He used to go every morning to compare the living girl with his vision, and the reality seemed to him the more beautiful of the two; her eyes, thoughtful, and clear like a spring, filled him with a certain sense of awe.
At that time one of his fellow-students, nicknamed "Movement in Space," unexpectedly got married. He was a great "social reformer," continually writing endless prefaces to works he never finished for lack of the necessary books of reference. His wife was a feminist and as poor as a church mouse. Her dowry consisted in an old carpet, two stewing-pans, a plaster cast of Mickiewicz, and a pile of school prizes. The young couple lived on the fourth floor and promptly began to starve. They both gave privatelessons so zealously that after separating in the morning they did not meet again till the evening. Nevertheless their house began to be the centre towards which each "social reformer" wended his way in his dirty boots, in order to sit for a while on the "Movement's" soft sofa, smoke his cigars, argue till he was hoarse, and in the end contribute a few pence towards the entertainment. The amiable hostess bought rolls and sausages, which she arranged artistically on a plate and handed round to her guests. You were always sure to meet someone interesting here, to become acquainted with great people as yet unknown to their age, and possibly you might even have a chance of borrowing sixpence.
Obarecki had turned pale with joy when one evening, on entering the room, he had found his beloved among the circle of friends. He had talked to her and lost his head completely. While walking home with the others that evening, he had had a longing to be alone—neither to dream nor to think of her, but just to steep his soul in her presence, see her and hear the sound of her voice, think as she did, and let the pictures which rose in his imagination take possession of him. He now distinctly remembered her wonderful eyes, with their bewildering depth, severe yet sympathetic, gentle and mysterious. He had experienced a feeling of joy and repose; as if, after a hot, wearisome journey, he had lighted upona cool spring, hidden in the shade of pines on a high hill.
They had surrounded her with respect, and seemed to attach special importance to her words. In introducing Obarecki, the "Movement" had said, with an air of importance, "Obarecki, a thinker, a dreamer, a great idler, yet the coming man—Panna Stanisława, our Darwinist."
The "great idler" had not been able to ascertain much about the "Darwinist"; merely that she had left the High School, was giving lessons, and intended to go to Paris or Zurich to study medicine, but had not a penny to bless herself with.
From that time onwards they frequently met in their friends' rooms. Panna Stanisława would sometimes bring a pound of sugar under her cloak, or a cold cutlet wrapped in paper, or a few rolls; Obarecki never brought anything, for he had nothing to bring; but instead he devoured the rolls and the "Darwinist" with his eyes.
One night, when escorting her home, he got as far as proposing to her. She only broke into a hearty laugh and took leave of him with a friendly grasp of the hand. Shortly afterwards she had disappeared; he heard that she had gone as governess into some aristocratic family in Podolia.
And now he had found her again in this forsaken corner, in this forest village inhabited only by peasants, with not a single intelligent personnear her. She had been living here all alone in this wilderness. And now she was dying.... All his former enthusiasm, and the unfulfilled dreams and desires of past days, suddenly sprang up within him and struck him like gusts of wind. A deadly pain seized his heart, and the poison of passion took hold of his blood. He returned on tiptoe to the sick-room, rested his elbows on the bed, and feasted on the sight of the marvellous contours of her bare shoulders and the lines of her bosom and neck. The girl was asleep; the veins on her temples were swollen, the corners of her mouth were moist, she exhaled fever heat, and drew in the air with a loud whistling sound. Dr. Paweł sat down beside her on the edge of the bed, gently fondled the ends of her soft, bright hair, and stroked it along his face, sobbing while he kissed it.
"Stasia, Stachna! Dearest!" he whispered low. "You are not going to run away from me again, are you?... Never! ... you will be mine for ever ... do you hear?—for ever...."
The exuberance of youth awoke in him from its lethargy. Henceforth everything would be different; he felt a great strength in him for doing his work with his heart in it. Pain and hope were mingled as in a flame which consumed him and gave him no respite.
The night wore on. Though the hours went by slowly, more than six had passed since themessenger left. It was four o'clock in the morning. The doctor listened, starting up at every sound. He fancied each moment that someone was coming—opening the door—tapping at the window. He strained and strained with his whole organism to listen. The wind howled, the door of the stove rattled; then again there was silence. The minutes passed like ages; his nerves, overstrained by impatience, threw him into a state of trembling all over.
When he took her temperature for the sixth time, the sick girl slowly opened her eyes; they looked almost black under their shade of dark lashes. Straining to look at him, she said in a hoarse voice:
"Who's that?"
But she fell back at once into her former state of unconsciousness. He cherished this moment as if it were a treasure. Oh, if only he had some quinine to lessen the pain in her head and restore her to consciousness! But the messenger had not arrived, and did not arrive.
