so quietly. Oh, my head is
heavy--therefore I look so straight ahead, as I sway about. Come closer
to me. Give me a little warmth; stroke my wise forehead with your
fingers; in its fine outlines you will find the form of a cup into which
flows wisdom, the dew of the evening-flowers. When I draw the air by my
writhing, a trace is left in it--the design of the finest of webs,
the web of dream-charms, the enchantment of noiseless movements, the
inaudible hiss of gliding lines. I am silent and I sway myself. I look
ahead and I sway myself. What strange burden am I carrying on my neck?

I love you.

I always was a fascinating creature, and loved tenderly those I loved.
Come closer to me. Do you see my white, sharp, enchanting little teeth?
Kissing, I used to bite. Not painfully, no--just a trifle. Caressing
tenderly, I used to bite a little, until the first bright little drops
appeared, until a cry came forth which sounded like the laugh produced
by tickling. That was very pleasant--think not it was unpleasant;
otherwise they whom I kissed would not come back for more kisses. It
is now that I can kiss only once--how sad--only once! One kiss for
each--how little for a loving heart, for a sensitive soul, striving for
a great union! But it is only I, the sad one, who kiss but once, and
must seek love again--he knows no other love any more: to him my one,
tender, nuptial kiss is inviolable and eternal. I am speaking to you
frankly; and when my story is ended--I will kiss you.

I love you.

Look into my eyes. Is it not true that mine is a magnificent, a powerful
look? A firm look and a straight look? And it is steadfast, like steel
forced against your heart. I look ahead and sway myself, I look and I
enchant; in my green eyes I gather your fear, your loving, fatigued,
submissive longing. Come closer to me. Now I am a queen and you dare not
fail to see my beauty; but there was a strange time--Ah, what a
strange time! Ah, what a strange time! At the mere recollection I am
agitated--Ah, what a strange time! No one loved me. No one respected
me. I was persecuted with cruel ferocity, trampled in the mud and
jeered--Ah, what a strange time it was! One in many! One in many!

I say to you: Come closer to me.

Why did they not love me? At that time I was also a fascinating
creature, but without malice; I was gentle and I danced wonderfully.
But they tortured me. They burnt me with fire. Heavy and coarse beasts
trampled upon me with the dull steps of terribly heavy feet; cold tusks
of bloody mouths tore my tender body--and in my powerless sorrow I bit
the sand, I swallowed the dust of the ground--I was dying of despair.
Crushed, I was dying every day. Every day I was dying of despair.
Oh, what a terrible time that was! The stupid forest has forgotten
everything--it does not remember that time, but you have pity on me.
Come closer to me. Have pity on me, on the offended, on the sad one, on
the loving one, on the one who dances so beautifully.

I love you.

How could I defend myself? I had only my white, wonderful, sharp little
teeth--they were good only for kisses. How could I defend myself? It is
only now that I carry on my neck this terrible burden of a head, and my
look is commanding and straight, but then my head was light and my eyes
gazed meekly. Then I had no poison yet. Oh, my head is so heavy and it
is hard for me to hold it up! Oh, I have grown tired of my look--two
stones are in my forehead, and these are my eyes. Perhaps the glittering
stones are precious--but it is hard to carry them instead of gentle
eyes--they oppress my brain. It is so hard for my head! I look ahead and
sway myself; I see you in a green mist--you are so far away. Come closer
to me.

You see, even in sorrow I am beautiful, and my look is languid because
of my love. Look into my pupil; I will narrow and widen it, and give it
a peculiar glitter--the twinkling of a star at night, the playfulness of
all precious stones--of diamonds, of green emeralds, of yellowish
topaz, of blood-red rubies. Look into my eyes: It is I, the queen--I am
crowning myself, and that which is glittering, burning and glowing--that
robs you of your reason, your freedom and your life--it is poison. It is
a drop of my poison.

How has it happened? I do not know. I did not bear ill-will to the
living.

I lived and suffered. I was silent. I languished. I hid myself hurriedly
when I could hide myself; I crawled away hastily. But they have never
seen me weep--I cannot weep; and my easy dance grew ever faster and ever
more beautiful. Alone in the stillness, alone in the thicket, I danced
with sorrow in my heart--they despised my swift dance and would have
been glad to kill me as I danced. Suddenly my head began to grow
heavy--How strange it is!--My head grew heavy. Just as small and
beautiful, just as wise and beautiful, it had suddenly grown terribly
heavy; it bent my neck to the ground, and caused me pain. Now I am
somewhat used to it, but at first it was dreadfully awkward and painful.
I thought I was sick.

And suddenly... Come closer to me. Look into my eyes. Hush! Hush! Hush!

And suddenly my look became heavy--it became fixed and strange--I was
even frightened! I want to glance and turn away--but cannot. I always
look straight ahead, I pierce with my eyes ever more deeply, I am as
though petrified. Look into my eyes. It is as though I am petrified, as
though everything I look upon is petrified. Look into my eyes.

I love you. Do not laugh at my frank story, or I shall be angry. Every
hour I open my sensitive heart, for all my efforts are in vain--I am
alone. My one and last kiss is full of ringing sorrow--and the one I
love is not here, and I seek love again, and I tell my tale in vain--my
heart cannot bare itself, and the poison torments me and my head grows
heavier. Am I not beautiful in my despair? Come closer to me.

I love you.

Once I was bathing in a stagnant swamp in the forest--I love to be
clean--it is a sign of noble birth, and I bathe frequently. While
bathing, dancing in the water, I saw my reflection, and as always, fell
in love with myself. I am so fond of the beautiful and the wise! And
suddenly I saw--on my forehead, among my other inborn adornments, a new,
strange sign--Was it not this sign that has brought the heaviness, the
petrified look, and the sweet taste in my mouth? Here a cross is darkly
outlined on my forehead--right here--look. Come closer to me. Is this
not strange? But I did not understand it at that time, and I liked
it. Let there be no more adornment. And on the same day, on that same
terrible day, when the cross appeared, my first kiss became also my
last--my kiss became fatal. One in many! One in many!

Oh!

You love precious stones, but think, my beloved, how far more precious
is a little drop of my poison. It is such a little drop.--Have you ever
seen it? Never, never. But you shall find it out. Consider, my beloved,
how much suffering, painful humiliation, powerless rage devoured me:
I had to experience in order to bring forth this little drop. I am a
queen! I am a queen! In one drop, brought forth by myself, I carry
death unto the living, and my kingdom is limitless, even as grief
is limitless, even as death is limitless. I am queen! My look is
inexorable. My dance is terrible! I am beautiful! One in many! One in
many!

Oh!

Do not fall. My story is not yet ended. Come closer to me.

And then I crawled into the stupid forest, into my green dominion.

Now it is a new way, a terrible way! I was kind like a queen; and like
a queen I bowed graciously to the right and to the left. And they--they
ran away! Like a queen I bowed benevolently to the right and to the
left--and they, queer people--they ran away. What do you think? Why did
they run away? What do you think? Look into my eyes. Do you see in them
a certain glimmer and a flash? The rays of my crown blind your eyes, you
are petrified, you are lost. I shall soon dance my last dance---do not
fall. I shall coil into rings, I shall flash my scales dimly, and I
shall clasp my steel body in my gentle, cold embraces. Here I am!
Accept my only kiss, my nuptial kiss--in it is the deadly grief of all
oppressed lives. One in many! One in many!

Bend down to me. I love you.

Die!





LOVE, FAITH AND HOPE


He loved.

According to his passport, he was called Max Z. But as it was stated
in the same passport that he had no special peculiarities about his
features, I prefer to call him Mr. N+1. He represented a long line of
young men who possess wavy, dishevelled locks, straight, bold, and
open looks, well-formed and strong bodies, and very large and powerful
hearts.

All these youths have loved and perpetuated their love. Some of them
have succeeded in engraving it on the tablets of history, like Henry
IV; others, like Petrarch, have made literary preserves of it; some
have availed themselves for that purpose of the newspapers, wherein the
happenings of the day are recorded, and where they figured among those
who had strangled themselves, shot themselves, or who had been shot by
others; still others, the happiest and most modest of all, perpetuated
their love by entering it in the birth records--by creating posterity.

The love of N+1 was as strong as death, as a certain writer put it; as
strong as life, he thought.

Max was firmly convinced that he was the first to have discovered the
method of loving so intensely, so unrestrainedly, so passionately, and
he regarded with contempt all who had loved before him. Still more, he
was convinced that even after him no one would love as he did, and he
felt sorry that with his death the secret of true love would be lost
to mankind. But, being a modest young man, he attributed part of his
achievement to her--to his beloved. Not that she was perfection itself,
but she came very close to it, as close as an ideal can come to reality.

There were prettier women than she, there were wiser women, but was
there ever a better woman? Did there ever exist a woman on whose face
was so clearly and distinctly written that she alone was worthy of
love--of infinite, pure, and devoted love? Max knew that there never
were, and that there never would be such women. In this respect, he had
no special peculiarities, just as Adam did not have them, just as you,
my reader, do not have them. Beginning with Grandmother Eve and ending
with the woman upon whom your eyes were directed--before you read these
lines--the same inscription is to be clearly and distinctly read on the
face of every woman at a certain time. The difference is only in the
quality of the ink.

A very nasty day set in--it was Monday or Tuesday--when Max noticed with
a feeling of great terror that the inscription upon the dear face was
fading. Max rubbed his eyes, looked first from a distance, then from all
sides; but the fact was undeniable--the inscription was fading. Soon
the last letter also disappeared--the face was white like the recently
whitewashed wall of a new house. But he was convinced that the
inscription had disappeared not of itself, but that some one had wiped
it off. Who?

Max went to his friend, John N. He knew and he felt sure that such a
true, disinterested, and honest friend there never was and never
would be. And in this respect, too, as you see, Max had no special
peculiarities. He went to his friend for the purpose of taking his
advice concerning the mysterious disappearance of the inscription,
and found John N. exactly at the moment when he was wiping away that
inscription by his kisses. It was then that the records of the local
occurrences were enriched by another unfortunate incident, entitled “An
Attempt at Suicide.”

              . . . . . . . .

It is said that death always comes in due time. Evidently, that time had
not yet arrived for Max, for he remained alive--that is, he ate, drank,
walked, borrowed money and did not return it, and altogether he showed
by a series of psycho-physiological acts that he was a living being,
possessing a stomach, a will, and a mind--but his soul was dead, or, to
be more exact, it was absorbed in lethargic sleep. The sound of human
speech reached his ears, his eyes saw tears and laughter, but all that
did not stir a single echo, a single emotion in his soul. I do not know
what space of time had elapsed. It may have been one year, and it
may have been ten years, for the length of such intermissions in life
depends on how quickly the actor succeeds in changing his costume.

One beautiful day--it was Wednesday or Thursday--Max awakened
completely. A careful and guarded liquidation of his spiritual property
made it clear that a fair piece of Max’s soul, the part which
contained his love for woman and for his friends, was dead, like a
paralysis-stricken hand or foot. But what remained was, nevertheless,
enough for life. That was love for and faith in mankind. Then Max,
having renounced personal happiness, started to work for the happiness
of others.

That was a new phase--he believed.

All the evil that is tormenting the world seemed to him to be
concentrated in a “red flower,” in one red flower. It was but necessary
to tear it down, and the incessant, heart-rending cries and moans which
rise to the indifferent sky from all points of the earth, like its
natural breathing, would be silenced. The evil of the world, he
believed, lay in the evil will and in the madness of the people. They
themselves were to blame for being unhappy, and they could be happy if
they wished. This seemed so clear and simple that Max was dumfounded
in his amazement at human stupidity. Humanity reminded him of a crowd
huddled together in a spacious temple and panic-stricken at the cry of
“Fire!”

Instead of passing calmly through the wide doors and saving themselves,
the maddened people, with the cruelty of frenzied beasts, cry and
roar, crush one another and perish--not from the fire (for it is only
imaginary), but from their own madness. It is enough sometimes when one
sensible, firm word is uttered to this crowd--the crowd calms down and
imminent death is thus averted. Let, then, a hundred calm, rational
voices be raised to mankind, showing them where to escape and where
the danger lies--and heaven will be established on earth, if not
immediately, then at least within a very brief time.

Max began to utter his word of wisdom. How he uttered it you will learn
later. The name of Max was mentioned in the newspapers, shouted in the
market places, blessed and cursed; whole books were written on what Max
N+1 had done, what he was doing, and what he intended to do. He appeared
here and there and everywhere. He was seen standing at the head of the
crowd, commanding it; he was seen in chains and under the knife of the
guillotine. In this respect Max did not have any special peculiarities,
either. A preacher of humility and peace, a stern bearer of fire and
sword, he was the same Max--Max the believer. But while he was doing all
this, time kept passing on. His nerves were shattered; his wavy locks
became thin and his head began to look like that of Elijah the Prophet;
here and there he felt a piercing pain....

The earth continued to turn light-mindedly around the sun, now coming
nearer to it, now retreating coquettishly, and giving the impression
that it fixed all its attention upon its household friend, the moon;
the days were replaced by other days, and the dark nights by other dark
nights, with such pedantic German punctuality and correctness that all
the artistic natures were compelled to move over to the far north by
degrees, where the devil himself would break his head endeavouring to
distinguish between day and night--when suddenly something happened to
Max.

Somehow it happened that Max became misunderstood. He had calmed the
crowd by his words of wisdom many a time before and had saved them from
mutual destruction but now he was not understood. They thought that it
was he who had shouted “Fire!” With all the eloquence of which he was
capable he assured them that he was exerting all his efforts for their
sake alone; that he himself needed absolutely nothing, for he was alone,
childless; that he was ready to forget the sad misunderstanding and
serve them again with faith and truth--but all in vain. They would
not trust him. And in this respect Max did not have any special
peculiarities, either. The sad incident ended for Max in a new
intermission.

              . . . . . . . .

Max was alive, as was positively established by medical experts, who had
made a series of simple tests. Thus, when they pricked a needle into his
foot, he shook his foot and tried to remove the needle. When they put
food before him, he ate it, but he did not walk and did not ask for any
loans, which clearly testified to the complete decline of his energy.
His soul was dead--as much as the soul can be dead while the body
is alive. To Max all that he had loved and believed in was dead.
Impenetrable gloom wrapped his soul. There were neither feelings in it,
nor desires, nor thoughts. And there was not a more unhappy man in the
world than Max, if he was a man at all.

But he was a man.

According to the calendar, it was Friday or Saturday, when Max awakened
as from a prolonged sleep. With the pleasant sensation of an owner to
whom his property has been restored which had wrongly been taken from
him, Max realised that he was once more in possession of all his five
senses.

His sight reported to him that he was all alone, in a place which might
in justice be called either a room or a chimney. Each wall of the room
was about a metre and a half wide and about ten metres high. The walls
were straight, white, smooth, with no openings, except one through which
food was brought to Max. An electric lamp was burning brightly on the
ceiling. It was burning all the time, so that Max did not know now what
darkness was. There was no furniture in the room, and Max had to lie on
the stone floor. He lay curled together, as the narrowness of the room
did not permit him to stretch himself.

His sense of hearing reported to him that until the day of his death
he would not leave this room.... Having reported this, his hearing sank
into inactivity, for not the slightest sound came from without, except
the sounds which Max himself produced, tossing about, or shouting until
he was hoarse, until he lost his voice.

Max looked into himself. In contrast to the outward light which never
went out he saw within himself impenetrable, heavy, and motionless
darkness. In that darkness his love and faith were buried.

Max did not know whether time was moving or whether it stood motionless.
The same even, white light poured down on him--the same silence and
quiet. Only by the beating of his heart Max could judge that Chronos had
not left his chariot. His body was aching ever more from the unnatural
position in which it lay, and the constant light and silence were
growing ever more tormenting. How happy are they for whom night exists,
near whom people are shouting, making noise, beating drums; who may
sit on a chair, with their feet hanging down, or lie with their feet
outstretched, placing the head in a corner and covering it with the
hands in order to create the illusion of darkness.

Max made an effort to recall and to picture to himself what there is
in life; human faces, voices, the stars.... He knew that his eyes would
never in life see that again. He knew it, and yet he lived. He could
have destroyed himself, for there is no position in which a man can
not do that, but instead Max worried about his health, trying to eat,
although he had no appetite, solving mathematical problems to occupy his
mind so as not to lose his reason. He struggled against death as if it
were not his deliverer, but his enemy; and as if life were to him not
the worst of infernal tortures--but love, faith, and happiness. Gloom
in the Past, the grave in the Future, and infernal tortures in the
Present--and yet he lived. Tell me, John N., where did he get the
strength for that?

He hoped.





