Complete works of henryk.., p.772
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz, page 772
America and my journey ceased altogether to interest me, and immediately there swarmed in my head a throng of visions ever denser and denser, composed wholly of memories. I could not tear myself free from them, though they brought no delight to me. On the contrary, there was in those memories much sadness, and even suffering, which rose from comparing our sleepy and helpless country life with the bustling activity of America. But the more our life seemed to me helpless and sleepy, the more it mastered my soul, the dearer it grew to me, and the more I longed for it. During succeeding days the visions grew still more definite, and at last imagination began to develop, to arrange, to bring clearness and order into one artistic plan. I began to create my own world.
A week later, on a certain night when the Norwegians went out on the ocean, I sat down in my little room and from under my pen flowed the following words: “In Barania Glova, in the chancellery of the village mayor, it was as calm as in time of sowing poppy seed.”
And thus, because cranes flew over the shore of the Pacific, I composed “Charcoal Sketches.”
THE JUDGMENT OF PETER AND PAUL ON OLYMPUS
A POEM IN PROSE
It was a night of spring, calm, silvery, and fragrant with dewy jasmine. The full moon was sailing above Olympus, and on the glittering, snowy summit of the mountain it shone with a clear, pensive, greenish light. Farther down in the Vale of Tempe was a dark thicket of thorn-bushes, shaken by the songs of nightingales — by entreaties, by complaints, by calls, by allurements, by languor, by sighs. These sounds flowed like the music of flutes, filling the night; they fell like a pouring rain, and rushed on like rivers. At moments they ceased; then such silence followed that one might almost hear the snow thawing on the heights under the warm breath of May. It was an ambrosial night.
On that night came Peter and Paul, and sat on the highest grassmound of the slope to pass judgment on the gods of antiquity. The heads of the Apostles were encircled by halos, which illuminated their gray hair, stern brows, and severe eyes. Below, in the deep shade of beeches, stood the assembly of gods, abandoned and in dread, awaiting their sentence.
Peter motioned with his hand, and at the sign Zeus stepped forth first from the assembly and approached the Apostles. The Cloud-Compeller was still mighty, and as huge as if cut out of marble by Phidias, but weakened and gloomy. His old eagle dragged along at his feet with broken wing, and the blue thunderbolt, grown reddish in places from rust, and partly quenched, seemed to be slipping from the stiffening right hand of the former father of gods and men. But when he stood before the Apostles the feeling of ancient supremacy filled his broad breast. He raised his head haughtily, and fixed on the face of the aged fisherman of Galilee his proud and glittering eyes, which were as angry and as terrible as lightnings.
Olympus, accustomed to tremble before its ruler, shook to its foundations. The beeches quivered with fear, the song of the nightingales ceased, and the moon sailing above the snows grew as white as the linen web of Arachne. The eagle screamed through his crooked beak for the last time, and the lightning, as if animated by its ancient force, flashed and began to roar terribly at the feet of its master; it reared, hissed, snapped, and raised its three-cornered, flaming forehead, like a serpent ready to stab with poisonous fang. But Peter pressed the fiery bolts with his foot and crushed them to the earth. Turning then to the Cloud-Compeller, he pronounced this sentence: “Thou art cursed and condemned through all eternity.” At once Zeus was extinguished. Growing pale in the twinkle of an eye, he whispered, with blackening lips, “᾽Ανάγκη” (“Necessity”), and vanished through the earth.
Poseidon of the dark curls next stood before the Apostles, with night in his eyes, and in his hand the blunted trident. To him then spoke Peter:
“It is not thou who wilt rouse the billows. It is not thou who wilt lead the storm-tossed ships to a quiet haven, but she who is called the ‘Star of the Sea.’”
When Poseidon heard this he screamed, as if pierced with sudden pain, and turned into vanishing mist.