Before dawn Dr. Obarecki walked the length of the village through the deep snowdrifts, deluding himself with a last hope of seeing the boy. An evil foreboding penetrated his heart like the point of a needle. The wind still howled in the bare branches of the wayside poplars with a hollow sound, although the storm had abated. Women were coming out of the cottages to fetchwater, their skirts tucked up above their knees. The farm lads were busy with the cattle; smoke was rising from the chimneys. Here and there a cloud of steam issued from a door which was opened for an instant.
The doctor found the Sołtys' house, and ordered horses to be put in at once. Two pairs were harnessed, and a lad drove them up to the school. The doctor took leave of the patient with eyes dilated with fatigue and despair, got into the sledge, and drove to Obrzydłówek.
He returned at two o'clock in the afternoon, bringing drugs, wine, and a store of provisions. He had stood up in the sledge almost all the way, longing to jump out and run faster than the horses, which were going at a gallop. He drove straight up to the school, but what he saw made him powerless to move from his seat.... A short, stifled cry burst from his lips, twisted with pain, when he saw that the windows were thrown wide open. A throng of children were crowded together in the passage. White as a sheet he walked to the window and looked in, standing there with his elbows resting on the window-sill.
On a bench in the schoolroom lay the naked body of the young teacher; two old women were washing it. Tiny snowflakes flew in through the window and rested on the shoulders, damp hair, and half-open eyes of the dead girl.
Bent double, as though bearing a mountain-load on his shoulders, the doctor entered the little bedroom. He sat down and repeated dully: "It is so—it is so!" He felt as if huge rusty wheels were turning with a terrific rattle in his head.
Stasia's bed was all in disorder; the window-frames rattled monotonously; the leaves of her plants were being caught by the frost, and drooped.
Through the half-open door the doctor saw some peasants kneeling round the body, which was now clothed; the children too had come in and were reading prayers from books; the carpenter was taking measurements for the coffin. He went in and gave orders in a husky voice for the coffin to be made of unplaned boards, and a heap of shavings to be placed under the head.
"Nothing else ... do you hear?" he said to the carpenter with suppressed rage. "Four boards ... nothing else...."
He remembered that someone ought to be informed—her family.... Where was her family? With an aimless activity he began to arrange her books, school-registers, notebooks and manuscripts into a pile. Among the papers he came upon the beginning of a letter.
"Dear Helenka" (it ran)—"I have felt so ill for some days past that I am probably going into the presence of Minos and Rhadamanthus, Aeacus, Triptolemus, and many others of the kind. Incase of my removing to another place, please ask the Mayor of my village to send you all my property, consisting of books. I have at last finished my little primer,Physics for the People, over which we have so often racked our brains. Unfortunately I have not made a fair copy. If you have time—in case of my removal—arrange for the publication at once. Let Anton copy it out; he will do this for me."Oh, bother!... I just remember I owe our bookseller eleven roubles sixty-five kopeks; pay him with my winter coat, for I have no money.... Take for yourself in remembrance...."
"Dear Helenka" (it ran)—"I have felt so ill for some days past that I am probably going into the presence of Minos and Rhadamanthus, Aeacus, Triptolemus, and many others of the kind. Incase of my removing to another place, please ask the Mayor of my village to send you all my property, consisting of books. I have at last finished my little primer,Physics for the People, over which we have so often racked our brains. Unfortunately I have not made a fair copy. If you have time—in case of my removal—arrange for the publication at once. Let Anton copy it out; he will do this for me.
"Oh, bother!... I just remember I owe our bookseller eleven roubles sixty-five kopeks; pay him with my winter coat, for I have no money.... Take for yourself in remembrance...."
The last words were illegible. There was no address; it was not possible to send off the letter. The doctor discovered the manuscript of thePhysicsin the table drawer. It consisted of notes on slips of paper, mixed up with rubbish of all kinds. There was a little underlinen, a cloak lined with catskin, and an old black skirt, in the wardrobe.
While the doctor busied himself in this way, he suddenly noticed the boy who had been sent for the remedies in the schoolroom. He was huddled against a corner of the stove, treading from one foot to the other. Savage hatred sprang up in the doctor's heart.
"Why did you not come back in time?" he cried, running up to the boy.
"I lost my way in the fields ... the horse gave out.... I arrived on foot in the morning ... the young lady was already——"
"You lie!"
The boy did not answer. The doctor looked into his eyes, and was overcome by a strange feeling. Those eyes were weary and terrible; a peasant's stupid, mute, wild despair lurked in them as in an underground cavern.
"Here, sir, I have brought back the books the teacher lent me," he said, drawing some worn, soiled books from under his coat.