THE OCEAN




CHAPTER I


A misty February twilight is descending over the ocean. The newly fallen
snow has melted and the warm air is heavy and damp. The northwestern
wind from the sea is driving it silently toward the mainland, bringing
in its wake a sharply fragrant mixture of brine, of boundless space, of
undisturbed, free and mysterious distances.

In the sky, where the sun is setting, a noiseless destruction of
an unknown city, of an unknown land, is taking place; structures,
magnificent palaces with towers, are crumbling; mountains are silently
splitting asunder and, bending slowly, are tumbling down. But no cry,
no moan, no crash of the fall reaches the earth--the monstrous play
of shadows is noiseless; and the great surface of the ocean, as though
ready for something, as though waiting for something, reflecting it
faintly, listens to it in silence.

Silence reigns also in the fishermen’s settlement. The fishermen have
gone fishing; the children are sleeping and only the restless women,
gathered in front of the houses, are talking softly, lingering before
going to sleep, beyond which there is always the unknown.

The light of the sea and the sky behind the houses, and the houses and
their bark roofs are black and sharp, and there is no perspective: the
houses that are far and those that are near seem to stand side by side
as if attached to one another, the roofs and the walls embracing one
another, pressing close to one another, seized with the same uneasiness
before the eternal unknown.

Right here there is also a little church, its side wall formed crudely
of rough granite, with a deep window which seems to be concealing
itself.

A cautious sound of women’s voices is heard, softened by uneasiness and
by the approaching night.

“We can sleep peacefully to-night. The sea is calm and the rollers are
breaking like the clock in the steeple of old Dan.”

“They will come back with the morning tide. My husband told me that they
will come back with the morning tide.”

“Perhaps they will come back with the evening tide. It is better for us
to think they will come back in the evening, so that our waiting will
not be in vain.

“But I must build a fire in the stove.”

“When the men are away from home, one does not feel like starting a
fire. I never build a fire, even when I am awake; it seems to me that
fire brings a storm. It is better to be quiet and silent.”

“And listen to the wind? No, that is terrible.”

“I love the fire. I should like to sleep near the fire, but my husband
does not allow it.”

“Why doesn’t old Dan come here? It is time to strike the hour.”

“Old Dan will play in the church to-night; he cannot bear such
silence as this. When the sea is roaring, old Dan hides himself and is
silent--he is afraid of the sea. But, as soon as the waves calm down,
Dan crawls out quietly and sits down to play his organ.”

The women laugh softly.

“He reproaches the sea.”

“He is complaining to God against it. He knows how to complain well.
One feels like crying when he tells God about those who have perished at
sea. Mariet, have you seen Dan to-day? Why are you silent, Mariet?”

Mariet is the adopted daughter of the abbot, in whose house old Dan, the
organist, lives. Absorbed in thought, she does not hear the question.

“Mariet, do you hear? Anna is asking you whether you have seen Dan
to-day.”

“Yes, I think I have. I don’t remember. He is in his room. He does not
like to leave his room when father goes fishing.”

“Dan is fond of the city priests. He cannot get used to the idea of a
priest who goes fishing, like an ordinary fisherman, and who goes to sea
with our husbands.”

“He is simply afraid of the sea.”

“You may say what you like, but I believe we have the very best priest
in the world.”

“That’s true. I fear him, but I love him as a father.”

“May God forgive me, but I would have been proud and always happy, if I
were his adopted daughter. Do you hear, Mariet?”

The women laugh softly and tenderly.

“Do you hear, Mariet?”

“I do. But aren’t you tired of always laughing at the same thing? Yes,
I am his daughter--Is it so funny that you will laugh all your life at
it?”

The women commence to justify themselves confusedly.

“But he laughs at it himself.”

“The abbot is fond of jesting. He says so comically: ‘My adopted
daughter,’ and then he strikes himself with his fist and shouts: ‘She’s
my real daughter, not my adopted daughter. She’s my real daughter.’”

“I have never known my mother, but this laughter would have been
unpleasant to her. I feel it,” says Mariet.

The women grow silent. The breakers strike against the shore dully with
the regularity of a great pendulum. The unknown city, wrapped with fire
and smoke, is still being destroyed in the sky; yet it does not fall
down completely; and the sea is waiting. Mariet lifts her lowered head.

“What were you going to say, Mariet?”

“Didn’t he pass here?” asks Mariet in a low voice.

Another woman answers timidly:

“Hush! Why do you speak of him? I fear him. No, he did not pass this
way.”

“He did. I saw from the window that he passed by.”

“You are mistaken; it was some one else.”

“Who else could that be? Is it possible to make a mistake, if you have
once seen him walk? No one walks as he does.”

“Naval officers, Englishmen, walk like that.”

“No. Haven’t I seen naval officers in the city? They walk firmly, but
openly; even a girl could trust them.”

“Oh, look out!”

Frightened and cautious laughter.

“No, don’t laugh. He walks without looking at the ground; he puts his
feet down as if the ground itself must take them cautiously and place
them.”

“But if there’s a stone on the road? We have many stones here.”

“He does not bend down, nor does he hide his head when a strong wind
blows.”

“Of course not. Of course not. He does not hide his head.”

“Is it true that he is handsome? Who has seen him at close range?”

“I,” says Mariet.

“No, no, don’t speak of him; I shall not be able to sleep all night.
Since they settled on that hill, in that accursed castle, I know no
rest; I am dying of fear. You are also afraid. Confess it.”

“Well, not all of us are afraid.”

“What have they come here for? There are two of them. What is there for
them to do here in our poor land, where we have nothing but stones and
the sea?”

“They drink gin. The sailor comes every morning for gin.”

“They are simply drunkards who don’t want anybody to disturb their
drinking. When the sailor passes along the street he leaves behind him
an odour as of an open bottle of rum.”

“But is that their business--drinking gin? I fear them. Where is the
ship that brought them here? They came from the sea.”

“I saw the ship,” says Mariet.

The women begin to question her in amazement.

“You? Why, then, didn’t you say anything about it? Tell us what you
know.”

Mariet maintains silence. Suddenly one of the women exclaims:

“Ah, look! They have lit a lamp. There is a light in the castle!”

On the left, about half a mile away from the village, a faint light
flares up, a red little coal in the dark blue of the twilight and the
distance. There upon a high rock, overhanging the sea, stands an
ancient castle, a grim heritage of grey and mysterious antiquity.
Long destroyed, long ruined, it blends with the rocks, continuing and
delusively ending them by the broken, dented line of its batteries, its
shattered roofs, its half-crumbled towers. Now the rocks and the castle
are covered with a smoky shroud of twilight. They seem airy, devoid
of any weight, and almost as fantastic as those monstrous heaps of
structures which are piled up and which are falling so noiselessly in
the sky. But while the others are falling this one stands, and a live
light reddens against the deep blue--and it is just as strange a sight
as if a human hand were to kindle a light in the clouds.

Turning their heads in that direction, the women look on with frightened
eyes.

“Do you see,” says one of them. “It is even worse than a light on a
cemetery. Who needs a light among the tombstones?”

“It is getting cold toward night and the sailor must have thrown some
branches into the fireplace, that’s all. At least, I think so,” says
Mariet.

“And I think that the abbot should have gone there with holy water long
ago.”

“Or with the gendarmes! If that isn’t the devil himself, it is surely
one of his assistants.”

“It is impossible to live peacefully with such neighbours close by.”

“I am afraid for the children.”

“And for your soul?”

Two elderly women rise silently and go away. Then a third, an old woman,
also rises.

“We must ask the abbot whether it isn’t a sin to look at such a light.”

She goes off. The smoke in the sky is ever increasing and the fire is
subsiding, and the unknown city is already near its dark end. The sea
odour is growing ever sharper and stronger. Night is coming from the
shore.

Their heads turned, the women watch the departing old woman. Then they
turn again toward the light.

Mariet, as though defending some one, says softly:

“There can’t be anything bad in light. For there is light in the candles
on God’s altar.”

“But there is also fire for Satan in hell,” says another old woman,
heavily and angrily, and then goes off. Now four remain, all young
girls.

“I am afraid,” says one, pressing close to her companion.

The noiseless and cold conflagration in the sky is ended; the city is
destroyed; the unknown land is in ruins. There are no longer any walls
or falling towers; a heap of pale blue gigantic shapes have fallen
silently into the abyss of the ocean and the night. A young little star
glances at the earth with frightened eyes; it feels like coming out of
the clouds near the castle, and because of its inmost neighbourship the
heavy castle grows darker, and the light in its window seems redder and
darker.

“Good night, Mariet,” says the girl who sat alone, and then she goes
off.

“Let us also go; it is getting cold,” say the other two, rising. “Good
night, Mariet.”

“Good night.”

“Why are you alone, Mariet? Why are you alone, Mariet, in the daytime
and at night, on week days and on merry holidays? Do you love to think
of your betrothed?”

“Yes, I do. I love to think of Philipp.”

The girl laughs.

“But you don’t want to see him. When he goes out to sea, you look at
the sea for hours; when he comes back--you are not there. Where are you
hiding yourself?”

“I love to think of Philipp.”

“Like a blind man he gropes among the houses, forever calling: ‘Mariet!
Mariet! Have you not seen Mariet?’”

They go off laughing and repeating:

“Good night, Mariet. ‘Have you not seen Mariet! Mariet!’”

The girl is left alone. She looks at the light in the castle. She hears
soft, irresolute footsteps.

Old Dan, of small stature, slim, a coughing old man with a clean-shaven
face, comes out from behind the church. Because of his irresoluteness,
or because of the weakness of his eyes, he steps uncertainly, touching
the ground cautiously and with a certain degree of fear.

“Oho! Oho!”

“Is that you, Dan?”

“The sea is calm, Dan. Are you going to play to-night?”

“Oho! I shall ring the bell seven times. Seven times I shall ring it and
send to God seven of His holy hours.”

He takes the rope of the bell and strikes the hour--seven ringing and
slow strokes. The wind plays with them, it drops them to the ground, but
before they touch it, it catches them tenderly, sways them softly and
with a light accompaniment of whistling carries them off to the dark
coast.

“Oh, no!” mutters Dan. “Bad hours, they fall to the ground. They are
not His holy hours and He will send them back. Oh, a storm is coming! O
Lord, have mercy on those who are perishing at sea!”

He mutters and coughs.

“Dan, I have seen the ship again to-day. Do you hear, Dan?”

“Many ships are going out to sea.”

“But this one had black sails. It was again going toward the sun.”

“Many ships are going out to sea. Listen, Mariet, there was once a wise
king--Oh, how wise he was!--and he commanded that the sea be lashed with
chains. Oho!”

“I know, Dan. You told me about it.”

“Oho, with chains! But it did not occur to him to christen the sea. Why
did it not occur to him to do that, Mariet? Ah, why did he not think of
it? We have no such kings now.”

“What would have happened, Dan?”

“Oho!”

He whispers softly:

“All the rivers and the streams have already been christened, and the
cross of the Lord has touched even many stagnant swamps; only the sea
remained--that nasty, salty, deep pool.”

“Why do you scold it? It does not like to be scolded,” Mariet reproaches
him.

“Oho! Let the sea not like it--I am not afraid of it. The sea thinks
it is also an organ and music for God. It is a nasty, hissing, furious
pool. A salty spit of satan. Fie! Fie! Fie!”

He goes to the doors at the entrance of the church muttering angrily,
threatening, as though celebrating some victory:

“Oho! Oho!”

“Dan!”

“Go home.”

“Dan! Why don’t you light candles when you play? Dan, I don’t love my
betrothed. Do you hear, Dan?”

Dan turns his head unwillingly.

“I have heard it long ago, Mariet. Tell it to your father.”

“Where is my mother, Dan?”

“Oho! You are mad again, Mariet? You are gazing too much at the
sea--yes. I am going to tell--I am going to tell your father, yes.”

He enters the church. Soon the sounds of the organ are heard. Faint
in the first, long-drawn, deeply pensive chords, they rapidly gain
strength. And with a passionate sadness, their human melodies now
wrestle with the dull and gloomy plaintiveness of the tireless surf.
Like seagulls in a storm, the sounds soar amidst the high waves, unable
to rise higher on their overburdened wings. The stern ocean holds them
captive by its wild and eternal charms. But when they have risen, the
lowered ocean roars more dully; now they rise still higher--and the
heavy, almost voiceless pile of water is shaking helplessly. Varied
voices resound through the expanse of the resplendent distances. Day has
one sorrow, night has another sorrow, and the proud, ever rebellious,
black ocean suddenly seems to become an eternal slave.

Her cheek pressed against the cold stone of the wall, Mariet is
listening, all alone. She is growing reconciled to something; she is
grieving ever more quietly.

Suddenly, firm footsteps are heard on the road; the cobblestones are
creaking under the vigorous steps--and a man appears from behind the
church. He walks slowly and sternly, like those who do not roam in vain,
and who know the earth from end to end. He carries his hat in his hands;
he is thinking of something, looking ahead. On his broad shoulders is
set a round, strong head, with short hair; his dark profile is stern
and commandingly haughty, and, although the man is dressed in a partly
military uniform, he does not subject his body to the discipline of his
clothes, but masters it as a free man. The folds of his clothes fall
submissively.

Mariet greets him:

“Good evening.”

He walks on quite a distance, then stops and turns his head slowly. He
waits silently, as though regretting to part with his silence.

“Did you say ‘Good evening’ to me?” he asks at last.

“Yes, to you. Good evening.”

He looks at her silently.

“Well, good evening. This is the first time I have been greeted in this
land, and I was surprised when I heard your voice. Come nearer to me.
Why don’t you sleep when all are sleeping? Who are you?”

“I am the daughter of the abbot of this place.”

He laughs:

“Have priests children? Or are there special priests in your land?”

“Yes, the priests are different here.”

“Now, I recall, Khorre told me something about the priest of this
place.”

“Who is Khorre?”

“My sailor. The one who buys gin in your settlement.”

He suddenly laughs again and continues:

“Yes, he told me something. Was it your father who cursed the Pope and
declared his own church independent?”

“Yes.”

“And he makes his own prayers? And goes to sea with the fishermen? And
punishes with his own hands those who disobey him?”

“Yes. I am his daughter. My name is Mariet. And what is your name?”

“I have many names. Which one shall I tell you?”

“The one by which you were christened.”

“What makes you think that I was christened?”

“Then tell me the name by which your mother called you.”

“What makes you think that I had a mother? I do not know my mother.”

Mariet says softly:

“Neither do I know my mother.”

Both are silent. They look at each other kindly.

“Is that so?” he says. “You, too, don’t know your mother? Well, then,
call me Haggart.”

“Haggart?”

“Yes. Do you like the name? I have invented it myself--Haggart. It’s a
pity that you have been named already. I would have invented a fine name
for you.”

Suddenly he frowned.

“Tell me, Mariet, why is your land so mournful? I walk along your paths
and only the cobblestones creak under my feet. And on both sides are
huge rocks.”

“That is on the road to the castle--none of us ever go there. Is it true
that these stones stop the passersby with the question: ‘Where are you
going?’”

“No, they are mute. Why is your land so mournful? It is almost a week
since I’ve seen my shadow. It is impossible! I don’t see my shadow.”

“Our land is very cheerful and full of joy. It is still winter now, but
soon spring will come, and sunshine will come back with it. You shall
see it, Haggart.”

He speaks with contempt:

“And you are sitting and waiting calmly for its return? You must be a
fine set of people! Ah, if I only had a ship!”

“What would you have done?”

He looks at her morosely and shakes his head suspiciously.

“You are too inquisitive, little girl. Has any one sent you over to me?”

“No. What do you need a ship for?”

Haggart laughs good-naturedly and ironically:

“She asks what a man needs a ship for. You must be a fine set of people.
You don’t know what a man needs a ship for! And you speak seriously? If
I had a ship I would have rushed toward the sun. And it would not matter
how it sets its golden sails, I would overtake it with my black sails.
And I would force it to outline my shadow on the deck of my ship. And I
would put my foot upon it this way!”

He stamps his foot firmly. Then Mariet asks, cautiously:

“Did you say with black sails?”

“That’s what I said. Why do you always ask questions? I have no ship,
you know. Good-bye.”

He puts on his hat, but does not move. Mariet maintains silence. Then he
says, very angrily:

“Perhaps you, too, like the music of your old Dan, that old fool?”

“You know his name?”

“Khorre told me it. I don’t like his music, no, no. Bring me a good,
honest dog, or beast, and he will howl. You will say that he knows no
music--he does, but he can’t bear falsehood. Here is music. Listen!”

He takes Mariet by the hand and turns her roughly, her face toward the
ocean.