Next rose Apollo, the Silver-bowed, with a hollow lute in his hand, and walked toward the holy men. Behind him moved slowly the nine Muses, looking like nine white pillars. Terror-stricken, they stood before the judgment-seat, as if petrified, breathless, and without hope; but the radiant Apollo turned to Paul, and, in a voice which resembled wondrous music, said:
“Slay me not! Protect me, lord; for shouldst thou slay me, thou wouldst have to restore me to life again. I am the blossom of the soul of humanity; I am its gladness; I am light; I am the yearning for God. Thou knowest best that the song of earth will not reach heaven if thou break its wings. Hence I implore thee, O saint, not to smite down Song.”
A moment of silence came. Peter raised his eyes toward the stars. Paul placed his hands on his sword-hilt, rested his forehead on them, and for a time fell into deep thought. At last he rose, made the sign of the cross calmly above the radiant head of the god, and said:
“Let Song live!”
Apollo sat down with his lute at the feet of the Apostle. The night became clearer, the jasmine gave out a stronger perfume, the glad fountains sounded, the Muses gathered together like a flock of white swans, and, with voices still quivering from fear, began to sing in low tones marvellous words never heard on the heights of Olympus till that hour:
To thy protection we flee, holy Mother of God.
We come with our prayers; deign thou not to reject us,
But be pleased to preserve us from every evil,
O thou, our Lady!
Thus they sang on the heather, raising their eyes like pious nuns with heads covered with white.
Other gods came now. Bacchus and his chorus dashed past, wild, unrestrained, crowned with ivy and grapevine, and bearing the cithara and the thyrsus. They rushed on madly, with shouts of despair, and fell into the bottomless pit.
Then before the Apostles stood a lofty, proud, sarcastic divinity, who, without waiting for question or sentence, spoke first. On her lips was a smile of derision.
“I am Pallas Athene. I do not beg life of you. I am an illusion, nothing more. Odysseus honored and obeyed me only when he had become senile. Telemachus listened to me only till hair covered his chin. Ye cannot take immortality from me, and I declare that I have been a shadow, that I am a shadow now, and shall remain a shadow forever.”
At last her turn came to the most beautiful, the most honored goddess. As she approached, sweet, marvellous, tearful, the heart under her snow-white breast beat like the heart in a bird, and her lips quivered like those of a child that fears cruel punishment. She fell at their feet, and, stretching forth her divine arms, cried in fear and humility:
“I am sinful, I deserve blame, but I am Joy. Have mercy, forgive; I am the one happiness of mankind.” Then sobbing and fear took away her voice.
But Peter looked at the goddess with compassion, and placed his aged palm on her golden hair, while Paul, bending toward a cluster of white field-lilies, broke off one blossom, and touching her with it, said:
“Joy, be henceforth like this flower, and live thou for mankind.”
Then came dawn — the divine dawn that looked out from beyond a depression between two peaks. The nightingales stopped singing, and immediately finches, linnets, and wrens began to draw their sleepy little heads from under their moistened wings, shaking the dew from their feathers, and repeating in low voices, “Svit! svit!” (“Light! light!”).
The earth awoke, smiled, and was delighted, because Song and Joy had not been taken from it.
The Short Stories
Sienkiewicz’ residence at Oblęgorek. A jubilee committee presented the author with a gift from the Polish people: an estate at Oblęgorek, near Kielce, where he later opened a school for children.
List of Short Stories in Chronological Order
YANKO THE MUSICIAN.
THE LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL
FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN.
A COMEDY OF ERRORS.
BARTEK THE CONQUEROR
LILLIAN MORRIS.
SACHEM
YAMYOL
THE BULL FIGHT
HANIA.
TARTAR CAPTIVITY.
LET US FOLLOW HIM.
BE THOU BLESSED.
AT THE SOURCE.
CHARCOAL SKETCHES.
THE ORGANIST OF PONIKLA.
LUX IN TENEBRIS LUCET12
ON THE BRIGHT SHORE.
THAT THIRD WOMAN.
LET US FOLLOW HIM
SIELANKA. AN IDYLL.
ORSO.