"Leave me alone! Be off!" the doctor cried, turning away and hurrying into the next room.
Here he stood among the rubbish, the books and papers thrown on the floor, and asked himself with a harsh laugh: "What am I doing here? I am no good; I have no right to be here!"
A feeling of profound reverence made him think the dead girl's thoughts in deep humility. Had he remained an hour longer, he would have risen to the heights where madness dwells. Without wishing to confess it to himself, he knew that it was fear on his own account which was taking possession of him. Throughout all that was overwhelming him at this moment, he felt that, a great lack of balance was threatening to deprive him of the essence of human feeling—of egoism. To stifle egoism would mean his allowing himself to be enveloped by the same rosy mist which hadtransported this girl from the earth. He must escape at once. Having decided on this, he began to despair in beautiful phrases which immediately brought him considerable relief. He ordered the sledge to be brought round.... Bending over Stasia's body, he whispered all the beautiful, empty things which people say in praise of greatness. He lingered once more in the doorway and looked back; for a second he wondered whether it would not be better to die at once. Then he pushed past the peasants crowding round the door, sprang into the sledge, tripped himself up, tumbled on his face, and was carried off, stifled by spasmodic sobs.
Stanisława's death exercised so much influence over Dr. Paweł's disposition that for some time afterwards, in his leisure moments, he read Dante'sDivine Comedy; he gave up playing whist, and dismissed his housekeeper, aged twenty-four. But gradually he grew calm. He is now doing exceedingly well; he has grown stout, and has made a nice little sum. He has even revived some of his optimistic tendencies. For thanks to his energetic agitation, all the world in Obrzydłówek, with the exception of a few conservatives, is now smoking cigarettes rolled by themselves, instead of buying ready-made ones which are known to be injurious.
At last!...
ByWACŁAW SIEROSZEWSKI
The country was shrouded in the bitter Arctic night. Cold mists swept along the ground below; a dark sky, spangled with stars, stretched above.
A man was standing on the steps of a little house with small windows and a flat roof; his head was bare, his hands were thrust deep into his pockets. He was gazing fixedly towards the south, where the first dawn was to break upon the long darkness. At times he fancied that he could already see it there, for something seemed to quiver in the infinite darkness; but then the changing mist merely swayed to and fro, and the stars trembled on the horizon. His weary eyes therefore turned towards the little town; his house stood on the outskirts of it. Lights were twinkling in the windows there, and the dogs in the various backyards were yelping and howling loudly in chorus. "Oh, how deadly this is!" he thought—"enough to drive anyone mad. And in a frost like this it's certain no one will come."
He was just turning to go indoors, when he caught the sound of snow creaking under quick footsteps. He began to listen; the footsteps turned into the path leading up to his house.
"Is that you, Józef?"
"Yes; how are you?" a voice, hoarse with the frost, cried from a distance; and presently a man of middle height, dressed in fur from head to foot, emerged from the darkness. "What are you doing, you silly fellow, standing out here in a blouse in cold like this? You are certain to catch pneumonia."
"And why not?... A year sooner or later——"
"All very fine! But I confess to you, Stefan, I shouldn't like to die here. One can't even decay like a human being; one would have to lie here for centuries like an ice statue, while the dogs would howl and howl——"
"Well, they are howling unbearably now; it's as if they scented something. They are worse than ever to-day."
"They are certain to smell something; in the town they say that the Chukchee are encamping here, and I have just come to tell you of it. But let us go indoors; it's terribly cold, worse than it has yet been this year."
They went in. Stefan lighted the fire and busied himself with getting tea ready; Józefthrew off his furs and paced up and down the room with long strides.
"I say! This news is not quite without importance for us."
"What?"
"That they have come."
"The Chukchee?"
"Why, yes!"
Stefan burst out laughing.
"It's imperative for us to make friends with them; they are said to trade with America."
"Then with whom are we to make friends? With the Yankees?"
"No, with the Chukchee. Do be serious. You must do it, and it will be easy enough for you with your workshop,—all kinds of people constantly come to you. I will persuade Buza, the Cossack, to bring them; you will have a first-rate interpreter."
"By all means persuade Buza——"
"Oh, stop that! You always pretend to be indifferent to everything. If I had your health and strength, and were as clever——"
"Then you would be as homesick as I am, and pretend to care as little——"
"Do you think that I am not homesick?"
"No, I don't think you are—not in the least. You have a happy disposition, and can distract yourself with books and plans and dreaming, even if it is only for a short time. I must live, work,be active; I need impressions from outside. Otherwise I go utterly to pieces; I feel that I am slowly dying."