“Do you hear? This is music. Your Dan has robbed the sea and the wind.
No, he is worse than a thief, he is a deceiver! He should be hanged on a
sailyard--your Dan! Good-bye!”

He goes, but after taking two steps he turns around.

“I said good-bye to you. Go home. Let this fool play alone. Well, go.”

Mariet is silent, motionless. Haggart laughs:

“Are you afraid perhaps that I have forgotten your name? I remember it.
Your name is Mariet. Go, Mariet.”

She says softly:

“I have seen your ship.”

Haggart advances to her quickly and bends down. His face is terrible.

“It is not true. When?”

“Last evening.”

“It is not true! Which way was it going?”

“Toward the sun.”

“Last evening I was drunk and I slept. But this is not true. I have
never seen it. You are testing me. Beware!”

“Shall I tell you if I see it again?”

“How can you tell me?”

“I shall come up your hill.”

Haggart looks at her attentively.

“If you are only telling me the truth. What sort of people are there in
your land--false or not? In the lands I know, all the people are false.
Has any one else seen that ship?”

“I don’t know. I was alone on the shore. Now I see that it was not your
ship. You are not glad to hear of it.”

Haggart is silent, as though he has forgotten her presence.

“You have a pretty uniform. You are silent? I shall come up to you.”

Haggart is silent. His dark profile is stern and wildly gloomy; every
motion of his powerful body, every fold of his clothes, is full of the
dull silence of the taciturnity of long hours, or days, or perhaps of a
lifetime.

“Your sailor will not kill me? You are silent. I have a betrothed. His
name is Philipp, but I don’t love him. You are now like that rock which
lies on the road leading to the castle.”

Haggart turns around silently and starts.

“I also remember your name. Your name is Haggart.”

He goes away.

“Haggart!” calls Mariet, but he has already disappeared behind the
house. Only the creaking of the scattered cobblestones is heard, dying
away in the misty air. Dan, who has taken a rest, is playing again; he
is telling God about those who have perished at sea.

The night is growing darker. Neither the rock nor the castle is visible
now; only the light in the window is redder and brighter.

The dull thuds of the tireless breakers are telling the story of
different lives.



CHAPTER II


A strong wind is tossing the fragment of a sail which is hanging over
the large, open window. The sail is too small to cover the entire
window, and, through the gaping hole, the dark night is breathing
inclement weather. There is no rain, but the warm wind, saturated with
the sea, is heavy and damp.

Here in the tower live Haggart and his sailor, Khorre. Both are sleeping
now a heavy, drunken sleep. On the table and in the corners of the room
there are empty bottles, and the remains of food; the only taburet is
overturned, lying on one side. Toward evening the sailor got up, lit a
large illumination lamp, and was about to do more, but he was overcome
by intoxication again and fell asleep upon his thin mattress of straw
and seagrass. Tossed by the wind, the flame of the illumination-lamp is
quivering in yellow, restless spots over the uneven, mutilated walls,
losing itself in the dark opening of the door, which leads to the other
rooms of the castle.

Haggart lies on his back, and the same quivering yellow shades run
noiselessly over his strong forehead, approach his closed eyes, his
straight, sharply outlined nose, and, tossing about in confusion, rush
back to the wall. The breathing of the sleeping man is deep and uneven;
from time to time his heavy, strange hand lifts itself, makes several
weak, unfinished movements, and falls down on his breast helplessly.

Outside the window the breakers are roaring and raging, beating against
the rocks--this is the second day a storm is raging in the ocean. The
ancient tower is quivering from the violent blows of the waves. It
responds to the storm with the rustling of the falling plaster, with
the rattling of the little cobblestones as they are torn down, with the
whisper and moans of the wind which has lost its way in the passages. It
whispers and mutters like an old woman.

The sailor begins to feel cold on the stone floor, on which the wind
spreads itself like water; he tosses about, folds his legs under
himself, draws his head into his shoulders, gropes for his imaginary
clothes, but is unable to wake up--his intoxication produced by a two
days’ spree is heavy and severe. But now the wind whines more powerfully
than before; something heaves a deep groan. Perhaps a part of a
destroyed wall has sunk into the sea. The quivering yellow spots
commence to toss about upon the crooked wall more desperately, and
Khorre awakes.

He sits up on his mattress, looks around, but is unable to understand
anything.

The wind is hissing like a robber summoning other robbers, and filling
the night with disquieting phantoms. It seems as if the sea were full of
sinking vessels, of people who are drowning and desperately struggling
with death. Voices are heard. Somewhere near by people are shouting,
scolding each other, laughing and singing, like madmen, or talking
sensibly and rapidly--it seems that soon one will see a strange human
face distorted by horror or laughter, or fingers bent convulsively. But
there is a strong smell of the sea, and that, together with the cold,
brings Khorre to his senses.

“Noni!” he calls hoarsely, but Haggart does not hear him. After a
moment’s thought, he calls once more:

“Captain. Noni! Get up.”

But Haggart does not answer and the sailor mutters:

“Noni is drunk and he sleeps. Let him sleep. Oh, what a cold night it
is. There isn’t enough warmth in it even to warm your nose. I am cold.
I feel cold and lonesome, Noni. I can’t drink like that, although
everybody knows I am a drunkard. But it is one thing to drink, and
another to drown in gin--that’s an entirely different matter. Noni--you
are like a drowned man, simply like a corpse. I feel ashamed for your
sake, Noni. I shall drink now and--”

He rises, and staggering, finds an unopened bottle and drinks.

“A fine wind. They call this a storm--do you hear, Noni? They call this
a storm. What will they call a real storm?”

He drinks again.

“A fine wind!”

He goes over to the window and, pushing aside the corner of the sail,
looks out.

“Not a single light on the sea, or in the village. They have hidden
themselves and are sleeping--they are waiting for the storm to pass.
B-r-r, how cold! I would have driven them all out to sea; it is mean to
go to sea only when the weather is calm. That is cheating the sea. I am
a pirate, that’s true; my name is Khorre, and I should have been hanged
long ago on a yard, that’s true, too--but I shall never allow myself
such meanness as to cheat the sea. Why did you bring me to this hole,
Noni?”

He picks up some brushwood, and throws it into the fireplace.

“I love you, Noni. I am now going to start a fire to warm your feet. I
used to be your nurse, Noni; but you have lost your reason--that’s true.
I am a wise man, but I don’t understand your conduct at all. Why did you
drop your ship? You will be hanged, Noni, you will be hanged, and I will
dangle by your side. You have lost your reason, that’s true!”

He starts a fire, then prepares food and drink.

“What will you say when you wake up? ‘Fire.’ And I will answer, ‘Here it
is.’ Then you will say, ‘Something to drink.’ And I will answer, ‘Here
it is.’ And then you will drink your fill again, and I will drink with
you, and you will prate nonsense. How long is this going to last? We
have lived this way two months now, or perhaps two years, or twenty
years--I am drowning in gin--I don’t understand your conduct at all,
Noni.”

He drinks.

“Either I have lost my mind from this gin, or a ship is being wrecked
near by. How they are crying!”

He looks out of the window.

“No, no one is here. It is the wind. The wind feels weary, and it plays
all by itself. It has seen many shipwrecks, and now it is inventing. The
wind itself is crying; the wind itself is scolding and sobbing; and the
wind itself is laughing--the rogue! But if you think that this rag
with which I have covered the window is a sail, and that this ruin of
a castle is a three-masted brig, you are a fool! We are not going
anywhere! We are standing securely at our moorings, do you hear?”

He pushes the sleeping man cautiously.

“Get up, Noni. I feel lonesome. If we must drink, let’s drink
together--I feel lonesome. Noni!”

Haggart awakens, stretches himself and says, without opening his eyes:

“Fire.”

“Here it is.”

“Something to drink.”

“Here it is! A fine wind, Noni. I looked out of the window, and the sea
splashed into my eyes. It is high tide now and the water-dust flies up
to the tower. I feel lonesome, Noni. I want to speak to you. Don’t be
angry!”

“It’s cold.”

“Soon the fire will burn better. I don’t understand your actions. Don’t
be angry, Noni, but I don’t understand your actions! I am afraid that
you have lost your mind.”

“Did you drink again?”

“I did.”

“Give me some.”

He drinks from the mouth of the bottle lying on the floor, his eyes
wandering over the crooked mutilated walls, whose every projection and
crack is now lighted by the bright flame in the fireplace. He is not
quite sure yet whether he is awake, or whether it is all a dream. With
each strong gust of wind the flame is hurled from the fireplace, and
then the entire tower seems to dance--the last shadows melt and rush off
into the open door.

“Don’t drink it all at once, Noni! Not all at once!” says the sailor and
gently takes the bottle away from him. Haggart seats himself and clasps
his head with both hands.

“I have a headache. What is that cry? Was there a shipwreck?”

“No, Noni. It is the wind playing roguishly.”

“Khorre!”

“Captain.”

“Give me the bottle.”

He drinks a little more and sets the bottle on the table. Then he paces
the room, straightening his shoulders and his chest, and looks out of
the window. Khorre looks over his shoulder and whispers:

“Not a single light. It is dark and deserted. Those who had to die have
died already, and the cautious cowards are sitting on the solid earth.”

Haggart turns around and says, wiping his face:

“When I am intoxicated, I hear voices and singing. Does that happen to
you, too, Khorre? Who is that singing now?”

“The wind is singing, Noni--only the wind.”

“No, but who else? It seems to me a human being is singing, a woman is
singing, and others are laughing and shouting something. Is that all
nothing but the wind?”

“Only the wind.”

“Why does the wind deceive me?” says Haggart haughtily.

“It feels lonesome, Noni, just as I do, and it laughs at the human
beings. Have you heard the wind lying like this and mocking in the open
sea? There it tells the truth, but here--it frightens the people on
shore and mocks them. The wind does not like cowards. You know it.”

Haggart says morosely:

“I heard their organist playing not long ago in church. He lies.”

“They are all liars.”

“No!” exclaims Haggart angrily. “Not all. There are some who tell the
truth there, too. I shall cut your ears off if you will slander honest
people. Do you hear?”

“Yes.”

They are silent; they listen to the wild music of the sea. The wind
has evidently grown mad. Having taken into its embrace a multitude
of instruments with which human beings produce their music--harps,
reed-pipes, priceless violins, heavy drums and brass trumpets--it breaks
them all, together with a wave, against the sharp rocks. It dashes them
and bursts into laughter--only thus does the wind understand music--each
time in the death of an instrument, each time in the breaking of
strings, in the snapping of the clanging brass. Thus does the mad
musician understand music. Haggart heaves a deep sigh and with some
amazement, like a man just awakened from sleep, looks around on all
sides. Then he commands shortly:

“Give me my pipe.”

“Here it is.”

Both commence to smoke.

“Don’t be angry, Noni,” says the sailor. “You have become so angry that
one can’t come near you at all. May I chat with you?”

“There are some who do tell the truth there, too,” says Haggart sternly,
emitting rings of smoke.

“How shall I say it you, Noni?” answers the sailor cautiously but
stubbornly. “There are no truthful people there. It has been so ever
since the deluge. At that time all the honest people went out to sea,
and only the cowards and liars remained upon the solid earth.”

Haggart is silent for a minute; then he takes the pipe from his mouth
and laughs gaily.

“Have you invented it yourself?”

“I think so,” says Khorre modestly.

“Clever! And it was worth teaching you sacred history for that! Were you
taught by a priest?”

“Yes. In prison. At that time I was as innocent as a dove. That’s also
from sacred scriptures, Noni. That’s what they always say there.”

“He was a fool! It was not necessary to teach you, but to hang you,”
 says Haggart, adding morosely: “Don’t talk nonsense, sailor. Hand me a
bottle.”

They drink. Khorre stamps his foot against the stone floor and asks:

“Do you like this motionless floor?”

“I should have liked to have the deck of a ship dancing under my feet.”

“Noni!” exclaims the sailor enthusiastically. “Noni! Now I hear real
words! Let us go away from here. I cannot live like this. I am drowning
in gin. I don’t understand your actions at all, Noni! You have lost your
mind. Reveal yourself to me, my boy. I was your nurse. I nursed you,
Noni, when your father brought you on board ship. I remember how the
city was burning then and we were putting out to sea, and I didn’t know
what to do with you; you whined like a little pig in the cook’s room. I
even wanted to throw you overboard--you annoyed me so much. Ah, Noni, it
is all so touching that I can’t bear to recall it. I must have a drink.
Take a drink, too, my boy, but not all at once, not all at once!”

They drink. Haggart paces the room heavily and slowly, like a man who is
imprisoned in a dungeon but does not want to escape.

“I feel sad,” he says, without looking at Khorre. Khorre, as though
understanding, shakes his head in assent.

“Sad? I understand. Since then?”

“Ever since then.”

“Ever since we drowned those people? They cried so loudly.”

“I did not hear their cry. But this I heard--something snapped in my
heart, Khorre. Always sadness, everywhere sadness! Let me drink!”

He drinks.

“He who cried--am I perhaps afraid of him, Khorre? That would be fine!
Tears were trickling from his eyes; he wept like one who is unfortunate.
Why did he do that? Perhaps he came from a land where the people had
never heard of death--what do you think, sailor?”

“I don’t remember him, Noni. You speak so much about him, while I don’t
remember him.”

“He was a fool,” says Haggart. “He spoilt his death for himself, and
spoilt me my life. I curse him, Khorre. May he be cursed. But that
doesn’t matter, Khorre--no!”

Silence.

“They have good gin on this coast,” says Khorre. “He’ll pass easily,
Noni. If you have cursed him there will be no delay; he’ll slip into
hell like an oyster.”

Haggart shakes his head:

“No, Khorre, no! I am sad. Ah, sailor, why have I stopped here, where I
hear the sea? I should go away, far away on land, where the people don’t
know the sea at all, where the people have never heard about the sea--a
thousand miles away, five thousand miles away!”

“There is no such land.”

“There is, Khorre. Let us drink and laugh, Khorre. That organist lies.
Sing something for me, Khorre--you sing well. In your hoarse voice I
hear the creaking of ropes. Your refrain is like a sail that is torn by
the storm. Sing, sailor!”

Khorre nods his head gloomily.

“No, I will not sing.”

“Then I shall force you to pray as they prayed!”

“You will not force me to pray, either. You are the Captain, and you
may kill me, and here is your revolver. It is loaded, Noni. And now I am
going to speak the truth, Captain! Khorre, the boatswain, speaks to you
in the name of the entire crew.”

Haggart says:

“Drop this performance, Khorre. There is no crew here. You’d better
drink something.”

He drinks.

“But the crew is waiting for you, you know it. Captain, is it your
intention to return to the ship and assume command again?”

“No.”

“Captain, is it perhaps your intention to go to the people on the coast
and live with them?”

“No.”

“I can’t understand your actions, Noni. What do you intend to do,
Captain?”

Haggart drinks silently.

“Not all at once, Noni, not at once. Captain, do you intend to stay in
this hole and wait until the police dogs come from the city? Then they
will hang us, and not upon a mast, but simply on one of their foolish
trees.”

“Yes. The wind is getting stronger. Do you hear, Khorre? The wind is
getting stronger!”

“And the gold which we have buried here?” He points below, with his
finger.

“The gold? Take it and go with it wherever you like.”

The sailor says angrily:

“You are a bad man, Noni. You have only set foot on earth a little while
ago, and you already have the thoughts of a traitor. That’s what the
earth is doing!”

“Be silent, Khorre. I am listening. Our sailors are singing. Do you
hear? No, that’s the wine rushing to my head. I’ll be drunk soon. Give
me another bottle.”

“Perhaps you will go to the priest? He would absolve your sins.”

“Silence!” roars Haggart, clutching at his revolver.

Silence. The storm is increasing. Haggart paces the room in agitation,
striking against the walls. He mutters something abruptly. Suddenly he
seizes the sail and tears it down furiously, admitting the salty wind.
The illumination lamp is extinguished and the flame in the fireplace
tosses about wildly--like Haggart.

“Why did you lock out the wind? It’s better now. Come here.”

“You were the terror of the seas!” says the sailor.

“Yes, I was the terror of the seas.”

“You were the terror of the coasts! Your famous name resounded like the
surf over all the coasts, wherever people live. They saw you in their
dreams. When they thought of the ocean, they thought of you. When they
heard the storm, they heard you, Noni!”

“I burnt their cities. The deck of my ship is shaking under my feet,
Khorre. The deck is shaking under me!”

He laughs wildly, as if losing his senses.

“You sank their ships. You sent to the bottom the Englishman who was
chasing you.”

“He had ten guns more than I.”

“And you burnt and drowned him. Do you remember, Noni, how the wind
laughed then? The night was as black as this night, but you made day of
it, Noni. We were rocked by a sea of fire.”