FOR BREAD.
THE DECISION OF ZEUS.
ON A SINGLE CARD.
ACROSS THE PLAINS.
A JOURNEY TO ATHENS.
ZOLA (“DOCTOR PASCAL.”)
IN VAIN
LIFE AND DEATH. A HINDU LEGEND
IS HE THE DEAREST ONE?
A LEGEND OF THE SEA
THE CRANES
THE JUDGMENT OF PETER AND PAUL ON OLYMPUS
List of Short Stories in Alphabetical Order
A COMEDY OF ERRORS.
A JOURNEY TO ATHENS.
A LEGEND OF THE SEA
ACROSS THE PLAINS.
AT THE SOURCE.
BARTEK THE CONQUEROR
BE THOU BLESSED.
CHARCOAL SKETCHES.
FOR BREAD.
FROM THE DIARY OF A TUTOR IN POZNAN.
HANIA.
IN VAIN
IS HE THE DEAREST ONE?
LET US FOLLOW HIM
LET US FOLLOW HIM.
LIFE AND DEATH. A HINDU LEGEND
LILLIAN MORRIS.
LUX IN TENEBRIS LUCET12
ON A SINGLE CARD.
ON THE BRIGHT SHORE.
ORSO.
SACHEM
SIELANKA. AN IDYLL.
TARTAR CAPTIVITY.
THAT THIRD WOMAN.
THE BULL FIGHT
THE CRANES
THE DECISION OF ZEUS.
THE JUDGMENT OF PETER AND PAUL ON OLYMPUS
THE LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL
THE ORGANIST OF PONIKLA.
YAMYOL
YANKO THE MUSICIAN.
ZOLA (“DOCTOR PASCAL.”)
Non-Fiction and Dramas
Stockholm Concert Hall, Sweden, 1926 — the location of the Nobel prize-giving ceremony and banquet. In 1905 Sienkiewicz won a Nobel Prize for his lifetime achievements as an epic writer. In his acceptance speech, he said this honour was of particular value to a son of Poland: “She was pronounced dead — yet here is proof that she lives on.... She was pronounced defeated — and here is proof that she is victorious.”
So Runs the World
Translated by S.C. de Soissons
CONTENTS
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ.
ZOLA.
WHOSE FAULT?
CHARACTERS.
SCENE I.
SCENE II.
THE VERDICT
WIN OR LOSE.
CHARACTERS.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
SCENE II.
SCENE III.
SCENE IV.
SCENE V.
SCENE VI.
SCENE VII.
SCENE VIII.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
SCENE II.
SCENE III.
SCENE IV.
SCENE V.
SCENE VI.
SCENE VII.
SCENE VIII.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
SCENE II.
SCENE III.
SCENE IV.
SCENE V.
SCENE VI.
SCENE VII.
SCENE VIII.
SCENE IX.
SCENE X.
SCENE XI.
SCENE XII.
SCENE XIII.
SCENE XIV.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
SCENE II.
SCENE III.
SCENE IV.
SCENE V.
SCENE VI.
SCENE VII.
SCENE VIII.
SCENE IX.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
SCENE II.
SCENE III.
SCENE IV.
SCENE V.
SCENE VI.
SCENE VII.
SCENE VIII.
SCENE IX.
SCENE X.
Sienkiewicz in later years
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ.
I once read a short story, in which a Slav author had all the lilies and bells in a forest bending toward each other, whispering and resounding softly the words: “Glory! Glory! Glory!” until the whole forest and then the whole world repeated the song of flowers.