They sat down to tea and chatted until midnight. In that continuous darkness the late hours of night differed from the rest in the position of the stars, a harder frost with louder reports of the cracking ground, the fact that the fires in the cottages were extinguished, and the quieter but more dismal howling of the dogs.
"Then remember that I will bring them. Do something to take their fancy; you know how to do it."
"Very good. It just happens that I have the District Administrator's musical box here to repair; I will play it to them."
"That will delight them. 'A talking box'—I can imagine what they will say! And don't forget to buy vodka for them, and to entertain Buza also. We shall have need of him. I don't yet know what we shall decide upon—I don't even try to think about it; but I feel that something will come of this...."
"What?... Nothing will come of it. There will not even be any vodka left as a result, for they will drink it all up."
"You horrible pessimist! You always poison everything for me!" Józef cried from the hall, and he banged the door after him.
Stefan stood in the middle of the room for a long while, listening to Józef's brisk footsteps. He was smiling, for he liked to be accused of being a pessimist.
A few days later, sitting at the table with his back towards the door, and busy with his work, he heard a curious noise outside—someone stamping and pulling at the strap which served as a latch, as if unused to it.
Stefan turned his head inquiringly, and at the same moment a flat, brown face appeared in the doorway.
"Go in! Go in! You will let the cold into the cottage," someone cried from the hall.
Stefan recognized Buza's voice.
"Come in, by all means!"
"They have no manners. They are real Chukchee. This one is called Wopatka; he has been baptized. He is rather a drunkard, and rather a thief, but a good fellow. And this one—it's better not to touch him—is Kituwia.... Don't touch him!"
The natives stood quietly in the middle of the room, and looked round inquisitively, but without the slightest bewilderment. Their furs, which they wore with the skin turned to the inside, hung about them heavily and clumsily. They appeared to Stefan to be very much alike. But Kituwia had a darker complexion, and there was evidence in his unmoving face, erect head, andcompressed lips of a hard pride, amounting to contempt for all and everything.
Wopatka fell into a broad grin as he glanced eagerly with his slanting eyes round the room, which was so large and well furnished in comparison with his own tent.
"Take off your cap," Buza said to him, nudging him with his elbow.
Wopatka hastily pulled off his cap and showed the usual conical-shaped Chukchee head.
Kituwia had no cap. His long, thick, tousled hair was held back by a narrow strap tied just above his forehead. A similar strap from his low-cut skin jerkin crossed his bare chest and neck. He gave Stefan a sharp look, and uttered a few disconnected guttural sounds to his companion.
"There! Do you hear?" Buza said with a laugh. "They speak exactly like reindeer. They believe in reindeer, too; they think they will always have them in the next world. But Pan Józef told me to bring them, so I have brought them."
"Very good. I will get tea for you at once—or perhaps vodka would be better?"
"That would be better, for they don't think much of tea."
Stefan showed them a magnet, and made the cuckoo-clock strike to amuse them. He had a certain amount of success with the clock; Wopatkawas delighted, but Kituwia's restrained manner threw a chill over everything. The fire crackled merrily in the chimney; the guests threw off their furs and lolled on the benches; Buza burst out laughing from time to time, and Wopatka chuckled quietly, but Kituwia ran his keen glance from one object to another. However, at last even his face lighted up, and, uttering a smothered cry, he pointed to some large stones tied as a weight to the drying reindeer sinews. The guests formed a circle round these and tried to lift them with outstretched arms, but only Kituwia could do this.
When Stefan did the same, the native's face brightened with a look of friendliness. He called Stefan "brother," and passed his hand caressingly over his back and shoulders.
"He is praising you and asking why he never sees you among the people round the tavern."
"Tell him that I haven't time; I am busy."
While Buza was explaining this, Kituwia's face assumed an expression of stony contempt.
"He doesn't believe that you are a smith—and that you are respected by the District Administrator all the same. He is just an ignorant native. With them a strong man only drinks and fights, and looks upon the rest as low."
The guests conscientiously ate and drank what was offered them. At parting Wopatka said,"Brother! Brother!" a countless number of times. The disagreeable smell of badly tanned reindeer skin and rancid reindeer grease remained behind them when they were gone.
"Your fame will spread among the Chukchee; you will have no peace now," Buza said to Stefan in the hall. "We thank you for your invitation. When will you send for us again?"
"Ask Pan Józef!"
"Well, did they come?" Józef asked on the following day.
"I should rather think so! I was obliged to air the room for several hours afterwards."
"Did they not invite you to visit them?"
"No."
"We must have patience. They will invite us. Buza told me they are enchanted."
"Buza himself seemed to be the most enchanted. He ate and drank enough for three."
"And Wopatka?"
"What is there to say about him? He certainly seems a good hand at vodka. He is not up to much."