Haggart stands pale-faced, his eyes closed. Suddenly he shouts
commandingly:

“Boatswain!”

“Yes,” Khorre jumps up.

“Whistle for everybody to go up on deck.”

“Yes.”

The boatswain’s shrill whistle pierces sharply into the open body of the
storm. Everything comes to life, and it looks as though they were
upon the deck of a ship. The waves are crying with human voices. In
semi-oblivion, Haggart is commanding passionately and angrily:

“To the shrouds!--The studding sails! Be ready, forepart! Aim at the
ropes; I don’t want to sink them all at once. Starboard the helm, sail
by the wind. Be ready now. Ah, fire! Ah, you are already burning! Board
it now! Get the hooks ready.”

And Khorre tosses about violently, performing the mad instructions.

“Yes, yes.”

“Be braver, boys. Don’t be afraid of tears! Eh, who is crying there?
Don’t dare cry when you are dying. I’ll dry your mean eyes upon the
fire. Fire! Fire everywhere! Khorre--sailor! I am dying. They have
poured molten tar into my chest. Oh, how it burns!”

“Don’t give way, Noni. Don’t give way. Recall your father. Strike them
on the head, Noni!”

“I can’t, Khorre. My strength is failing. Where is my power?”

“Strike them on the head, Noni. Strike them on the head!”

“Take a knife, Khorre, and cut out my heart. There is no ship,
Khorre--there is nothing. Cut out my heart, comrade--throw out the
traitor from my breast.”

“I want to play some more, Noni. Strike them on the head!”

“There is no ship, Khorre, there is nothing--it is all a lie. I want to
drink.”

He takes a bottle and laughs:

“Look, sailor--here the wind and the storm and you and I are locked. It
is all a deception, Khorre!”

“I want to play.”

“Here my sorrow is locked. Look! In the green glass it seems like water,
but it isn’t water. Let us drink, Khorre--there on the bottom I see
my laughter and your song. There is no ship--there is nothing! Who is
coming?”

He seizes his revolver. The fire in the fire-place is burning faintly;
the shadows are tossing about--but two of these shadows are darker than
the others and they are walking. Khorre shouts:

“Halt!”

A man’s voice, heavy and deep, answers:

“Hush! Put down your weapons. I am the abbot of this place.”

“Fire, Noni, fire! They have come for you.”

“I have come to help you. Put down your knife, fool, or I will break
every bone in your body without a knife. Coward, are you frightened by a
woman and a priest?”

Haggart puts down his revolver and says ironically:

“A woman and a priest! Is there anything still more terrible? Pardon my
sailor, Mr. abbot, he is drunk, and when he is drunk he is very reckless
and he may kill you. Khorre, don’t turn your knife.”

“He has come after you, Noni.”

“I have come to warn you; the tower may fall. Go away from here!” says
the abbot.

“Why are you hiding yourself, girl? I remember your name; your name is
Mariet,” says Haggart.

“I am not hiding. I also remember your name--it is Haggart,” replies
Mariet.

“Was it you who brought him here?”

“I.”

“I have told you that they are all traitors, Noni,” says Khorre.

“Silence!”

“It is very cold here. I will throw some wood into the fireplace. May I
do it?” asks Mariet.

“Do it,” answers Haggart.

“The tower will fall down before long,” says the abbot. “Part of the
wall has caved in already; it is all hollow underneath. Do you hear?”

He stamps his foot on the stone floor.

“Where will the tower fall?”

“Into the sea, I suppose! The castle is splitting the rocks.”

Haggart laughs:

“Do you hear, Khorre? This place is not as motionless as it seemed to
you--while it cannot move, it can fall. How many people have you brought
along with you, priest, and where have you hidden them?”

“Only two of us came, my father and I,” says Mariet.

“You are rude to a priest. I don’t like that,” says the abbot.

“You have come here uninvited. I don’t like that either,” says Haggart.

“Why did you lead me here, Mariet? Come,” says the abbot.

Haggart speaks ironically:

“And you leave us here to die? That is unChristian, Christian.”

“Although I am a priest, I am a poor Christian, and the Lord knows it,”
 says the abbot angrily. “I have no desire to save such a rude scamp. Let
us go, Mariet.”

“Captain?” asks Khorre.

“Be silent, Khorre,” says Haggart. “So that’s the way you speak, abbot;
so you are not a liar?”

“Come with me and you shall see.”

“Where shall I go with you?”

“To my house.”

“To your house? Do you hear, Khorre? To the priest! But do you know whom
you are calling to your house?”

“No, I don’t know. But I see that you are young and strong. I see that
although your face is gloomy, it is handsome, and I think that you could
be as good a workman as others.”

“A workman? Khorre, do you hear what the priest says?”

Both laugh. The abbot says angrily:

“You are both drunk.”

“Yes, a little! But if I were sober I would have laughed still more,”
 answers Haggart.

“Don’t laugh, Haggart,” says Mariet.

Haggart replies angrily:

“I don’t like the tongues of false priests, Mariet--they are coated with
truth on top, like a lure for flies. Take him away, and you, girl, go
away, too! I have forgotten your name!”

He sits down and stares ahead sternly. His eyebrows move close together,
and his hand is pressed down heavily by his lowered head, by his strong
chin.

“He does not know you, father! Tell him about yourself. You speak so
well. If you wish it, he will believe you, father. Haggart!”

Haggart maintains silence.

“Noni! Captain!”

Silence. Khorre whispers mysteriously:

“He feels sad. Girl, tell the priest that he feels sad.”

“Khorre,” begins Mariet. Haggart looks around quickly.

“What about Khorre? Why don’t you like him, Mariet? We are so much like
each other.”

“He is like you?” says the woman with contempt. “No, Haggart! But here
is what he did: He gave gin to little Noni again to-day. He moistened
his finger and gave it to him. He will kill him, father.”

Haggart laughs:

“Is that so bad? He did the same to me.”

“And he dipped him in cold water. The boy is very weak,” says Mariet
morosely.

“I don’t like to hear you speak of weakness. Our boy must be strong.
Khorre! Three days without gin.”

He shows him three fingers.

“Who should be without gin? The boy or I?” asks Khorre gloomily.

“You!” replies Haggart furiously. “Begone!”

The sailor sullenly gathers his belongings--the pouch, the pipe, and the
flask--and wabbling, goes off. But he does not go far--he sits down upon
a neighbouring rock. Haggart and his wife look at him.



CHAPTER III


The work is ended. Having lost its gloss, the last neglected fish lies
on the ground; even the children are too lazy to pick it up; and an
indifferent, satiated foot treads it into the mud. A quiet, fatigued
conversation goes on, mingled with gay and peaceful laughter.

“What kind of a prayer is our abbot going to say to-day? It is already
time for him to come.”

“And do you think it is so easy to compose a good prayer? He is
thinking.”

“Selly’s basket broke and the fish were falling out. We laughed so much!
It seems so funny to me even now!”

Laughter. Two fishermen look at the sail in the distance.

“All my life I have seen large ships sailing past us. Where are they
going? They disappear beyond the horizon, and I go off to sleep; and I
sleep, while they are forever going, going. Where are they going? Do you
know?”

“To America.”

“I should like to go with them. When they speak of America my heart
begins to ring. Did you say America on purpose, or is that the truth?”

Several old women are whispering:

“Wild Gart is angry again at his sailor. Have you noticed it?”

“The sailor is displeased. Look, how wan his face is.”

“Yes, he looks like the evil one when he is compelled to listen to a
psalm. But I don’t like Wild Gart, either. No. Where did he come from?”

They resume their whispers. Haggart complains softly:

“Why have you the same name, Mariet, for everybody? It should not be so
in a truthful land.”

Mariet speaks with restrained force, pressing both hands to her breast:

“I love you so dearly, Gart; when you go out to sea, I set my teeth
together and do not open them until you come back. When you are away, I
eat nothing and drink nothing; when you are away, I am silent, and the
women laugh: ‘Mute Mariet!’ But I would be insane if I spoke when I am
alone.”

HAGGART--Here you are again compelling me to smile. You must not,
Mariet--I am forever smiling.

MARIET--I love you so dearly, Gart. Every hour of the day and the night
I am thinking only of what I could still give to you, Gart. Have I not
given you everything? But that is so little--everything! There is but
one thing I want to do--to keep on giving to you, giving! When the sun
sets, I present you the sunset; when the sun rises, I present you the
sunrise--take it, Gart! And are not all the storms yours? Ah, Haggart,
how I love you!

HAGGART--I am going to toss little Noni so high to-day that I will toss
him up to the clouds. Do you want me to do it? Let us laugh, dear little
sister Mariet. You are exactly like myself. When you stand that way,
it seems to me that I am standing there--I have to rub my eyes. Let us
laugh! Some day I may suddenly mix things up--I may wake up and say to
you: “Good morning, Haggart!”

MARIET--Good morning, Mariet.

HAGGART--I will call you Haggart. Isn’t that a good idea?

MARIET--And I will call you Mariet.

HAGGART--Yes--no. You had better call me Haggart, too.

“You don’t want me to call you Mariet?” asks Mariet sadly.

The abbot and old Dan appear. The abbot says in a loud, deep voice:

“Here I am. Here I am bringing you a prayer, children. I have just
composed it; it has even made me feel hot. Dan, why doesn’t the boy ring
the bell? Oh, yes, he is ringing. The fool--he isn’t swinging the
right rope, but that doesn’t matter; that’s good enough, too. Isn’t it,
Mariet?”

Two thin but merry bells are ringing.

Mariet is silent and Haggart answers for her:

“That’s good enough. But what are the bells saying, abbot?”

The fishermen who have gathered about them are already prepared to
laugh--the same undying jest is always repeated.

“Will you tell no one about it?” says the abbot, in a deep voice, slily
winking his eye. “Pope’s a rogue! Pope’s a rogue!”

The fishermen laugh merrily.

“This man,” roars the abbot, pointing at Haggart, “is my favourite man!
He has given me a grandson, and I wrote the Pope about it in Latin. But
that wasn’t so hard; isn’t that true, Mariet? But he knows how to look
at the water. He foretells a storm as if he himself caused it. Gart, do
you produce the storm yourself? Where does the wind come from? You are
the wind yourself.”

All laugh approval. An old fisherman says:

“That’s true, father. Ever since he has been here, we have never been
caught in a storm.”

“Of course it is true, if I say it. ‘Pope’s a rogue! Pope’s a rogue!’”

Old Dan walks over to Khorre and says something to him. Khorre nods his
head negatively. The abbot, singing “Pope’s a rogue,” goes around the
crowd, throws out brief remarks, and claps some people on the shoulder
in a friendly manner.

“Hello, Katerina, you are getting stout. Oho! Are you all ready? And
Thomas is missing again--this is the second time he has stayed away
from prayer. Anna, you are rather sad--that isn’t good. One must live
merrily, one must live merrily! I think that it is jolly even in hell,
but in a different way. It is two years since you have stopped growing,
Philipp. That isn’t good.”

Philipp answers gruffly:

“Grass also stops growing if a stone falls upon it.”

“What is still worse than that--worms begin to breed under the rock.”

Mariet says softly, sadly and entreatingly:

“Don’t you want me to call you Mariet?”

Haggart answers obstinately and sternly:

“I don’t. If my name will be Mariet, I shall never kill that man. He
disturbs my life. Make me a present of his life, Mariet. He kissed you.”

“How can I present you that which is not mine? His life belongs to God
and to himself.”

“That is not true. He kissed you; do I not see the burns upon your lips?
Let me kill him, and you will feel as joyful and care-free as a seagull.
Say ‘yes,’ Mariet.”

“No; you shouldn’t do it, Gart. It will be painful to you.”

Haggart looks at her and speaks with deep irony.

“Is that it? Well, then, it is not true that you give me anything. You
don’t know how to give, woman.”

“I am your wife.”

“No! A man has no wife when another man, and not his wife, grinds his
knife. My knife is dull, Mariet!”

Mariet looks at him with horror and sorrow.

“What did you say, Haggart? Wake up; it is a terrible dream, Haggart! It
is I--look at me. Open your eyes wider, wider, until you see me well. Do
you see me, Gart?”

Haggart slowly rubs his brow.

“I don’t know. It is true I love you, Mariet. But how incomprehensible
your land is--in your land a man sees dreams even when he is not asleep.
Perhaps I am smiling already. Look, Mariet.”

The abbot stops in front of Khorre.

“Ah, old friend, how do you do? You are smiling already. Look, Mariet.”

“I don’t want to work,” ejaculates the sailor sternly.

“You want your own way? This man,” roars the abbot, pointing at Khorre,
“thinks that he is an atheist. But he is simply a fool; he does not
understand that he is also praying to God--but he is doing it the wrong
way, like a crab. Even a fish prays to God, my children; I have seen it
myself. When you will be in hell, old man, give my regards to the Pope.
Well, children, come closer, and don’t gnash your teeth. I am going to
start at once. Eh, you, Mathias--you needn’t put out the fire in your
pipe; isn’t it the same to God what smoke it is, incense or tobacco, if
it is only well meant. Why do you shake your head, woman?”

WOMAN--His tobacco is contraband.

YOUNG FISHERMAN--God wouldn’t bother with such trifles. The abbot thinks
a while:

“No; hold on. I think contraband tobacco is not quite so good. That’s an
inferior grade. Look here; you better drop your pipe meanwhile, Mathias;
I’ll think the matter over later. Now, silence, perfect silence. Let God
take a look at us first.”

All stand silent and serious. Only a few have lowered their heads. Most
of the people are looking ahead with wide-open, motionless eyes, as
though they really saw God in the blue of the sky, in the boundless,
radiant, distant surface of the sea. The sea is approaching with a
caressing murmur; high tide has set in.

“My God and the God of all these people! Don’t judge us for praying, not
in Latin but in our own language, which our mothers have taught us.
Our God! Save us from all kinds of terrors, from unknown sea monsters;
protect us against storms and hurricanes, against tempests and gales.
Give us calm weather and a kind wind, a clear sun and peaceful waves.
And another thing, O Lord! we ask You; don’t allow the devil, to
come close to our bedside when we are asleep. In our sleep we are
defenceless, O Lord! and the devil terrifies us, tortures us to
convulsions, torments us to the very blood of our heart. And there
is another thing, O Lord! Old Rikke, whom You know, is beginning to
extinguish Your light in his eyes and he can make nets no longer--”

Rikke frequently shakes his head in assent.

“I can’t, I can’t!”

“Prolong, then, O Lord! Your bright day and bid the night wait. Am I
right, Rikke?”

“Yes.”

“And here is still another, the last request, O Lord. I shall not ask
any more: The tears do not dry up in the eyes of our old women crying
for those who have perished. Take their memory away, O Lord, and give
them strong forgetfulness. There are still other trifles, O Lord, but
let the others pray whose turn has come before You. Amen.”

Silence. Old Dan tugs the abbot by the sleeve, and whispers something in
his ear.

ABBOT--Dan is asking me to pray for those who perished at sea.

The women exclaim in plaintive chorus:

“For those who perished at sea! For those who died at sea!”

Some of them kneel. The abbot looks tenderly at their bowed heads,
exhausted with waiting and fear, and says:

“No priest should pray for those who died at sea--these women should
pray. Make it so, O Lord, that they should not weep so much!”

Silence. The incoming tide roars more loudly--the ocean is carrying to
the earth its noise, its secrets, its bitter, briny taste of unexplored
depths.

Soft voices say:

“The sea is coming.”

“High tide has started.”

“The sea is coming.”

Mariet kisses her father’s hand.

“Woman!” says the priest tenderly. “Listen, Gart, isn’t it strange that
this--a woman”--he strokes his daughter tenderly with his finger on her
pure forehead--“should be born of me, a man?”

Haggart smiles.

“And is it not strange that this should have become a wife to me, a
man?” He embraces Mariet, bending her frail shoulders.

“Let us go to eat, Gart, my son. Whoever she may be, I know one thing
well. She has prepared for you and me an excellent dinner.”

The people disperse quickly. Mariet says confusedly and cheerfully:

“I’ll run first.”

“Run, run,” answers the abbot. “Gart, my son, call the atheist
to dinner. I’ll hit him with a spoon on the forehead; an atheist
understands a sermon best of all if you hit him with a spoon.”

He waits and mutters:

“The boy has commenced to ring the bells again. He does it for himself,
the rogue. If we did not lock the steeple, they would pray there from
morning until night.”

Haggart goes over to Khorre, near whom Dan is sitting.

“Khorre! Let us go to eat--the priest called you.”

“I don’t want to go, Noni.”

“So? What are you going to do here on shore?”

“I will think, Noni, think. I have so much to think to be able to
understand at least something.”