Such is to-day the fate of the author of the powerful historical trilogy: “With Fire and Sword,” “The Deluge” and “Pan Michael,” preceded by short stories, “Lillian Morris,” “Yanko the Musician,” “After Bread,” “Hania,” “Let Us Follow Him,” followed by two problem novels, “Without Dogma,” and “Children of the Soil,” and crowned by a masterpiece of an incomparable artistic beauty, “Quo Vadis.” Eleven good books adopted from the Polish language and set into circulation are of great importance for the English-reading people — just now I am emphasizing only this — because these books are written in the most beautiful language ever written by any Polish author! Eleven books of masterly, personal, and simple prose! Eleven good books given to the circulation and received not only with admiration but with gratitude — books where there are more or less good or sincere pages, but where there is not one on which original humor, nobleness, charm, some comforting thoughts, some elevated sentiments do not shine. Some other author would perhaps have stopped after producing “Quo Vadis,” without any doubt the best of Sienkiewicz’ books. But Sienkiewicz looks into the future and cares more about works which he is going to write, than about those which we have already in our libraries, and he renews his talents, searching, perhaps unknowingly, for new themes and tendencies.
When one knows how to read a book, then from its pages the author’s face looks out on him, a face not material, but just the same full of life. Sienkiewicz’ face, looking on us from his books, is not always the same; it changes, and in his last book (“Quo Vadis”) it is quite different, almost new.
There are some people who throw down a book after having read it, as one leaves a bottle after having drank the wine from it. There are others who read books with a pencil in their hands, and they mark the most striking passages. Afterward, in the hours of rest, in the moments when one needs a stimulant from within and one searches for harmony, sympathy of a thing apparently so dead and strange as a book is, they come back to the marked passages, to their own thoughts, more comprehensible since an author expressed them; to their own sentiments, stronger and more natural since they found them in somebody else’s words. Because ofttimes it seems to us — the common readers — that there is no difference between our interior world and the horizon of great authors, and we flatter ourselves by believing that we are ‘only less daring, less brave than are thinkers and poets, that some interior lack of courage stopped us from having formulated our impressions. And in this sentiment there is a great deal of truth. But while this expression of our thoughts seems to us to be a daring, to the others it is a need; they even do not suspect how much they are daring and new. They must, according to the words of a poet, “Spin out the love, as the silkworm spins its web.” That is their capital distinction from common mortals; we recognize them by it at once; and that is the reason we put them above the common level. On the pages of their books we find not the traces of the accidental, deeper penetrating into the life or more refined feelings, but the whole harvest of thoughts, impressions, dispositions, written skilfully, because studied deeply. We also leave something on these pages. Some people dry flowers on them, the others preserve reminiscences. In every one of Sienkiewicz’ volumes people will deposit a great many personal impressions, part of their souls; in every one they will find them again after many years.
There are three periods in Sienkiewicz’ literary life. In the first he wrote short stories, which are masterpieces of grace and ingenuity — at least some of them. In those stories the reader will meet frequent thoughts about general problems, deep observations of life — and notwithstanding his idealism, very truthful about spiritual moods, expressed with an easy and sincere hand. Speaking about Sienkiewicz’ works, no matter how small it may be, one has always the feeling that one speaks about a known, living in general memory work. Almost every one of his stories is like a stone thrown in the midst of a flock of sparrows gathering in the winter time around barns: one throw arouses at once a flock of winged reminiscences.
The other characteristics of his stories are uncommonness of his conceptions, masterly compositions, ofttimes artificial. It happens also that a story has no plot (“From the Diary of a Tutor in Pozman,” “Bartek the Victor”), no action, almost no matter (“Yamyol”), but the reader is rewarded by simplicity, rural theme, humoristic pictures (“Comedy of Errors: A Sketch of American Life”), pity for the little and poor (“Yanko the Musician”), and those qualities make the reader remember his stories well. It is almost impossible to forget — under the general impressions — about his striking and standing-out figures (“The Lighthouse Keeper of Aspinwall”), about the individual impression they leave on our minds. Apparently they are commonplace, every-day people, but the author’s talent puts on them an original individuality, a particular stamp, which makes one remember them forever and afterward apply them to the individuals which one meets in life. No matter how insignificant socially is the figure chosen by Sienkiewicz for his story, the great talent of the author magnifies its striking features, not seen by common people, and makes of it a masterpiece of literary art.
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