"No need to despise people like that; they will prepare the way excellently, and others will follow. One must wait patiently; I beg you be patient. I will arrange it. Last night I went to see Father Pantelay, the missionary. He is learning Chukchee. By-and-by we may be ableto do something. We must learn to understand their customs and be friendly with them, so that they may get to like us. Don't grumble about them."
"I am not grumbling, but—they sat here too long."
"Well, we also have been sitting here too long."
Several days passed. The Chukchee did not show themselves. Despite his assumed indifference and incredulity, Stefan was a little anxious, and looked round hastily every time the door opened.
It was late. Having just finished his work, and blown out the candle for the sake of economy, Stefan was musing in the firelight, when his attention was attracted by unusual sounds from outside—a curious noise and shuffling. Then the house door opened violently and banged to; someone rushed panting into the room and held the door against someone else who tried to open it. Stefan jumped up in astonishment and hastily lighted the candle. A Chukchee was standing at the door, covered with snow. He had wound the latch strap round his hand, and, steadying himself with his foot against the door, was pulling at it with all his might. It shook in the struggle. The native looked at Stefan, made an imploring gesture, and showed that he was defenceless. From the hall came the sound of an impatient, hoarse voice cursing, accompanied by heavykicks on the door. Stefan fancied that he recognized the voice.
"Who's there? Stop that kicking at once! To the devil with you!" he exclaimed angrily.
The tugging ceased. There was a sound of muttering for some time longer, but when footsteps were heard approaching the unknown person left the hall. The Chukchee dropped the strap and turned to Stefan.
"Brother! Gem Kamakatan"—and he pointed to himself—"Gem no knife ... Gem ... brother!" He made a pretence of falling to indicate that he would have been killed. His eyes were friendly; his fat, ugly face, with its wide, extended nostrils, expressed emotion and gratitude. "Brother! Anoai! Anoai!"
He went to the fire and began to shake the snow out of his skin jerkin. His furs, hair, and ears were full of it. He indicated by violent shuddering that he was wet, and that the water was running down his body under his clothes. He began to fain shivering and dying.
Stefan knew perfectly well that in weather as cold as this even a Chukchee would freeze to death in damp clothes. He guessed what the native wanted, and nodded.
"Gem Kamakatan" laughed and began to undress quickly. The next moment he emerged from his furs naked like a Greek statue, and Stefan watched with interest what would happenfurther. The Chukchee calmly hung his clothes in front of the fire, looked round, and, seeing Stefan's bed ready for the night, jumped in with great glee and disappeared under the quilt.
All this was done so adroitly and unexpectedly that Stefan could not help bursting out laughing. The Chukchee drew his head from under the quilt again, and repeated in a friendly way: "Brother! Brother!"
"Well, has he been here?" asked Józef, coming in at his usual hour.
"He is here even now."
Stefan told his friend of the whole strange adventure.
"Excellent! Excellent! Things are moving," the latter repeated, walking on tiptoe.
"There's nothing excellent about it. I wish he were sleeping in your bed. He looks as if he had never washed or combed himself in his life. If he had at least cut his hair; but he wears it long, as if he wished to make himself objectionable like Kituwia."
"That's nothing; these things are comparative trifles. Let me see him. The longer his hair is, the better; for in that case he is a warrior and a celebrity. Did he tell you his name?"
"Yes; it's something queer like Gem Kamaka."
They took the candle and went cautiously up to the bed where the native, with his copper facein an aureole of long matted hair, lay asleep on a white European pillow. Suddenly his eyelids quivered and his eyes opened wide. For a moment he looked in astonishment at the men standing beside him; then he jumped up and stretched out his bare arm with a despairing gesture.
"Brother! Brother!" he whispered—"Anoai!"
"Brother!" Stefan quickly repeated, touching him kindly.
The native's face brightened with a childish laugh. He jumped lightly out of bed and ran for his clothes.
"A fine model!" Józef exclaimed, slapping his back in a friendly way.
The native turned round with a start. In order to reassure him, therefore, Józef went through the whole of his Chukchee vocabulary; and though "Gem-Kamaka" certainly did not understand much of this disconnected conversation, he grinned and repeated every word. His clothes being still wet, he sat down as he was at the table where the friends were drinking tea, and consented to eat something too, talking uninterruptedly in his reindeer dialect, and showing his large white teeth as he laughed heartily. Before he left he again laid his hand gratefully on Stefan's shoulder and said "Brother!" He also promised to bring his wife and parents to see him.
"And bring Buza, Wopatka, and Kituwia."
The Chukchee's face clouded a moment. "Very well—and Buza and Wopatka. We will drink vodka," he said in the local Russian-Chukchee jargon.