Haggart turns around silently. The abbot calls from the distance:

“He is not coming? Well, then, let him stay there. And Dan--never call
Dan, my son”--says the priest in his deep whisper, “he eats at night
like a rat. Mariet purposely puts something away for him in the closet
for the night; when she looks for it in the morning, it is gone. Just
think of it, no one ever hears when he takes it. Does he fly?”

Both go off. Only the two old men, seated in a friendly manner on
two neighbouring rocks, remain on the deserted shore. And the old men
resemble each other so closely, and whatever they may say to each other,
the whiteness of their hair, the deep lines of their wrinkles, make them
kin.

The tide is coming.

“They have all gone away,” mutters Khorre. “Thus will they cook hot soup
on the wrecks of our ship, too. Eh, Dan! Do you know he ordered me
to drink no gin for three days. Let the old dog croak! Isn’t that so,
Noni?”

“Of those who died at sea... Those who died at sea,” mutters Dan. “A son
taken from his father, a son from his father. The father said go, and
the son perished in the sea. Oi, oi, oi!”

“What are you prating there, old man? I say, he ordered me to drink no
gin. Soon he will order, like that King of yours, that the sea be lashed
with chains.”

“Oho! With chains.”

“Your king was a fool. Was he married, your king?”

“The sea is coming, coming!” mutters Dan. “It brings along its noise,
its secret, its deception. Oh, how the sea deceives man. Those who died
at sea--yes, yes, yes. Those who died at sea.”

“Yes, the sea is coming. And you don’t like it?” asks Khorre, rejoicing
maliciously. “Well, don’t you like it? I don’t like your music. Do you
hear, Dan? I hate your music!”

“Oho! And why do you come to hear it? I know that you and Gart stood by
the wall and listened.”

Khorre says sternly:

“It was he who got me out of bed.”

“He will get you out of bed again.”

“No!” roars Khorre furiously. “I will get up myself at night. Do you
hear, Dan? I will get up at night and break your music.”

“And I will spit into your sea.”

“Try,” says the sailor distrustfully. “How will you spit?”

“This way,” and Dan, exasperated, spits in the direction of the sea. The
frightened Khorre, in confusion, says hoarsely:

“Oh, what sort of man are you? You spat! Eh, Dan, look out; it will be
bad for you--you yourself are talking about those who died at sea.”

Dan shouts, frightened:

“Who speaks of those that perished at sea? You, you dog!”

He goes away, grumbling and coughing, swinging his hand and stooping.
Khorre is left alone before the entire vastness of the sea and the sky.

“He is gone. Then I am going to look at you, O sea, until my eyes will
burst of thirst!”

The ocean, approaching, is roaring.



CHAPTER IV


At the very edge of the water, upon a narrow landing on the rocky shore,
stands a man--a small, dark, motionless dot. Behind him is the cold,
almost vertical slope of granite, and before his eyes the ocean is
rocking heavily and dully in the impenetrable darkness. Its mighty
approach is felt in the open voice of the waves which are rising from
the depths. Even sniffing sounds are heard--it is as though a drove of
monsters, playing, were splashing, snorting, lying down on their backs,
and panting contentedly, deriving their monstrous pleasures.

The ocean smells of the strong odour of the depths, of decaying
seaweeds, of its grass. The sea is calm to-day and, as always, alone.

And there is but one little light in the black space of water and
night--the distant lighthouse of the Holy Cross.

The rattle of cobblestones is heard from under a cautious step: Haggart
is coming down to the sea along a steep path. He pauses, silent with
restraint, breathing deeply after the strain of passing the dangerous
slope, and goes forward. He is now at the edge--he straightens himself
and looks for a long time at him who had long before taken his strange
but customary place at the very edge of the deep. He makes a few steps
forward and greets him irresolutely and gently--Haggart greets him even
timidly:

“Good evening, stranger. Have you been here long?”

A sad, soft, and grave voice answers:

“Good evening, Haggart. Yes, I have been here long.”

“You are watching?”

“I am watching and listening.”

“Will you allow me to stand near you and look in the same direction
you are looking? I am afraid that I am disturbing you by my uninvited
presence--for when I came you were already here--but I am so fond of
this spot. This place is isolated, and the sea is near, and the earth
behind is silent; and here my eyes open. Like a night-owl, I see better
in the dark; the light of day dazzles me. You know, I have grown up on
the sea, sir.”

“No, you are not disturbing me, Haggart. But am I not disturbing you?
Then I shall go away.”

“You are so polite, sir,” mutters Haggart.

“But I also love this spot,” continues the sad, grave voice. “I, too,
like to feel that the cold and peaceful granite is behind me. You have
grown up on the sea, Haggart--tell me, what is that faint light on the
right?”

“That is the lighthouse of the Holy Cross.”

“Aha! The lighthouse of the Holy Cross. I didn’t know that. But can such
a faint light help in time of a storm? I look and it always seems to me
that the light is going out. I suppose it isn’t so.”

Haggart, agitated but restrained, says:

“You frighten me, sir. Why do you ask me what you know better than I do?
You want to tempt me--you know everything.”

There is not a trace of a smile in the mournful voice--nothing but
sadness.

“No, I know little. I know even less than you do, for I know more.
Pardon my rather complicated phrase, Haggart, but the tongue responds
with so much difficulty not only to our feeling, but also to our
thought.”

“You are polite,” mutters Haggart agitated. “You are polite and always
calm. You are always sad and you have a thin hand with rings upon it,
and you speak like a very important personage. Who are you, sir?”

“I am he whom you called--the one who is always sad.”

“When I come, you are already here; when I go away, you remain. Why do
you never want to go with me, sir?”

“There is one way for you, Haggart, and another for me.”

“I see you only at night. I know all the people around this settlement,
and there is no one who looks like you. Sometimes I think that you are
the owner of that old castle where I lived. If that is so I must tell
you the castle was destroyed by the storm.”

“I don’t know of whom you speak.”

“I don’t understand how you know my name, Haggart. But I don’t want to
deceive you. Although my wife Mariet calls me so, I invented that name
myself. I have another name--my real name--of which no one has ever
heard here.”

“I know your other name also, Haggart. I know your third name, too,
which even you do not know. But it is hardly worth speaking of this. You
had better look into this dark sea and tell me about your life. Is it
true that it is so joyous? They say that you are forever smiling. They
say that you are the bravest and most handsome fisherman on the coast.
And they also say that you love your wife Mariet very dearly.”

“O sir!” exclaims Haggart with restraint, “my life is so sad that you
could not find an image like it in this dark deep. O sir! my sufferings
are so deep that you could not find a more terrible place in this dark
abyss.”

“What is the cause of your sorrow and your sufferings, Haggart?”

“Life, sir. Here your noble and sad eyes look in the same direction my
eyes look--into this terrible, dark distance. Tell me, then, what is
stirring there? What is resting and waiting there, what is silent there,
what is screaming and singing and complaining there in its own voices?
What are the voices that agitate me and fill my soul with phantoms of
sorrow, and yet say nothing? And whence comes this night? And whence
comes my sorrow? Are you sighing, sir, or is it the sigh of the ocean
blending with your voice? My hearing is beginning to fail me, my master,
my dear master.”

The sad voice replies:

“It is my sigh, Haggart. My great sorrow is responding to your sorrow.
You see at night like an owl, Haggart; then look at my thin hands and at
my rings. Are they not pale? And look at my face--is it not pale? Is it
not pale--is it not pale? Oh, Haggart, my dear Haggart.”

They grieve silently. The heavy ocean is splashing, tossing about,
spitting and snorting and sniffing peacefully. The sea is calm to-night
and alone, as always.

“Tell Haggart--” says the sad voice.

“Very well. I will tell Haggart.”

“Tell Haggart that I love him.”

Silence--and then a faint, plaintive reproach resounds softly:

“If your voice were not so grave, sir, I would have thought that you
were laughing at me. Am I not Haggart that I should tell something to
Haggart? But no--I sense a different meaning in your words, and you
frighten me again. And when Haggart is afraid, it is real terror. Very
well, I will tell Haggart everything you have said.”

“Adjust my cloak; my shoulder is cold. But it always seems to me that
the light over there is going out. You called it the lighthouse of the
Holy Cross, if I am not mistaken?”

“Yes, it is called so here.”

“Aha! It is called so here.”

Silence.

“Must I go now?” asks Haggart.

“Yes, go.”

“And you will remain here?”

“I will remain here.”

Haggart retreats several steps.

“Good-bye, sir.”

“Good-bye, Haggart.”

Again the cobblestones rattle under his cautious steps; without looking
back, Haggart climbs the steep rocks.

Of what great sorrow speaks this night?



CHAPTER V


“Your hands are in blood, Haggart. Whom have you killed, Haggart?”

“Silence, Khorre, I killed that man. Be silent and listen--he will
commence to play soon. I stood here and listened, but suddenly my heart
sank, and I cannot stay here alone.”

“Don’t confuse my mind, Noni; don’t tempt me. I will run away from here.
At night, when I am already fast asleep, you swoop down on me like a
demon, grab me by the neck, and drag me over here--I can’t understand
anything. Tell me, my boy, is it necessary to hide the body?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Why didn’t you throw it into the sea?”

“Silence! What are you prating about? I have nothing to throw into the
sea.”

“But your hands are in blood.”

“Silence, Khorre! He will commence soon. Be silent and listen--I say to
you--Are you a friend to me or not, Khorre?”

He drags him closer to the dark window of the church. Khorre mutters:

“How dark it is. If you raised me out of bed for this accursed music--”

“Yes, yes; for this accursed music.”

“Then you have disturbed my honest sleep in vain; I want no music,
Noni.”

“So! Was I perhaps to run through the street, knock at the windows and
shout: ‘Eh, who is there; where’s a living soul? Come and help Haggart,
stand up with him against the cannons.’”

“You are confusing things, Noni. Drink some gin, my boy. What cannons?”

“Silence, sailor.”

He drags him away from the window.

“Oh, you shake me like a squall!”

“Silence! I think he looked at us from the window; something white
flashed behind the window pane. You may laugh. Khorre--if he came out
now I would scream like a woman.”

He laughs softly.

“Are you speaking of Dan? I don’t understand anything, Noni.”

“But is that Dan? Of course it is not Dan--it is some one else. Give me
your hand, sailor.”

“I think that you simply drank too much, like that time--remember,
in the castle? And your hand is quivering. But then the game was
different--”

“Tss!”

Khorre lowers his voice:

“But your hand is really in blood. Oh, you are breaking my fingers!”

Haggart threatens:

“If you don’t keep still, dog, I’ll break every bone of your body! I’ll
pull every vein out of your body, if you don’t keep still, you dog!”

Silence. The distant breakers are softly groaning, as if
complaining--the sea has gone far away from the black earth. And the
night is silent. It came no one knows whence and spread over the earth;
it spread over the earth and is silent; it is silent, waiting for
something. And ferocious mists have swung themselves to meet it--the sea
breathed phantoms, driving to the earth a herd of headless submissive
giants. A heavy fog is coming.

“Why doesn’t he light a lamp?” asks Khorre sternly but submissively.

“He needs no light.”

“Perhaps there is no one there any longer.”

“Yes, he’s there.”

“A fog is coming. How quiet it is! There’s something wrong in the
air--what do you think, Noni?”

“Tss!”

The first soft sounds of the organ resound. Some one is sitting alone
in the dark and is speaking to God in an incomprehensible language about
the most important things. And however faint the sounds--suddenly the
silence vanishes, the night trembles and stares into the dark church
with all its myriads of phantom eyes. An agitated voice whispers:

“Listen! He always begins that way. He gets a hold of your soul at once!
Where does he get the power? He gets a hold of your heart!”

“I don’t like it.”

“Listen! Now he makes believe he is Haggart, Khorre! Little Haggart in
his mother’s lap. Look, all hands are filled with golden rays; little
Haggart is playing with golden rays. Look!”

“I don’t see it, Noni. Leave my hand alone, it hurts.”

“Now he makes believe he is Haggart! Listen!”

The oppressive chords resound faintly. Haggart moans softly.

“What is it, Noni? Do you feel any pain?”

“Yes. Do you understand of what he speaks?”

“No.”

“He speaks of the most important--of the most vital, Khorre--if we could
only understand it--I want to understand it. Listen, Khorre, listen! Why
does he make believe that he is Haggart? It is not my soul. My soul does
not know this.”

“What, Noni?”

“I don’t know. What terrible dreams there are in this land! Listen.
There! Now he will cry and he will say: ‘It is Haggart crying.’ He will
call God and will say: ‘Haggart is calling.’ He lies--Haggart did not
call, Haggart does not know God.”

He moans again, trying to restrain himself.

“Do you feel any pain?”

“Yes--Be silent.”

Haggart exclaims in a muffled voice:

“Oh, Khorre!”

“What is it, Noni?”

“Why don’t you tell him that it isn’t Haggart? It is a lie!” whispers
Haggart rapidly. “He thinks that he knows, but he does not know
anything. He is a small, wretched old man with red eyes, like those of
a rabbit, and to-morrow death will mow him down. Ha! He is dealing in
diamonds, he throws them from one hand to the other like an old miser,
and he himself is dying of hunger. It is a fraud, Khorre, a fraud. Let
us shout loudly, Khorre, we are alone here.”

He shouts, turning to the thundering organ:

“Eh, musician! Even a fly cannot rise on your wings, even the smallest
fly cannot rise on your wings. Eh, musician! Let me have your torn hat
and I will throw a penny into it; your lie is worth no more. What are
you prating there about God, you rabbit’s eyes? Be silent, I am shamed
to listen to you. I swear, I am ashamed to listen to you! Don’t you
believe me? You are still calling? Whither?”

“Strike them on the head, Noni.”

“Be silent, you dog! But what a terrible land! What are they doing here
with the human heart? What terrible dreams there are in this land?”

He stops speaking. The organ sings solemnly.

“Why did you stop speaking, Noni?” asks the sailor with alarm.

“I am listening. It is good music, Khorre. Have I said anything?”

“You even shouted, Noni, and you forced me to shout with you.”

“That is not true. I have been silent all the time. Do you know, I
haven’t even opened my mouth once! You must have been dreaming, Khorre.
Perhaps you are thinking that you are near the church? You are simply
sleeping in your bed, sailor. It is a dream.”

Khorre is terrified.

“Drink some gin, Noni.”

“I don’t need it. I drank something else already.”

“Your hands?”

“Be silent, Khorre. Don’t you see that everything is silent and is
listening, and you alone are talking? The musician may feel offended!”

He laughs quietly. Brass trumpets are roaring harmoniously about the
triumphant conciliation between man and God. The fog is growing thicker.

A loud stamping of feet--some one runs through the deserted street in
agitation.

“Noni!” whispers the sailor. “Who ran by?”

“I hear.”

“Noni! Another one is running. Something is wrong.”

Frightened people are running about in the middle of the night--the
echo of the night doubles the sound of their footsteps, increasing their
terror tenfold, and it seems as if the entire village, terror-stricken,
is running away somewhere. Rocking, dancing silently, as upon waves, a
lantern floats by.

“They have found him, Khorre. They have found the man I killed, sailor!
I did not throw him into the sea; I brought him and set his head up
against the door of his house. They have found him.”

Another lantern floats by, swinging from side to side. As if hearing
the alarm, the organ breaks off at a high chord. An instant of silence,
emptiness of dread waiting, and then a woman’s sob of despair fills it
up to the brim.

The mist is growing thicker.



CHAPTER VI


The flame in the oil-lamp is dying out, having a smell of burning. It is
near sunrise. A large, clean, fisherman’s hut. A skilfully made
little ship is fastened to the ceiling, and even the sails are set.
Involuntarily this little ship has somehow become the centre of
attraction and all those who speak, who are silent and who listen, look
at it, study each familiar sail. Behind the dark curtain lies the body
of Philipp--this hut belonged to him.

The people are waiting for Haggart--some have gone out to search for
him. On the benches along the walls, the old fishermen have seated
themselves, their hands folded on their knees; some of them seem to be
slumbering; others are smoking their pipes. They speak meditatively and
cautiously, as though eager to utter no unnecessary words. Whenever
a belated fisherman comes in, he looks first at the curtain, then he
silently squeezes himself into the crowd, and those who have no place on
the bench apparently feel embarrassed.

The abbot paces the room heavily, his hands folded on his back, his head
lowered; when any one is in his way, he quietly pushes him aside with
his hand. He is silent and knits his brows convulsively. Occasionally he
glances at the door or at the window and listens.

The only woman present there is Mariet. She is sitting by the table
and constantly watching her father with her burning eyes. She shudders
slightly at each loud word, at the sound of the door as it opens, at the
noise of distant footsteps.

At night a fog came from the sea and covered the earth. And such
perfect quiet reigns now that long-drawn tolling is heard in the distant
lighthouse of the Holy Cross. Warning is thus given to the ships that
have lost their way in the fog.

Some one in the corner says:

“Judging from the blow, it was not one of our people that killed him.
Our people can’t strike like that. He stuck the knife here, then slashed
over there, and almost cut his head off.”

“You can’t do that with a dull knife!”

“No. You can’t do it with a weak hand. I saw a murdered sailor on the
wharf one day--he was cut up just like this.”

Silence.

“And where is his mother?” asks some one, nodding at the curtain.

“Selly is taking care of her. Selly took her to her house.”

An old fisherman quietly asks his neighbour:

“Who told you?”

“Francina woke me. Who told you, Marle?”

“Some one knocked on my window.”

“Who knocked on your window?”

“I don’t know.”

Silence.

“How is it you don’t know? Who was the first to see?”

“Some one passed by and noticed him.”

“None of us passed by. There was nobody among us who passed by.”

A fisherman seated at the other end, says:

“There was nobody among us who passed by. Tell us, Thomas.”

Thomas takes out his pipe:

“I am a neighbour of Philipp’s, of that man there--” he points at the
curtain. “Yes, yes, you all know that I am his neighbour. And if anybody
does not know it--I’ll say it again, as in a court of justice: I am his
neighbour--I live right next to him--” he turns to the window.

An elderly fisherman enters and forces himself silently into the line.

“Well, Tibo?” asks the abbot, stopping.

“Nothing.”

“Haven’t you found Haggart?”

“No. It is so foggy that they are afraid of losing themselves. They walk
and call each other; some of them hold each other by the hand. Even a
lantern can’t be seen ten feet away.”

The abbot lowers his head and resumes his pacing. The old fisherman
speaks, without addressing any one in particular.

“There are many ships now staring helplessly in the sea.”

“I walked like a blind man,” says Tibo. “I heard the Holy Cross ringing.
But it seems as if it changed its place. The sound comes from the left
side.”

“The fog is deceitful.”

Old Desfoso says:

“This never happened here. Since Dugamel broke Jack’s head with a shaft.
That was thirty--forty years ago.”

“What did you say, Desfoso?” the abbot stops.

“I say, since Dugamel broke Jack’s head--”

“Yes, yes!” says the abbot, and resumes pacing the room.

“Then Dugamel threw himself into the sea from a rock and was dashed to
death--that’s how it happened. He threw himself down.”

Mariet shudders and looks at the speaker with hatred. Silence.

“What did you say, Thomas?”

Thomas takes his pipe out of his mouth.

“Nothing. I only said that some one knocked at my window.”

“You don’t know who?”

“No. And you will never know. I came out, I looked--and there Philipp
was sitting at his door. I wasn’t surprised--Philipp often roamed about
at night ever since--”

He stops irresolutely. Mariet asks harshly:

“Since when? You said ‘since.’”

Silence. Desfoso replies frankly and heavily:

“Since your Haggart came. Go ahead, Thomas, tell us about it.”

“So I said to him: ‘Why did you knock, Philipp? Do you want anything?’
But he was silent.”

“And he was silent?”

“He was silent. ‘If you don’t want anything, you had better go to sleep,
my friend,’ said I. But he was silent. Then I looked at him--his throat
was cut open.”

Mariet shudders and looks at the speaker with aversion. Silence. Another
fisherman enters, looks at the curtain and silently forces his way into
the crowd. Women’s voices are heard behind the door; the abbot stops.

“Eh, Lebon! Chase the women away,” he says. “Tell them, there is nothing
for them to do here.”

Lebon goes out.

“Wait,” the abbot stops. “Ask how the mother is feeling; Selly is taking
care of her.”

Desfoso says:

“You say, chase away the women, abbot? And your daughter? She is here.”

The abbot looks at Mariet. She says:

“I am not going away from here.”

Silence. The abbot paces the room again; he looks at the little ship
fastened to the ceiling and asks:

“Who made it?”

All look at the little ship.

“He,” answers Desfoso. “He made it when he wanted to go to America as a
sailor. He was always asking me how a three-masted brig is fitted out.”

They look at the ship again, at its perfect little sails--at the little
rags. Lebon returns.

“I don’t know how to tell you about it, abbot. The women say that
Haggart and his sailor are being led over here. The women are afraid.”

Mariet shudders and looks at the door; the abbot pauses.

“Oho, it is daybreak already, the fog is turning blue!” says one
fisherman to another, but his voice breaks off.

“Yes. Low tide has started,” replies the other dully.

Silence. Then uneven footsteps resound. Several young fishermen with
excited faces bring in Haggart, who is bound, and push Khorre in after
him, also bound. Haggart is calm; as soon as the sailor was bound,
something wildly free appeared in his movements, in his manners, in the
sharpness of his swift glances.

One of the men who brought Haggart says to the abbot in a low voice:

“He was near the church. Ten times we passed by and saw no one, until he
called: ‘Aren’t you looking for me?’ It is so foggy, father.”

The abbot shakes his head silently and sits down. Mariet smiles to her
husband with her pale lips, but he does not look at her. Like all the
others, he has fixed his eyes in amazement on the toy ship.

“Hello, Haggart,” says the abbot.

“Hello, father.”

“You call me father?”

“Yes, you.”

“You are mistaken, Haggart. I am not your father.”

The fishermen exchanged glances contentedly.

“Well, then. Hello, abbot,” says Haggart with indifference, and resumes
examining the little ship. Khorre mutters:

“That’s the way, be firm, Noni.”

“Who made this toy?” asks Haggart, but no one replies.

“Hello, Gart!” says Mariet, smiling. “It is I, your wife, Mariet. Let me
untie your hands.”

With a smile, pretending that she does not notice the stains of blood,
she unfastens the ropes. All look at her in silence. Haggart also looks
at her bent, alarmed head.

“Thank you,” he says, straightening his hands.

“It would be a good thing to untie my hands, too,” said Khorre, but
there is no answer.

ABBOT--Haggart, did you kill Philipp?

HAGGART--I.

ABBOT--Do you mean to say--eh, you, Haggart--that you yourself killed
him with your own hands? Perhaps you said to the sailor: “Sailor, go and
kill Philipp,” and he did it, for he loves you and respects you as his
superior? Perhaps it happened that way! Tell me, Haggart. I called you
my son, Haggart.

HAGGART--No, I did not order the sailor to do it. I killed Philipp with
my own hand.

Silence.

KHORRE--Noni! Tell them to unfasten my hands and give me back my pipe.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” roars the priest. “Be bound awhile, drunkard! You
had better be afraid of an untied rope--it may be formed into a noose.”

But obeying a certain swift movement or glance of Haggart, Mariet walks
over to the sailor and opens the knots of the rope. And again all look
in silence upon her bent, alarmed head. Then they turn their eyes upon
Haggart. Just as they looked at the little ship before, so they now look
at him. And he, too, has forgotten about the toy. As if aroused from
sleep, he surveys the fishermen, and stares long at the dark curtain.

ABBOT--Haggart, I am asking you. Who carried Philipp’s body?

HAGGART--I. I brought it and put it near the door, his head against the
door, his face against the sea. It was hard to set him that way, he was
always falling down. But I did it.

ABBOT--Why did you do it?

HAGGART--I don’t know exactly. I heard that Philipp has a mother, an
old woman, and I thought this might please them better--both him and his
mother.

ABBOT--(With restraint.) You are laughing at us?

HAGGART--No. What makes you think I am laughing? I am just as serious as
you are. Did he--did Philipp make this little ship?

No one answers. Mariet, rising and bending over to Haggart across the
table, says:

“Didn’t you say this, Haggart: ‘My poor boy, I killed you because I
had to kill you, and now I am going to take you to your mother, my dear
boy’?”

“These are very sad words. Who told them to you, Mariet?” asks Haggart,
surprised.

“I heard them. And didn’t you say further: ‘Mother, I have brought you
your son, and put him down at your door--take your boy, mother’?”

Haggart maintains silence.

“I don’t know,” roars the abbot bitterly. “I don’t know; people don’t
kill here, and we don’t know how it is done. Perhaps that is as it
should be--to kill and then bring the murdered man to his mother’s
threshold. What are you gaping at, you scarecrow?”

Khorre replies rudely:

“According to my opinion, he should have thrown him into the sea. Your
Haggart is out of his mind; I have said it long ago.”

Suddenly old Desfoso shouts amid the loud approval of the others:

“Hold your tongue! We will send him to the city, but we will hang you
like a cat ourselves, even if you did not kill him.”

“Silence, old man, silence!” the abbot stops him, while Khorre looks
over their heads with silent contempt. “Haggart, I am asking you, why
did you take Philipp’s life? He needed his life just as you need yours.”

“He was Mariet’s betrothed--and--”

“Well?”

“And--I don’t want to speak. Why didn’t you ask me before, when he was
alive? Now I have killed him.”

“But”--says the abbot, and there is a note of entreaty in his heavy
voice. “But it may be that you are already repenting, Haggart? You are a
splendid man, Gart. I know you; when you are sober you cannot hurt even
a fly. Perhaps you were intoxicated--that happens with young people--and
Philipp may have said something to you, and you--”

“No.”

“No? Well, then, let it be no. Am I not right, children? But perhaps
something strange came over you--it happens with people--suddenly a red
mist will get into a man’s head, the beast will begin to howl in his
breast, and--In such cases one word is enough--”

“No, Philipp did not say anything to me. He passed along the road, when
I jumped out from behind a large rock and stuck a knife into his throat.
He had no time even to be scared. But if you like--” Haggart surveys the
fishermen with his eyes irresolutely--“I feel a little sorry for him.
That is, just a little. Did he make this toy?”

The abbot lowers his head sternly. And Desfoso shouts again, amidst sobs
of approval from the others:

“No! Abbot, you better ask him what he was doing at the church. Dan saw
them from the window. Wouldn’t you tell us what you and your accursed
sailor were doing at the church? What were you doing there? Speak.”

Haggart looks at the speaker steadfastly and says slowly:

“I talked with the devil.”

A muffled rumbling follows. The abbot jumps from his place and roars
furiously:

“Then let him sit on your neck! Eh, Pierre, Jules, tie him down as fast
as you can until morning. And the other one, too. And in the morning--in
the morning, take him away to the city, to the Judges. I don’t know
their accursed city laws”--cries the abbot in despair--“but they will
hang you, Haggart! You will dangle on a rope, Haggart!”

Khorre rudely pushes aside the young fisherman who comes over to him
with a rope, and says to Desfoso in a low voice:

“It’s an important matter, old man. Go away for a minute--he oughtn’t to
hear it,” he nods at Haggart.

“I don’t trust you.”

“You needn’t. That’s nothing. Noni, there is a little matter here. Come,
come, and don’t be afraid. I have no knife.”

The people step aside and whisper. Haggart is silently waiting to be
bound, but no one comes over to him. All shudder when Mariet suddenly
commences to speak:

“Perhaps you think that all this is just, father? Why, then, don’t you
ask me about it? I am his wife. Don’t you believe that I am his wife?
Then I will bring little Noni here. Do you want me to bring little Noni?
He is sleeping, but I will wake him up. Once in his life he may wake up
at night in order to say that this man whom you want to hang in the city
is his father.”

“Don’t!” says Haggart.

“Very well,” replies Mariet obediently. “He commands and I must obey--he
is my husband. Let little Noni sleep. But I am not sleeping, I am here.
Why, then, didn’t you ask me: ‘Mariet, how was it possible that your
husband, Haggart, should kill Philipp’?”

Silence. Desfoso, who has returned and who is agitated, decides:

“Let her speak. She is his wife.”

“You will not believe, Desfoso,” says Mariet, turning to the old
fisherman with a tender and mournful smile. “Desfoso, you will not
believe what strange and peculiar creatures we women are!”

Turning to all the people with the same smile, she continues:

“You will not believe what queer desires, what cunning, malicious
little thoughts we women have. It was I who persuaded my husband to kill
Philipp. Yes, yes--he did not want to do it, but I urged him; I cried so
much and threatened him, so he consented. Men always give in--isn’t that
true, Desfoso?”

Haggart looks at his wife in a state of great perplexity, his eyebrows
brought close to each other. Mariet continues, without looking at him,
still smiling as before:

“You will ask me, why I wanted Philipp’s death? Yes, yes, you will ask
this question, I know it. He never did me any harm, that poor Philipp,
isn’t that true? Then I will tell you: He was my betrothed. I don’t know
whether you will be able to understand me. You, old Desfoso--you would
not kill the girl you kissed one day? Of course not. But we women are
such strange creatures--you can’t even imagine what strange, suspicious,
peculiar creatures we are. Philipp was my betrothed, and he kissed me--”

She wipes her mouth and continues, laughing:

“Here I am wiping my mouth even now. You have all seen how I wiped my
mouth. I am wiping away Philipp’s kisses. You are laughing. But ask your
wife, Desfoso--does she want the life of the man who kissed her before
you? Ask all women who love--even the old women! We never grow old in
love. We are born so, we women.”

Haggart almost believes her. Advancing a step forward, he asks:

“You urged me? Perhaps it is true, Mariet--I don’t remember.”

Mariet laughs.

“Do you hear? He has forgotten. Go on, Gart. You may say that it was
your own idea? That’s the way you men are--you forget everything. Will
you say perhaps that I--”

“Mariet!” Haggart interrupts her threateningly.

Mariet, turning pale, looking sorrowfully at his terrible eyes which are
now steadfastly fixed upon her, continues, still smiling:

“Go on, Gart! Will you say perhaps that I--Will you say perhaps that I
dissuaded you? That would be funny--”

HAGGART--No, I will not say that. You lie, Mariet! Even I, Haggart--just
think of it, people--even I believed her, so cleverly does this woman
lie.

MARIET--Go--on--Haggart.

HAGGART--You are laughing? Abbot, I don’t want to be the husband of your
daughter--she lies.

ABBOT--You are worse than the devil, Gart! That’s what I say--You are
worse than the devil, Gart!

HAGGART--You are all foolish people! I don’t understand you; I don’t
know now what to do with you. Shall I laugh? Shall I be angry? Shall
I cry? You want to let me go--why, then, don’t you let me go? You are
sorry for Philipp. Well, then, kill me--I have told you that it was I
who killed the boy. Am I disputing? But you are making grimaces like
monkeys that have found bananas--or have you such a game in your land?
Then I don’t want to play it. And you, abbot, you are like a juggler in
the marketplace. In one hand you have truth and in the other hand
you have truth, and you are forever performing tricks. And now she is
lying--she lies so well that my heart contracts with belief. Oh, she is
doing it well!

And he laughs bitterly.

MARIET--Forgive me, Gart.

HAGGART--When I wanted to kill him, she hung on my hand like a rock, and
now she says that she killed him. She steals from me this murder; she
does not know that one has to earn that, too! Oh, there are queer people
in your land!

“I wanted to deceive them, not you, Gart. I wanted to save you,” says
Mariet.

Haggart replies:

“My father taught me: ‘Eh, Noni, beware! There is one truth and one law
for all--for the sun, for the wind, for the waves, for the beasts--and
only for man there is another truth. Beware of this truth of man, Noni!’
so said my father. Perhaps this is your truth? Then I am not afraid of
it, but I feel very sad and very embittered. Mariet, if you sharpened my
knife and said: ‘Go and kill that man’--it may be that I would not have
cared to kill him. ‘What is the use of cutting down a withered tree?’--I
would have said. But now--farewell, Mariet! Well, bind me and take me to
the city.”

He waits haughtily, but no one approaches him. Mariet has lowered her
head upon her hands, her shoulders are twitching. The abbot is also
absorbed in thought, his large head lowered. Desfoso is carrying on a
heated conversation in whispers with the fishermen. Khorre steps forward
and speaks, glancing at Haggart askance:

“I had a little talk with them, Noni--they are all right, they are good
fellows, Noni. Only the priest--but he is a good man, too--am I right,
Noni? Don’t look so crossly at me, or I’ll mix up the whole thing! You
see, kind people, it’s this way: this man, Haggart, and I have saved up
a little sum of money, a little barrel of gold. We don’t need it, Noni,
do we? Perhaps you will take it for yourselves? What do you think?
Shall we give them the gold, Noni? You see, here I’ve entangled myself
already.”

He winks slyly at Mariet, who has now lifted her head.

“What are you prating there, you scarecrow?” asks the abbot.

Khorre continues:

“Here it goes, Noni; I am straightening it out little by little! But
where have we buried it, the barrel? Do you remember, Noni? I have
forgotten. They say it’s from the gin, kind people; they say that one’s
memory fails from too much gin. I am a drunkard, that’s true.”