"We will drink vodka."
After he was gone Józef embraced Stefan excitedly.
"This is splendid—first-rate! I already see myself on the ship."
A considerable time passed; the continuous darkness began to be pierced by rosy gleams. But nothing was heard of the Chukchee. On the contrary, it appeared to Stefan as if those who came into the town avoided him. When Kituwia met him, he did not come near or even nod to him: sometimes he stared at Stefan with a threatening look in his eyes. Wopatka turned aside when he saw him in the street. "Gem Kamatakan" gave no news of himself, and Buza, on being questioned, declared that he really knew nothing about him.
"Gem-Kama, did you say? That's not even a name, let alone its having any meaning. I know every Chukchee word, but I never heard that. Perhaps he is one of those natives who live without faith or law in outlandish parts of the country—in a word, a brigand. But never fear; I have only to find out where 'Gem-Kama' is, and I will get him here. But what brought him to you two gentlemen?"
"What brought him? He came of his own accord."
Buza looked at Józef suspiciously.
"The Chukchee say that Pan Stefan and a Chukchee together beat Kituwia; only the Chukchee was not called Gem-Kam, but Otowaka. The Chukchee in this district respect Kituwia very much, and are afraid of him. They say that he is a true Chukchee—a warrior. They are a wild people, but they have their customs; they are not like the Yakut."
"But it's not true! Nothing of the kind happened. Ask Kituwia."
"No, thank you; he would only knock me down! A man must not only be careful not to ask him about it, but must not even show that he knows. Wopatka told me of it."
"Where are we to look for you if we need you?"
"People will tell you where;—the tavern is the best, for a good deal of business of different kinds is being done with the Chukchee just now, and I am interpreter. You can't get them to do anything without vodka."
A few more days had passed, when suddenly such a remarkable thing happened that all the inhabitants of the little town came out to watch it. A number of festively dressed Chukchee on two sledges, each drawn by two pairs of fine reindeer, drove up at full gallop to Stefan's house. Stefan went out on to the steps to meet them. The first to alight was an old Chukchee, dressed in a costly "docha" made of black rat, skilfullyembroidered, and edged with beaver. He supported himself as he walked by resting his hand lightly on the shoulders of his sons, who held his feet by the ankles and respectfully placed them on the steps. They were followed by a boy of nine, his head bare and his hair closely cropped, and then came two small, alert, queer-looking individuals. One wore a docha of black rat, similar to the old man's but not so good; the second had no outer wrap at all, but, dressed in tight-fitting fur, looked like a gnome escaped from the forest. By their plaits, which were bound up with tinkling silver ornaments, and by the raspberry-coloured silk handkerchiefs across their foreheads, Stefan knew that these were ladies. They were both tattooed. The elder one had blue waving lines worked in silk on her forehead and cheeks; the younger had deep scars along her nose and chin. Her figure was not without charm; she was slim, and moved gracefully. She had the Chukchee woman's eyes, and her face, which was rather large, expressed a certain amount of determination. The general impression was spoilt, however, by a nervous habit of looking behind her.
"Well, here they are!" Józef cried, hurrying in after the guests. "Receive them somehow, and I will fetch Buza at once."
"Anoai! Anoai!" the Chukchee greeted their host.
There were too many guests for the available seats, so Stefan pulled out some rugs from a corner and spread them in the middle of the floor. Sitting down on them in a circle, the natives began to chatter. One of the old man's sons was the Chukchee who had dried his clothes at Stefan's fire. He was evidently relating the adventure—certainly not for the first time. Yet they all listened attentively, assenting with friendly grunts and looking with interest at the bed; the younger woman even jumped up and peeped under the quilt, whereupon they all burst out laughing. When the clock struck, the cuckoo and its movements and sound made an immense impression, and the little boy shouted with delight. They all jumped up and stood in front of the clock, imitating it, and when the door shut with a snap behind the little bird they sprang away in fright at first, but ended by laughing loudly. However, the old man could put a stop to their merriment in a moment if he chose.
Buza, Wopatka, and Józef now came in.
"Well, I told you so! It's Otowaka, not Gemka. There's certainly no such person as Gemka, and 'gem-kamatakan' means in Chukchee, 'I am ill.' It's a great honour that old Otowaka has come to you himself. He's very proud, and the richest man in the country—quite the richest. You have been most successful."
He sat down in the circle of Chukchee withWopatka, who kept a little behind him. Józef helped Stefan to prepare the feast and boil the samovar. They sent out for water.