“If you are not inventing--then you had better choke yourself with your
gold, you dog!” says the abbot.

HAGGART--Khorre!

KHORRE--Yes.

HAGGART--To-morrow you will get a hundred lashes. Abbot, order a hundred
lashes for him!

ABBOT--With pleasure, my son. With pleasure.

The movements of the fishermen are just as slow and languid, but there
is something new in their increased puffing and pulling at their pipes,
in the light quiver of their tanned hands. Some of them arise and look
out of the window with feigned indifference.

“The fog is rising!” says one, looking out of the window. “Do you hear
what I said about the fog?”

“It’s time to go to sleep. I say, it’s time to go to sleep!”

Desfoso comes forward and speaks cautiously:

“That isn’t quite so, abbot. It seems you didn’t say exactly what
you ought to say, abbot. They seem to think differently. I don’t say
anything for myself--I am simply talking about them. What do you say,
Thomas?”

THOMAS--We ought to go to sleep, I say. Isn’t it true that it is time to
go to sleep?

MARIET (softly)--Sit down, Gart. You are tired to-night. You don’t
answer?

An old fisherman says:

“There used to be a custom in our land, I heard, that a murderer was to
pay a fine for the man he killed. Have you heard about it, Desfoso?”

Another voice is heard:

“Philipp is dead. Philipp is dead already, do you hear, neighbour? Who
is going to support his mother?”

“I haven’t enough even for my own! And the fog is rising, neighbour.”

“Abbot, did you hear us say: ‘Gart is a bad man; Gart is a
good-for-nothing, a city trickster?’ No, we said: ‘This thing has never
happened here before,’” says Desfoso.

Then a determined voice remarks:

“Gart is a good man! Wild Gart is a good man!”

DESFOSO--If you looked around, abbot, you couldn’t find a single, strong
boat here. I haven’t enough tar for mine. And the church--is that the
way a good church ought to look? I am not saying it myself, but it comes
out that way--it can’t be helped, abbot.

Haggart turns to Mariet and says:

“Do you hear, woman?”

“I do.”

“Why don’t you spit into their faces?”

“I can’t. I love you, Haggart. Are there only ten Commandments of God?
No, there is still another: ‘I love you, Haggart.’”

“What sad dreams there are in your land.”

The abbot rises and walks over to the fishermen.

“Well, what did you say about the church, old man? You said something
interesting about the church, or was I mistaken?”

He casts a swift glance at Mariet and Haggart.

“It isn’t the church alone, abbot. There are four of us old men: Legran,
Stoffle, Puasar, Kornu, and seven old women. Do I say that we are not
going to feed them? Of course, we will, but don’t be angry, father--it
is hard! You know it yourself, abbot--old age is no fun.”

“I am an old man, too!” begins old Rikke, lisping, but suddenly he
flings his hat angrily to the ground. “Yes, I am an old man. I don’t
want any more, that’s all! I worked, and now I don’t want to work.
That’s all! I don’t want to work.”

He goes out, swinging his hand. All look sympathetically at his stooping
back, at his white tufts of hair. And then they look again at Desfoso,
at his mouth, from which their words come out. A voice says:

“There, Rikke doesn’t want to work any more.”

All laugh softly and forcedly.

“Suppose we send Gart to the city--what then?” Desfoso goes on, without
looking at Haggart. “Well, the city people will hang him--and then
what? The result will be that a man will be gone, a fisherman will be
gone--you will lose a son, and Mariet will lose her husband, and the
little boy his father. Is there any joy in that?”

“That’s right, that’s right!” nods the abbot, approvingly. “But what a
mind you have, Desfoso!”

“Do you pay attention to them, Abbot?” asked Haggart.

“Yes, I do, Haggart. And it wouldn’t do you any harm to pay attention to
them. The devil is prouder than you, and yet he is only the devil, and
nothing more.”

Desfoso affirms:

“What’s the use of pride? Pride isn’t necessary.”

He turns to Haggart, his eyes still lowered; then he lifts his eyes and
asks:

“Gart! But you don’t need to kill anybody else. Excepting Philipp, you
don’t feel like killing anybody else, do you?”

“No.”

“Only Philipp, and no more? Do you hear? Only Philipp, and no more. And
another question--Gart, don’t you want to send away this man, Khorre? We
would like you to do it. Who knows him? People say that all this trouble
comes through him.”

Several voices are heard:

“Through him. Send him away, Gart! It will be better for him!”

The abbot upholds them.

“True!”

“You, too, priest!” says Khorre, gruffly. Haggart looks with a faint
smile at his angry, bristled face, and says:

“I rather feel like sending him away. Let him go.”

“Well, then, Abbot,” says Desfoso, turning around, “we have decided, in
accordance with our conscience--to take the money. Do I speak properly?”

One voice answers for all:

“Yes.”

DESFOSO--Well, sailor, where is the money?

KHORRE--Captain?

HAGGART--Give it to them.

KHORRE (rudely)--“Then give me back my knife and my pipe first! Who is
the eldest among you--you? Listen, then: Take crowbars and shovels and
go to the castle. Do you know the tower, the accursed tower that fell?
Go over there--”

He bends down and draws a map on the floor with his crooked finger. All
bend down and look attentively; only the abbot gazes sternly out of the
window, behind which the heavy fog is still grey. Haggart whispers in a
fit of rage:

“Mariet, it would have been better if you had killed me as I killed
Philipp. And now my father is calling me. Where will be the end of my
sorrow, Mariet? Where the end of the world is. And where is the end of
the world? Do you want to take my sorrow, Mariet?”

“I do, Haggart.”

“No, you are a woman.”

“Why do you torture me, Gart? What have I done that you should torture
me so? I love you.”

“You lied.”

“My tongue lied. I love you.”

“A serpent has a double tongue, but ask the serpent what it wants--and
it will tell you the truth. It is your heart that lied. Was it not you,
girl, that I met that time on the road? And you said: ‘Good evening.’
How you have deceived me!”

Desfoso asks loudly:

“Well, abbot? You are coming along with us, aren’t you, father.
Otherwise something wrong might come out of it. Do I speak properly?”

The abbot replies merrily:

“Of course, of course, children. I am going with you. Without me, you
will think of the church. I have just been thinking of the church--of
the kind of church you need. Oh, it’s hard to get along with you,
people!”

The fishermen go out very slowly--they are purposely lingering.

“The sea is coming,” says one. “I can hear it.”

“Yes, yes, the sea is coming! Did you understand what he said?”

The few who remained are more hasty in their movements. Some of them
politely bid Haggart farewell.

“Good-bye, Gart.”

“I am thinking, Haggart, what kind of a church we need. This one will
not do, it seems. They prayed here a hundred years; now it is no good,
they say. Well, then, it is necessary to have a new one, a better one.
But what shall it be?”

“‘Pope’s a rogue, Pope’s a rogue.’ But, then, I am a rogue, too. Don’t
you think, Gart, that I am also something of a rogue? One moment,
children, I am with you.”

There is some crowding in the doorway. The abbot follows the last man
with his eyes and roars angrily:

“Eh, you, Haggart, murderer! What are you smiling at? You have no right
to despise them like that. They are my children. They have worked--have
you seen their hands, their backs? If you haven’t noticed that, you are
a fool! They are tired. They want to rest. Let them rest, even at the
cost of the blood of the one you killed. I’ll give them each a little,
and the rest I will throw out into the sea. Do you hear, Haggart?”

“I hear, priest.”

The abbot exclaims, raising his arms:

“O Lord! Why have you made a heart that can have pity on both the
murdered and the murderer! Gart, go home. Take him home, Mariet, and
wash his hands!”

“To whom do you lie, priest?” asks Haggart, slowly. “To God or to the
devil? To yourself or to the people? Or to everybody?”

He laughs bitterly.

“Eh, Gart! You are drunk with blood.”

“And with what are you drunk?”

They face each other. Mariet cries angrily, placing herself between
them:

“May a thunder strike you down, both of you, that’s what I am praying
to God. May a thunder strike you down! What are you doing with my heart?
You are tearing it with your teeth like greedy dogs. You didn’t drink
enough blood, Gart, drink mine, then! You will never have enough, Gart,
isn’t that true?”

“Now, now,” says the abbot, calming them. “Take him home, Mariet. Go
home, Gart, and sleep more.”

Mariet comes forward, goes to the door and pauses there.

“Gart! I am going to little Noni.”

“Go.”

“Are you coming along with me?”

“Yes--no--later.”

“I am going to little Noni. What shall I tell him about his father when
he wakes up?”

Haggart is silent. Khorre comes back and stops irresolutely at the
threshold. Mariet casts at him a glance full of contempt and then goes
out. Silence.

“Khorre!”

“Yes.”

“Gin!”

“Here it is, Noni. Drink it, my boy, but not all at once, not all at
once, Noni.”

Haggart drinks; he examines the room with a smile.

“Nobody. Did you see him, Khorre? He is there, behind the curtain. Just
think of it, sailor--here we are again with him alone.”

“Go home, Noni!”

“Right away. Give me some gin.”

He drinks.

“And they? They have gone?”

“They ran, Noni. Go home, my boy! They ran off like goats. I was
laughing so much, Noni.”

Both laugh.

“Take down that toy, Khorre. Yes, yes, a little ship. He made it,
Khorre.”

They examine the toy.

“Look how skilfully the jib was made, Khorre. Good boy, Philipp! But the
halyards are bad, look. No, Philipp! You never saw how real ships are
fitted out--real ships which rove over the ocean, tearing its grey
waves. Was it with this toy that you wanted to quench your little
thirst--fool?”

He throws down the little ship and rises:

“Khorre! Boatswain!”

“Yes.”

“Call them! I assume command again, Khorre!”

The sailor turns pale and shouts enthusiastically:

“Noni! Captain! My knees are trembling. I will not be able to reach them
and I will fall on the way.”

“You will reach them! We must also take our money away from these
people--what do you think, Khorre? We have played a little, and now it
is enough--what do you think, Khorre?”

He laughs. The sailor looks at him, his hands folded as in prayer, and
he weeps.



CHAPTER VII


“These are your comrades, Haggart? I am so glad to see them. You said,
Gart, yes--you said that their faces were entirely different from the
faces of our people, and that is true. Oh, how true it is! Our people
have handsome faces, too--don’t think our fishermen are ugly, but they
haven’t these deep, terrible scars. I like them very much, I assure you,
Gart. I suppose you are a friend of Haggart’s--you have such stern, fine
eyes? But you are silent? Why are they silent, Haggart; did you forbid
them to speak? And why are you silent yourself, Haggart? Haggart!”

Illuminated by the light of torches, Haggart stands and listens to the
rapid, agitated speech. The metal of the guns and the uniforms vibrates
and flashes; the light is also playing on the faces of those who
have surrounded Haggart in a close circle--these are his nearest, his
friends. And in the distance there is a different game--there a large
ship is dancing silently, casting its light upon the black waves,
and the black water plays with them, pleating them like a braid,
extinguishing them and kindling them again.

A noisy conversation and the splashing of the waters--and the dreadful
silence of kindred human lips that are sealed.

“I am listening to you, Mariet,” says Haggart at last. “What do you
want, Mariet? It is impossible that some one should have offended you. I
ordered them not to touch your house.”

“Oh, no, Haggart, no! No one has offended me!” exclaimed Mariet
cheerfully. “But don’t you like me to hold little Noni in my arms?
Then I will put him down here among the rocks. Here he will be warm and
comfortable as in his cradle. That’s the way! Don’t be afraid of waking
him, Gart; he sleeps soundly and will not hear anything. You may shout,
sing, fire a pistol--the boy sleeps soundly.”

“What do you want, Mariet? I did not call you here, and I am not pleased
that you have come.”

“Of course, you did not call me here, Haggart; of course, you didn’t.
But when the fire was started, I thought: ‘Now it will light the way for
me to walk. Now I will not stumble.’ And I went. Your friends will not
be offended, Haggart, if I will ask them to step aside for awhile? I
have something to tell you, Gart. Of course, I should have done that
before, I understand, Gart; but I only just recalled it now. It was so
light to walk!”

Haggart says sternly:

“Step aside, Flerio, and you all--step aside with him.”

They all step aside.

“What is it that you have recalled, Mariet? Speak! I am going away
forever from your mournful land, where one dreams such painful dreams,
where even the rocks dream of sorrow. And I have forgotten everything.”

Gently and submissively, seeking protection and kindness, the woman
presses close to his hand.

“O, Haggart! O, my dear Haggart! They are not offended because I asked
them so rudely to step aside, are they? O, my dear Haggart! The galloons
of your uniform scratched my cheek, but it is so pleasant. Do you know,
I never liked it when you wore the clothes of our fishermen--it was not
becoming to you, Haggart. But I am talking nonsense, and you are getting
angry, Gart. Forgive me!”

“Don’t kneel. Get up.”

“It was only for a moment. Here, I got up. You ask me what I want? This
is what I want: Take me with you, Haggart! Me and little Noni, Haggart!”

Haggart retreats.

“You say that, Mariet? You say that I should take you along? Perhaps you
are laughing, woman? Or am I dreaming again?”

“Yes, I say that: Take me with you. Is this your ship? How large and
beautiful it is, and it has black sails, I know it. Take me on your
ship, Haggart. I know, you will say: ‘We have no women on the ship,’ but
I will be the woman: I will be your soul. Haggart, I will be your song,
your thoughts, Haggart! And if it must be so, let Khorre give gin to
little Noni--he is a strong boy.”

“Eh, Mariet?” says Haggart sternly. “Do you perhaps want me to believe
you again? Eh, Mariet? Don’t talk of that which you do not know, woman.
Are the rocks perhaps casting a spell over me and turning my head? Do
you hear the noise, and something like voices? That is the sea, waiting
for me. Don’t hold my soul. Let it go, Mariet.”

“Don’t speak, Haggart! I know everything. It was not as though I came
along a fiery road, it was not as though I saw blood to-day. Be silent,
Haggart! I have seen something more terrible, Haggart! Oh, if you
could only understand me! I have seen cowardly people who ran without
defending themselves. I have seen clutching, greedy fingers, crooked
like those of birds, like those of birds, Haggart! And out of these
fingers, which were forced open, gold was taken. And suddenly I saw a
man sobbing. Think of it, Haggart! They were taking gold from him, and
he was sobbing.”

She laughs bitterly. Haggart advances a step toward her and puts his
heavy hand upon her shoulder:

“Yes, yes, Mariet. Speak on, girl, let the sea wait.”

Mariet removes his hand and continues:

“‘No,’ I thought. ‘These are not my brethren at all!’ I thought and
laughed. And father shouted to the cowards: ‘Take shafts and strike
them.’ But they were running. Father is such a splendid man.”

“Father is a splendid man,” Haggart affirms cheerfully.

“Such a splendid man! And then one sailor bent down close to
Noni--perhaps he did not want to do any harm to him, but he bent down to
him too closely, so, I fired at him from your pistol. Is it nothing that
I fired at our sailor?”

Haggart laughs:

“He had a comical face! You killed him, Mariet.”

“No. I don’t know how to shoot. And it was he who told me where you
were. O Haggart, O brother!”

She sobs, and then she speaks angrily with a shade of a serpentine hiss
in her voice:

“I hate them! They were not tortured enough; I would have tortured them
still more, still more. Oh, what cowardly rascals they are! Listen,
Haggart, I was always afraid of your power--to me there was always
something terrible and incomprehensible in your power. ‘Where is his
God?’ I wondered, and I was terrified. Even this morning I was afraid,
but now that this night came, this terror has fled, and I came running
to you over the fiery road: I am going with you, Haggart. Take me,
Haggart, I will be the soul of your ship!”

“I am the soul of my ship, Mariet. But you will be the song of my
liberated soul, Mariet. You shall be the song of my ship, Mariet! Do you
know where we are going? We are going to look for the end of the world,
for unknown lands, for unknown monsters. And at night Father Ocean will
sing to us, Mariet!”

“Embrace me, Haggart. Ah, Haggart, he is not a God who makes cowards of
human beings. We shall go to look for a new God.”

Haggart whispers stormily:

“I lied when I said that I have forgotten everything--I learned this in
your land. I love you, Mariet, as I love fire. Eh, Flerio, comrade!” He
shouts cheerfully: “Eh, Flerio, comrade! Have you prepared a salute?”

“I have, Captain. The shores will tremble when our cannons speak.”