"He is a much-respected man. He has innumerable reindeer, three wives in three different places, and six sons," Buza said, growing proportionately communicative as the vodka and food disappeared. "You have been very successful. He is rewarding you and doing you honour. You have only to go to him, and he will give you valuable furs; he will even give a daughter to each of you. He has beautiful daughters; I saw them in the town as they passed through in the caravan. For these Otowakas come from a long distance, so they travel in caravans. He evidently wants to ask you to do some work for him, for he wished to know whether you were a good locksmith and could put together a foreign rifle which has been taken to pieces. The Americans always sell them arms without cock or trigger. So I told him you had clever fingers, and that even the District Inspector thinks highly of you. The old man listened to this carefully. He is sure to offer you a present, and you must take it, or he will be very much offended."
The magnet and other wonders Stefan was able to show them caused the greatest delight to the natives, but their merriment reached its height when Józef started to play the barrel organ. They hung over the box, laid their ears to it, pokedtheir noses into it, grunted and stamped in rhythm, and finally began to move in a slow dance. Their eyes laughed, and their faces shone with grease and perspiration.
"Hey! Come along! Jump up, Wopatka! Now, that's most graceful!" Buza exclaimed, pulling the Chukchee, who was half tipsy, by the arm.
At that moment the door opened wide and Kituwia appeared on the threshold. Józef, very much pleased, went towards him, but the Chukchee neither stirred nor gave the usual greeting, "Anoai!" He closed the door behind him, and, leaning against it, held out one hand in an attitude of defence, and laid the other on his neck. His hair stood out wildly from under the leather band, and his eyes glowed with a wolfish fierceness. At the sight of him the circle of merry people in the middle of the room became petrified. The old man looked darkly at the bold intruder, the young men bent forward as if ready to spring at him, the women stared with wide-open mouths.
"What do you want?" cried Stefan, advancing. "Be off!"
"Go out! Take yourself off when you aren't invited!" Buza said, coming forward to support his host. "Be careful not to go near him," he added to Stefan, "or he will run you through. You see how he lays his hand on his neck: he has a knife there; I can see he has—I can see it by the strap on his neck. What do you mean by bringinga knife with you into the town, you damned scoundrel? Don't you know that's forbidden? I'll tell the Inspector, and to the end of your life you'll never be allowed to come into the town again. You'll be sent away to the tundra at once. Give me the knife."
"I will give it you directly, but I want it first for that dog whom I have chased like a hare all over the country," Kituwia calmly answered in Chukchee.
One of the young Chukchee sprang towards him, but Józef seized him by the shoulder. Neither he nor Stefan understood what the natives were talking about, but they guessed that there was a quarrel.
"You would do better to drink this and join us," Józef said in a conciliatory way, taking Kituwia a glass. The latter pushed it aside.
"That's bad!... He won't drink vodka," Buza cried in Russian. "They will go for one another presently!... Hey! be off! You won't take vodka from the gentleman himself? Who do you think you are? I will call the Cossacks directly! Do you behave like this in a gentleman's house? And it's not long since you were entertained here! You tundra dog! I will have you taken up at once. Ha, ha! don't try it on me! You know who I am. Let me go by at once; I will go and call the guard. But you keep him talking here," he whispered to Stefan.
He turned towards the entrance, but retreated immediately, for Kituwia started forward, and the dangerous quiver of his lips showed his large white teeth. In a moment the room was in an uproar. Stefan, Buza, and Kituwia, surrounded by struggling Chukchee, burst through the door, which opened with a crash, and into the hall. Stefan lay with his chest on Kituwia's chest; the native struggled beneath him and tried unsuccessfully to free his hand. Stefan was thus able to seize him by the throat. Kituwia choked and shook his head until he became exhausted. Someone broke the strap on his neck with a jerk, and a large broad-bladed knife flew jingling into a corner. Buza, in the street, called for the Cossacks, and a large crowd of people came on to the scene. Stefan and Józef were now, in their turn, obliged to defend the enfeebled Kituwia from the Chukchee's rage. At last twenty-five Cossacks appeared; the assailant was arrested and led off to prison, the crowd following him with insults.
"You'll have a nice time!... A nice look-out for you!... You'll get thirty such good lashes you won't want to sit down for a year to come!... You'll remember what it is to come here with a knife!... Perhaps you still want to butcher us all?... Ah, you are short-handed now! Times have changed!"
The warrior looked at them fiercely and shrugged his bound shoulders.
"What is it all about?" Stefan and Józef asked Buza.
"Who knows anything about them?" he answered with indifference. "Anyhow, they are drunk."
"No, no; that's not it," a fisherman remarked. "It's an old quarrel that has come down to them from their forefathers, and now they say it's about Otowaka's daughter-in-law, Kituwia's own sister. Young Aimurgin stole her. That's long ago, and they now have children, but ... what memories these fellows have! I expect the old man paid a good sum, for he was willing to make it up, but Kituwia never would. They say that he had been living with his sister ... they aren't baptized—though those who are often do the same. So Kituwia wanted to take the woman away; but Otowaka certainly could not allow that, or he would have had no peace on the tundra."