“Eh, Flerio, comrade! Don’t gnash your teeth, without biting--no one
will believe you. Did you put in cannon balls--round, cast-iron, good
cannon balls? Give them wings, comrade--let them fly like blackbirds on
land and sea.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Haggart laughs:

“I love to think how the cannon ball flies, Mariet. I love to watch its
invisible flight. If some one comes in its way--let him! Fate itself
strikes down like that. What is an aim? Only fools need an aim, while
the devil, closing his eyes, throws stones--the wise game is merrier
this way. But you are silent! What are you thinking of, Mariet?”

“I am thinking of them. I am forever thinking of them.”

“Are you sorry for them?” Haggart frowns.

“Yes, I am sorry for them. But my pity is my hatred, Haggart. I hate
them, and I would kill them, more and more!”

“I feel like flying faster--my soul is so free. Let us jest, Mariet!
Here is a riddle, guess it: For whom will the cannons roar soon? You
think, for me? No. For you? no, no, not for you, Mariet! For little
Noni, for him--for little Noni who is boarding the ship to-night. Let
him wake up from this thunder. How our little Noni will be surprised!
And now be quiet, quiet--don’t disturb his sleep--don’t spoil little
Noni’s awakening.”

The sound of voices is heard--a crowd is approaching.

“Where is the captain?”

“Here. Halt, the captain is here!”

“It’s all done. They can be crammed into a basket like herrings.”

“Our boatswain is a brave fellow! A jolly man.”

Khorre, intoxicated and jolly, shouts:

“Not so loud, devils! Don’t you see that the captain is here? They
scream like seagulls over a dead dolphin.”

Mariet steps aside a little distance, where little Noni is sleeping.

KHORRE--Here we are, Captain. No losses, Captain. And how we laughed,
Noni.

HAGGART--You got drunk rather early. Come to the point.

KHORRE--Very well. The thing is done, Captain. We’ve picked up all our
money--not worse than the imperial tax collectors. I could not tell
which was ours, so I picked up all the money. But if they have buried
some of the gold, forgive us, Captain--we are not peasants to plough the
ground.

Laughter. Haggart also laughs.

“Let them sow, we shall reap.”

“Golden words, Noni. Eh, Tommy, listen to what the Captain is saying.
And another thing: Whether you will be angry or not--I have broken the
music. I have scattered it in small pieces. Show your pipe, Tetyu! Do
you see, Noni, I didn’t do it at once, no. I told him to play a jig, and
he said that he couldn’t do it. Then he lost his mind and ran away. They
all lost their minds there, Captain. Eh, Tommy, show your beard. An old
woman tore half of his beard out, Captain--now he is a disgrace to look
upon. Eh, Tommy! He has hidden himself, he’s ashamed to show his face,
Captain. And there’s another thing: The priest is coming here.”

Mariet exclaims:

“Father!”

Khorre, astonished, asks:

“Are you here? If she came to complain, I must report to you,
Captain--the priest almost killed one of our sailors. And she, too. I
ordered the men to bind the priest--”

“Silence.”

“I don’t understand your actions, Noni--”

Haggart, restraining his rage, exclaims:

“I shall have you put in irons! Silence!”

With ever-growing rage:

“You dare talk back to me, riff-raff! You--”

Mariet cautions him:

“Gart! They have brought father here.”

Several sailors bring in the abbot, bound. His clothes are in disorder,
his face is agitated and pale. He looks at Mariet with some amazement,
and lowers his eyes. Then he heaves a sigh.

“Untie him!” says Mariet. Haggart corrects her restrainedly:

“Only I command here, Mariet. Khorre, untie him.”

Khorre unfastens the knots. Silence.

ABBOT--Hello, Haggart.

“Hello, abbot.”

“You have arranged a fine night, Haggart!”

Haggart speaks with restraint:

“It is unpleasant for me to see you. Why did you come here? Go home,
priest, no one will touch you. Keep on fishing--and what else were you
doing? Oh, yes--make your own prayers. We are going out to the ocean;
your daughter, you know, is also going with me. Do you see the ship?
That is mine. It’s a pity that you don’t know about ships--you would
have laughed for joy at the sight of such a beautiful ship! Why is he
silent, Mariet? You had better tell him.”

ABBOT--Prayers? In what language? Have you, perhaps, discovered a new
language in which prayers reach God? Oh, Haggart, Haggart!

He weeps, covering his face with his hands. Haggart, alarmed, asks:

“You are crying, abbot?”

“Look, Gart, he is crying. Father never cried. I am afraid, Gart.”

The abbot stops crying. Heaving a deep sigh, he says:

“I don’t know what they call you: Haggart or devil or something else--I
have come to you with a request. Do you hear, robber, with a request?
Tell your crew not to gnash their teeth like that--I don’t like it.”

Haggart replies morosely:

“Go home, priest! Mariet will stay with me.”

“Let her stay with you. I don’t need her, and if you need her, take her.
Take her, Haggart. But--”

He kneels before him. A murmur of astonishment. Mariet, frightened,
advances a step to her father.

“Father! You are kneeling?”

ABBOT--Robber! Give us back the money. You will rob more for yourself,
but give this money to us. You are young yet, you will rob some more
yet--

HAGGART--You are insane! There’s a man--he will drive the devil himself
to despair! Listen, priest, I am shouting to you: You have simply lost
your mind!

The abbot, still kneeling, continues:

“Perhaps, I have--by God, I don’t know. Robber, dearest, what is this to
you? Give us this money. I feel sorry for them, for the scoundrels!
They rejoiced so much, the scoundrels. They blossomed forth like an
old blackthorn which has nothing but thorns and a ragged bark. They
are sinners. But am I imploring God for their sake? I am imploring you.
Robber, dearest--”

Mariet looks now at Haggart, now at the priest. Haggart is hesitating.
The abbot keeps muttering:

“Robber, do you want me to call you son? Well, then--son--it makes no
difference now--I will never see you again. It’s all the same! Like
an old blackthorn, they bloomed--oh, Lord, those scoundrels, those old
scoundrels!”

“No,” Haggart replied sternly.

“Then you are the devil, that’s who you are. You are the devil,” mutters
the abbot, rising heavily from the ground. Haggart shows his teeth,
enraged.

“Do you wish to sell your soul to the devil? Yes? Eh, abbot--don’t you
know yet that the devil always pays with spurious money? Let me have a
torch, sailor!”

He seizes a torch and lifts it high over his head--he covers his
terrible face with fire and smoke.

“Look, here I am! Do you see? Now ask me, if you dare!”

He flings the torch away. What does the abbot dream in this land full
of monstrous dreams? Terrified, his heavy frame trembling, helplessly
pushing the people aside with his hands, he retreats. He turns around.
Now he sees the glitter of the metal, the dark and terrible faces; he
hears the angry splashing of the waters--and he covers his head with his
hands and walks off quickly. Then Khorre jumps up and strikes him with a
knife in his back.

“Why have you done it?”--the abbot clutches the hand that struck him
down.

“Just so--for nothing!”

The abbot falls to the ground and dies.

“Why have you done it?” cries Mariet.

“Why have you done it?” roars Haggart.

And a strange voice, coming from some unknown depths, answers with
Khorre’s lips:

“You commanded me to do it.”

Haggart looks around and sees the stern, dark faces, the quivering
glitter of the metal, the motionless body; he hears the mysterious,
merry dashing of the waves. And he clasps his head in a fit of terror.

“Who commanded? It was the roaring of the sea. I did not want to kill
him--no, no!”

Sombre voices answer:

“You commanded. We heard it. You commanded.”

Haggart listens, his head thrown back. Suddenly he bursts into loud
laughter:

“Oh, devils, devils! Do you think that I have two ears in order that you
may lie in each one? Go down on your knees, rascal!”

He hurls Khorre to the ground.

“String him up with a rope! I would have crushed your venomous head
myself--but let them do it. Oh, devils, devils! String him up with a
rope.”

Khorre whines harshly:

“Me, Captain! I was your nurse, Noni.”

“Silence! Rascal!”

“I? Noni! Your nurse? You squealed like a little pig in the cook’s room.
Have you forgotten it, Noni?” mutters the sailor plaintively.

“Eh,” shouts Haggart to the stern crowd. “Take him!”

Several men advance to him. Khorre rises.

“If you do it to me, to your own nurse--then you have recovered, Noni!
Eh, obey the captain! Take me! I’ll make you cry enough, Tommy! You are
always the mischief-maker!”

Grim laughter. Several sailors surround Khorre as Haggart watches them
sternly. A dissatisfied voice says:

“There is no place where to hang him here. There isn’t a single tree
around.”

“Let us wait till we get aboard ship! Let him die honestly on the mast.”

“I know of a tree around here, but I won’t tell you,” roars Khorre
hoarsely. “Look for it yourself! Well, you have astonished me, Noni. How
you shouted, ‘String him up with a rope!’ Exactly like your father--he
almost hanged me, too. Good-bye, Noni, now I understand your actions.
Eh, gin! and then--on the rope!”

Khorre goes off. No one dares approach Haggart; still enraged, he paces
back and forth with long strides. He pauses, glances at the body and
paces again. Then he calls:

“Flerio! Did you hear me give orders to kill this man?”

“No, Captain.”

“You may go.”

He paces back and forth again, and then calls:

“Flerio! Have you ever heard the sea lying?”

“No.”

“If they can’t find a tree, order them to choke him with their hands.”

He paces back and forth again. Mariet is laughing quietly.

“Who is laughing?” asks Haggart in fury.

“I,” answers Mariet. “I am thinking of how they are hanging him and I
am laughing. O, Haggart, O, my noble Haggart! Your wrath is the wrath
of God, do you know it? No. You are strange, you are dear, you are
terrible, Haggart, but I am not afraid of you. Give me your hand,
Haggart, press it firmly, firmly. Here is a powerful hand!”

“Flerio, my friend, did you hear what he said? He says the sea never
lies.”

“You are powerful and you are just--I was insane when I feared your
power, Gart. May I shout to the sea: ‘Haggart, the Just’?”

“That is not true. Be silent, Mariet, you are intoxicated with blood. I
don’t know what justice is.”

“Who, then, knows it? You, you, Haggart! You are God’s justice, Haggart.
Is it true that he was your nurse? Oh, I know what it means to be a
nurse; a nurse feeds you, teaches you to walk--you love a nurse as
your mother. Isn’t that true, Gart--you love a nurse as a mother? And
yet--‘string him up with a rope, Khorre’!”

She laughs quietly.

A loud, ringing laughter resounds from the side where Khorre was led
away. Haggart stops, perplexed.

“What is it?”

“The devil is meeting his soul there,” says Mariet.

“No. Let go of my hand! Eh, who’s there?”

A crowd is coming. They are laughing and grinning, showing their teeth.
But noticing the captain, they become serious. The people are repeating
one and the same name:

“Khorre! Khorre! Khorre!”

And then Khorre himself appears, dishevelled, crushed, but happy--the
rope has broken. Knitting his brow, Haggart is waiting in silence.

“The rope broke, Noni,” mutters Khorre hoarsely, modestly, yet with
dignity. “There are the ends! Eh, you there, keep quiet! There is
nothing to laugh at--they started to hang me, and the rope broke, Noni.”

Haggart looks at his old, drunken, frightened, and happy face, and he
laughs like a madman. And the sailors respond with roaring laughter. The
reflected lights are dancing more merrily upon the waves--as if they are
also laughing with the people.

“Just look at him, Mariet, what a face he has,” Haggart is almost
choking with laughter. “Are you happy? Speak--are you happy? Look,
Mariet, what a happy face he has! The rope broke--that’s very strong--it
is stronger even than what I said: ‘String him up with a rope.’ Who said
it? Don’t you know, Khorre? You are out of your wits, and you don’t know
anything--well, never mind, you needn’t know. Eh, give him gin! I am
glad, very glad that you are not altogether through with your gin.
Drink, Khorre!”

Voices shout:

“Gin!”

“Eh, the boatswain wants a drink! Gin!”

Khorre drinks it with dignity, amid laughter and shouts of approval.
Suddenly all the noise dies down and a sombre silence reigns--a woman’s
strange voice drowns the noise--so strange and unfamiliar, as if it were
not Mariet’s voice at all, but another voice speaking with her lips:

“Haggart! You have pardoned him, Haggart?”

Some of the people look at the body; those standing near it step aside.
Haggart asks, surprised:

“Whose voice is that? Is that yours, Mariet? How strange! I did not
recognise your voice.”

“You have pardoned him, Haggart?”

“You have heard--the rope broke--”

“Tell me, did you pardon the murderer? I want to hear your voice,
Haggart.”

A threatening voice is heard from among the crowd:

“The rope broke. Who is talking there? The rope broke.”

“Silence!” exclaims Haggart, but there is no longer the same commanding
tone in his voice. “Take them all away! Boatswain! Whistle for everybody
to go aboard. The time is up! Flerio! Get the boats ready.”

“Yes, yes.”

Khorre whistles. The sailors disperse unwillingly, and the same
threatening voice sounds somewhere from the darkness:

“I thought at first it was the dead man who started to speak. But I
would have answered him too: ‘Lie there! The rope broke.’”

Another voice replies:

“Don’t grumble. Khorre has stronger defenders than you are.”

“What are you prating about, devils?” says Khorre. “Silence! Is that
you, Tommy? I know you, you are always the mischief-maker--”

“Come on, Mariet!” says Haggart. “Give me little Noni, I want to carry
him to the boat myself. Come on, Mariet.”

“Where, Haggart?”

“Eh, Mariet! The dreams are ended. I don’t like your voice, woman--when
did you find time to change it? What a land of jugglers! I have never
seen such a land before!”

“Eh, Haggart! The dreams are ended. I don’t like your voice,
either--little Haggart! But it may be that I am still sleeping--then
wake me. Haggart, swear that it was you who said it: ‘The rope broke.’
Swear that my eyes have not grown blind and that they see Khorre alive.
Swear that this is your hand, Haggart!”

Silence. The voice of the sea is growing louder--there is the splash and
the call and the promise of a stern caress.

“I swear.”

Silence. Khorre and Flerio come up to Haggart.

“All’s ready, Captain,” says Flerio.

“They are waiting, Noni. Go quicker! They want to feast to-night, Noni!
But I must tell you, Noni, that they--”

HAGGART--Did you say something, Flerio? Yes, yes, everything is ready. I
am coming. I think I am not quite through yet with land. This is such
a remarkable land, Flerio; the dreams here drive their claws into a
man like thorns, and they hold him. One has to tear his clothing, and
perhaps his body as well. What did you say, Mariet?

MARIET--Don’t you want to kiss little Noni? You shall never kiss him
again.

“No, I don’t want to.”

Silence.

“You will go alone.”

“Yes, I will go alone.”

“Did you ever cry, Haggart?”

“No.”

“Who is crying now? I hear some one crying bitterly.”

“That is not true--it is the roaring of the sea.”

“Oh, Haggart! Of what great sorrow does that voice speak?”

“Be silent, Mariet. It is the roaring of the sea.”

Silence.

“Is everything ended now, Haggart?”

“Everything is ended, Mariet.”

Mariet, imploring, says:

“Gart! Only one motion of the hand! Right here--against the
heart--Gart!”

“No. Leave me alone.”

“Only one motion of the hand! Here is your knife. Have pity on me, kill
me with your hand. Only one motion of your hand, Gart!”

“Let go. Give me my knife.”

“Gart, I bless you! One motion of your hand, Gart!”

Haggart tears himself away, pushing the woman aside:

“No! Don’t you know that it is just as hard to make one motion of the
hand as it is for the sun to come down from the sky? Good-bye, Mariet!”

“You are going away?”

“Yes, I am going away. I am going away, Mariet. That’s how it sounds.”

“I shall curse you, Haggart. Do you know! I shall curse you, Haggart.
And little Noni will curse you, Haggart--Haggart!”

Haggart exclaims cheerfully and harshly:

“Eh, Khorre. You, Flerio, my old friend. Come here, give me your
hand--Oh, what a powerful hand it is! Why do you pull me by the sleeve,
Khorre? You have such a funny face. I can almost see how the rope
snapped, and you came down like a sack. Flerio, old friend, I feel like
saying something funny, but I have forgotten how to say it. How do they
say it? Remind me, Flerio. What do you want, sailor?”

Khorre whispers to him hoarsely:

“Noni, be on your guard. The rope broke because they used a rotten rope
intentionally. They are betraying you! Be on your guard, Noni. Strike
them on the head, Noni.”

Haggart bursts out laughing.

“Now you have said something funny. And I? Listen, Flerio, old friend.
This woman who stands and looks--No, that will not be funny!”

He advances a step.

“Khorre, do you remember how well this man prayed? Why was he killed? He
prayed so well. But there is one prayer he did not know--this one--‘To
you I bring my great eternal sorrow; I am going to you, Father Ocean!’”

And a distant voice, sad and grave, replies:

“Oh,

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