Buza became the hero of the hour, and received frequent invitations to supper. After vodka, but not before, he related in detail what had happened:
"They were all drinking together and enjoying themselves. They were playing the District Administrator's barrel organ and dancing—even Otowaka himself was stamping his foot.... It would certainly have ended badly if I hadn'tseized him, for I saw him put his hand on his neck."
"You'll catch it from him! He'll pay you out for this! You know him."
"How can he pay me out? I walk along the street quite openly; he had better be careful himself. He has been sent away from the town. When I see him I'll collar him at once and put him in prison. He had better look out. For if he comes my way ... by God!... I'll knock him down—I'll just knock him down! Don't let him forget! Why should I be particular about a brigand like that, when Otowaka himself offers me his friendship?"
Otowaka remained near the town for some time longer, but was rarely seen. Józef and Stefan visited him in his encampment, where he received them in an exceptionally friendly manner. He did not offer them his daughters, but wished to give them a place of honour above even the missionary, whom, together with Buza, he often entertained in recollection of his son's adventure. The friends would not agree to this, and thus won Father Pantelay's favour for all time, drawing from him golden words on the humility which wins a man heaven.
"I am urging him to seek the Divine grace and be baptized," he said, looking towards the old Chukchee....
They were offered dessert—frozen reindeermarrow, chopped fine and arranged in small heaps—which, being hard, was moistened with a plentiful supply of vodka, as may be imagined. "It would be safer for him to be baptized. He could encamp on the western tundra."
"Well, is he willing?"
"He doesn't refuse, but says that he will see."
Before they left, the rich man presented each guest with a foxskin, and begged him to be so kind as to visit him on the tundra.
"There I am in my right place; that's my own country."
Józef's eyes sparkled.
"What do you think—can we go, Father?" he asked the missionary when they reached home.
Father Pantelay was in a very good temper.
"Perhaps we shall go.... If only he would be baptized! So many souls would be saved, for he rules the whole family."
"Oh, he is sure to be baptized. If we go there, he will be baptized out of sheer hospitality to us. Besides, we can take him presents. Here it's different, and nothing will come of it."
"That is true. In his native country a man is more inclined to listen to the voice of God, and a hard disposition is softened there more easily. For virtue is immanent in everyone's soul, but the way into the soul is often dark and crooked and difficult to find. People often needa pretext to bring them on to the highroad to good and salvation."
Father Pantelay talked at great length on the difficulties of such a task, and, as Józef was an attentive listener and did not argue with him, they soon became great friends. Meanwhile Stefan gradually made preparations for the journey by buying up the best dogs.
At length they started on their long missionary journey.
It seemed like a waking dream to the two friends when, surrounded by a crowd of inhabitants, they shouted to the dogs and were borne away at full speed along the track. Excitedly they looked back at the little town for the last time. The caravan consisted of three sledges, each with fifteen dogs. Buza drove in front with the provisions. Father Pantelay followed with his luggage and presents—tea, tobacco, and other valuables; Stefan and Józef came behind. Józef had no idea how to manage the dogs, and was of no use whatever on the journey. Father Pantelay kept looking round at them and smiling in a friendly way. He was glad that he had taken them with him, for he was setting out for an unknown country, and although God is everywhere, and always has us under His protection, yet it is pleasant to be surrounded by courageous and friendly people with whom a refreshing and instructive conversation is possible.
"I have never been farther in this direction than the edge of the tundra; the Spirit of God alone hovers over the waste beyond. Buza has been there; he has travelled to the world's end. Hey, Buza! what is it like farther on? Shall we be able to drink tea soon?"
"Where we stop we shall drink tea," the Cossack answered gravely.
He was immensely impressed by his own dignity as head of the expedition. He sat on the cask of vodka as if it were a throne, watching over it with a jealous eye.
"When we have passed the edge of the forest there will be no more houses or people to be seen. After that vodka will be all-powerful, and will have to answer every purpose; even our lives depend on it. Those cursed Chukchee drink it like fishes, and are wild to get it. When they've had a little, they are ready to give up everything for it; you've only to ask, and you can get anything from them. Yet we shall have nothing with us when we come back, for we shall have eaten our provisions and given away the presents. The sledges will be empty, and there won't be any means of reloading them; and as the dogs will have grown fat through resting and eating reindeer paunch at Otowaka's, there'll be no holding them, and we shall tear back. Ha, ha! Hey!" He alternately reflected, shouted, or sang a local song in a thin voice: