No More Learning

Some, that know how my spring I did address,
Deem that my Muse some fruit of knowledge plies;
Others, because the prince of service tries,
Think that I think State errors to redress.
But harder judges judge ambition's rage -
Scourge of itself, still climbing slippery place-
Holds my young brain captived in golden cage.
O fools, or over-wise! alas, the race
Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start
But only Stella's eyes and Stella's heart.
WITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face:
What! may it be that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?
COME, sleep! O sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe;
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low!
With shield of proof shield me from out the press
Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw,—
Oh, make in me those civil wars to cease.
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so:
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light,
A rosy garland and a weary head;
And if these things, as being thine in right,
Move not thy heavy grace,-thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.


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13398
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
BECAUSE I breathe not love to every one,
Nor do not use set colors for to wear,
Nor nourish special locks of vowed hair,
Nor give each speech a full point of a groan,
The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the moan
Of them which in their lips love's standard bear,
"What, he! " say they of me: "now I dare swear
He cannot love; no, no, let him alone! "
And think so still, so Stella know my mind
Profess indeed I do not Cupid's art;
But you, fair maids, at length this true shall find,
That his right badge is but worn in the heart:
Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove;
They love indeed who quake to say they love.
THOU blind man's mark, thou fool's self-chosen snare,
Fond fancy's scum, and dregs of scattered thought;
Band of all evils; cradle of causeless care;
Thou web of will whose end is never wrought-
Desire, desire! I have too dearly bought
With price of mangled mind thy worthless ware;
Too long, too long, asleep thou hast me brought,
Who shouldst my mind to higher things prepare.
But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought;
In vain thou mad'st me to vain things aspire;
In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky fire:
For virtue hath this better lesson taught —
Within myself to seek my only hire,
Desiring naught but how to kill desire.
LEAVE me, O love which reachest but to dust;
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and tumble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be,
Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light,
That doth but shine and give us sight to see.
Oh, take fast hold; let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out to death;
And think how evil becometh him to slide,
Who seeketh heaven and comes of heavenly breath.
Then farewell, world! thy uttermost I see:
Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me!


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a
10101
1900ce
Ko
10
1190
SIENKIEWICZ
9
D
HONO
H2H
Pienenenel


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1. ¡


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AGAS


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13399
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
(1846-)
BY CHARLES HARVEY GENUNG
ITH all the confidence that can ever attach to human judg-
ment upon a living author, Sienkiewicz may be pronounced
the greatest creative genius in the field of fiction at the
end of the nineteenth century. In his own country a clique of Polish
critics applied to him the policy of silence, but they had underesti-
mated the force that they strove to check. With his splendid trilogy
of historical novels, Sienkiewicz sat self-crowned upon the throne of
Polish literature, left vacant by the death of Mickiewicz thirty years
before. It was with translations of these novels that he made his
first appearance before the English-speaking world; and at once was
felt the presence of the supreme master through the veil of an alien
tongue and the mists of a remote time and people. It has been said
that the creation of a new character is as important as the birth of
a new man. If it is the highest achievement of art to create a
new human character and endow it with inexhaustible freshness
and vitality, Sienkiewicz securely takes his rank among the greatest
One who has wandered through that wonder-world of Poland
in the seventeenth century can never again be quite the same: he is
one that has had a vision. The characters who ruled in that rug-
ged time enter the mind through these inspired pages, and like the
gods of Greece and the heroes of Homer, take up their abode in the
realms of the fancy forever.
artists.
Henryk Sienkiewicz was born at Wola Okrzejska in Lithuania,
in 1846. The facts obtainable about his life are meagre. He studied
at Warsaw, and from the first gave himself wholly to letters. For a
time he was editor of the Niwa. As a writer of fiction he first
came before the public in 1872, with a humorous tale, 'No Man is a
Prophet in his Own Country. ' In 1876 he came to America; and in
southern California, in the midst of that circle of which Madame
Modjeska was the centre and the inspiration, he met many of the
characters and had many of the experiences that have received
artistic immortality in his works. It was there that he found the
prototype of the inimitable Zagloba. Under the pen-name of "Lit-
wos," he wrote letters of travel for the Gazeta Polska which attracted


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13400
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
general attention. Several stories appeared under the same name,
some of them dealing with characteristically American scenes. In
1880 he published his first large work, 'Niewola Tartarska' (Tartar
Slavery). With this he served his apprenticeship in the historical
novel. Four years later came the first of his great masterpieces,
'Ogniem i Mieczem' (With Fire and Sword), and he entered at once
into his kingdom. In 1886 appeared Potop' (The Deluge), and in
1887 Pan Wolodyjowski' (Pan Michael). To the Poles themselves
these books represent the finest achievement of prose fiction in the
language; and they are unsurpassed by the best historical romances
of the world's literature. As if to show his boundless versatility, the
author next published the profound psychological novel 'Bez Dog-
matu' (Without Dogma). His two latest works are 'Rodzina Polan-
ieckich (Children of the Soil: 1894) and 'Quo Vadis' (1895), both of
which have secured a popular success in English. For a time Sien-
kiewicz edited the Slowoc in Warsaw; but his genius is restless. He
says himself that he is something of a gipsy; travel is a passion: but
Cracow and Warsaw are the cities to which he returns. After his
long sojourn in California he went to Africa; and his wanderings
have led him over all of Europe and far into the Orient. But he
is no idle rover: he plunges into the midst of men and events, and
describes with a realist's precision what he observes with a poet's
discernment. Freedom and independence are everything to him.
Of the short stories of Sienkiewicz, the best are those which
deal with Polish scenes and people. The stories of American life,
as 'Lillian Morris' and 'The Comedy of Errors,' lack the intimate
touch. The Polish tales are firmly drawn and faithful pictures,
revealing the closest knowledge of the life described and of the
modes of thought that condition it. They cover a varied field.
Light-hearted humor and deep feeling distinguish the story of artist
life entitled The Third. ' It is told in the first person by a young
painter, whose impulsive nature twice leads him into error in the
choice of a sweetheart. In all his amusing entanglements a distin-
guished actress is his friend and adviser; they are of the same art-
istic temperament: at last the obvious dawns upon him that his true
love is this "third. " In contrast to the gayety of this tale stands
the sad Na Marne,' a story of student life in Kieff. The title
may be paraphrased as 'Frittered Away. ' It is a powerful picture
of the struggles, temptations, and ambitions in the storm and stress
of university life. In it the solution of the highest problems is
attempted, and the author does not hesitate coldly to analyze the
loftiest human emotions; but never cynically, for through it all
breathes an atmosphere of poetry. The famous Bartek 'Zwycięzca '
(The Victor) tells of a poor Polish peasant who was forced to fight


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HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13401
under the Prussian eagle at Gravelotte and Sedan. After performing
marvels of blind valor, he went home only to become the victim of
the repressive injustice of the Prussian government. Strongest of all
the stories, in the judgment of the Poles themselves, is God's Will,'
from the collection of Szkice Weglem' (Charcoal Sketches). It is a
tale of village life in Poland, and the secrets of local administration
are ruthlessly laid bare,- its corruption, stupidity, and helplessness.
Of all these elements the village clerk avails himself to accomplish
his designs upon a handsome, honest peasant woman, who has a
husband and child. Through sufferings infinitely pitiable,- for in her
simple-mindedness she does not know that her persecutor has no
power to carry out his threats,- she is at last brought to yield that
she may save her husband; and her husband kills her.
The story
moves to its catastrophe with the inevitableness of a force of nature.
The tragedy is enlivened by many scenes of the sprightliest humor;
always, however, directly bearing upon the relentless development of
the plot.
The diverting description of the village court in session
is a triumph of realistic drawing. The political significance of the
story aroused the opposition of the aristocratic and clerical party,
whose policy of non-intervention in local affairs was therein so sav-
agely attacked. But it soon became obvious that Sienkiewicz had
something victorious in his nature; that he was a supreme artist,
taking his materials where he found them and treating them as his
genius chose. The author of 'God's Will' was the author also of
that tender bit of pathos Yanko the Musician,' the story of the poor
boy who struggled to express his inner aspirations but "died with all
his music in him. " Now over his grave the willows whisper. With
the same tender touch was written 'The Old Servant,' which forms
the introduction to 'Hania,' a story of love and renunciation. Every-
where there is a faithful reproduction of the hopes and sorrows and
faults of the Polish people. For his thought the author always finds
the right form, and for his feeling the right figure.
Sienkiewicz had won the supreme piace among the short-story
writers of his native land. The historical trilogy gave him a like
place among the novelists on a larger scale. Then, from those won-
derful pictures of the vigorous and valiant men of action who repre-
sented the old Polish commonwealth, he turned to the delineation of
a modern Pole in Without Dogma. ' The book is the diary of the
hero. It is the record of a silent conflict with his own soul, full of
profound observations, subtle philosophy, lofty wisdom; but the pro-
tagonist is passive, "a genius without a portfolio. " He reveals every
cranny of his mind's dwelling-place: the lofty galleries whence he
has a wide panorama of humanity and the world; the stately halls
filled with the treasures of science and art; the dungeons also where


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13402
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
the evil impulses fret and sins are bred. But over the whole man-
sion of his soul lies a heavy enervating atmosphere: the galleries
afford a spectacle but stimulate no aspirations; the treasures of
knowledge and beauty feed a selfish pleasure quickly cloyed; even
the evil impulses rarely pass into action. This is the modern miasma
which he calls "Slavic unproductivity. " It is the over-cultivation
which is turning to decay, the refinement of self-analysis that lames
the will. The hero is a Hamlet in the guise of a young Polish noble-
man of the late nineteenth century. His only genuine emotion is his
love for Aniela; but this he doubts and philosophizes into apathy.
She marries another, loving him. Obstacles arouse him, and now he
puts forth an effort to win her. Her simplicity and faithfulness, her
dogma, saves him who is without dogma. The futility of his life is
symbolized in the words "Aniela died this morning. " The man
cannot command our respect any more than Wilhelm Meister can, or
Lermontov's "Hero of our Own Time"; but the interest of the psy-
chological analysis is irresistible. There is in it a hint of Bourget;
but in the quality of his psychology Sienkiewicz surpasses Bourget, as
he surpasses Zola and Flaubert in the quality of his realism. He has
been called a psychic realist, and 'Without Dogma' is the greatest
psychological romance that the subtle mind of Poland has produced.
'Children of the Soil' has in it certain echoes of the greater work:
It is a modern story also, turning upon the marriage of a man to a
woman whom he thinks he loves, and whom after much sin and sor-
row he learns to love at last. Quo Vadis,' the latest work, is a tale
of the times of Nero. Paganism and Christianity are contrasted. The
sympathy of the artist is naturally drawn to the ancient pagan, who
devoted his life to the worship of beauty, and faced death with a
stoic's calmness. The character of Petronius Arbiter is the master-
piece of the book. This conflict between two forms of civilization
has long been a favorite theme with the Polish poets: the dawn of a
new era while the lights of the old still blaze.
With this array of works, Sienkiewicz would take honorable rank
among the best writers of his generation; but his title to a place
among the great creators rests upon none of these. That claim is
based upon the famous historical trilogy, 'With Fire and Sword,'
'The Deluge,' and 'Pan Michael. ' Poland was the bulwark of Christ-
ian civilization on the east. Against the Tartar hordes and Mongolian
bands the gallant commonwealth maintained a stout resistance for
centuries: but her warlike neighbors did not recognize her importance
as the defender of the Christian marches; she was constantly exposed
to encroachments on the west. In the moment of her greatest peril
the Swedes attacked her from that quarter. These wonderful wars
of the seventeenth century are the theme of the trilogy. In the
-


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HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13403
descriptions of innumerable battles and sieges, Sienkiewicz displays
an astounding fertility of invention and an infinite variety of treat-
ment. These scenes stamp themselves indelibly upon the memory
with all the savage beauty and the thrilling horror of war. Amid the
bewildering rush and whirl of events, and in the breathless excite-
ment of individual destinies, the one animating thought is national
glory; and to this, life and love are freely sacrificed. But splendid as
the martial pageant is, revealing in itself a master hand of incom-
parable skill, the historical element is after all only the background
before which heroes of Homeric mold make proof of their manhood.
It is in the creation of living human beings that Sienkiewicz exhibits
his highest genius. Nothing could surpass in vital force, originality
of conception, and convincing realism of presentation, the character
of Zagloba, bibulous but steadfast, cowardly but courageous, boasting
but competent, lying but honest,- an incomparable character, to be
laughed at, admired, and loved; or the plucky little hoyden and dare-
devil Basia, who marries Pan Michael out of hand. And these are
but two of a dazzling galaxy of creations that hold the imagination
enthralled. From the magic of Sienkiewicz there is no escape; firmly
he grasps his wand, and once within the circle he describes, the
charm can never be eluded. There is here all the tense excitement
of intrigue and danger and hairbreadth escapes that fascinate in
Dumas; there is the same joy in the courage and sagacity of heroes
that stimulate in Dumas; but in Sienkiewicz there is also a deep
psychological interest, the working out of an inner problem, the
struggle of noble minds between selfishness and duty, which raise
these novels out of the class of romantic tales of adventure into
that higher region of poetry where we breathe the air that swept
the plains of Troy. These books have an almost conscious Homeric
touch; the very form of the similes is Homeric. But there is a flavor
of Shakespeare also: if Michael is a modern Hector, Zagloba is a
Polish Falstaff. In every case it is only of the greatest that we are
reminded.
Each of the three novels deals with a different campaign; each
has its own central figure; each sets its own psychological task. The
first deals with the uprising of the Zaporojians: the interest centres
in the noble but perhaps too highly idealized Pan Yan; the struggle
is between his duty to Poland and his love for Helena, whom the
Cossacks have carried off. Obviously the author's interest in his
characters grows as he proceeds, and they become more vivid and
convincing with each chapter. Zagloba, to be sure, is there with all
his qualities from the beginning; but the little knight, Pan Michael,
the incomparable swordsman, takes up more and more of the fore-
ground, while in the second and third of the novels Pan Yan and his


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HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13404
Helena become mere shadows. < The Deluge' deals with the Swedish
invasion and the dissensions among the Poles themselves; for to this
noble and gifted race Goethe's Xenion applies with sad force:—
"Each, if you take him alone, is fairly shrewd and discerning;
Let them in council meet, blockhead is the result. »
They triumphed in spite of their own traitors, by sheer native force
and exuberance of strength. The hero of this second novel is Kmita,
psychologically the most interesting of them all. In the wild days
of his thoughtless youth he had committed crimes; he was easily
won over to the service of the traitor Radziwill, for he was ill-
informed and inexperienced. At last his better nature awakes and
his eyes are opened: he finds himself disgraced and his career ruined;
he resolves to begin life anew under an assumed name, and win his
way to honor or find absolution in death. The book is largely a
story of this struggle. The crown of the series is Pan Michael. '
The subject is border warfare on the wind-swept steppes, and the
Tartar invasion which ended disastrously for Poland in the fall of
Kamenyets. Like a true artist, Sienkiewicz in the gloom of this sad
catastrophe has made a reconcilement. At the funeral of Michael the
commanding figure of Sobieski kneels beside the catafalque; and it
was Sobieski who a few years later turned back the tide of Turkish
invasion from the gates of Vienna. Pan Michael himself is of course
the hero of this closing volume. The woman he loved has died;
and the little knight, grown melancholy, has entered a monastery.
Zagloba in a delicious scene lures him forth again. At once the
impressionable warrior falls in love; but he is obliged to renounce
his love, yielding to his friend Ketling. It is at this moment that the
wholly delightful little Basia throws her arms around his neck, and
with the utmost emphasis asserts her own willingness to marry him.
"God has wrought a miracle," says Pan Michael solemnly. Through
the terrors of border warfare and the horrors of sieges this fearless
devoted woman accompanies him; she is all his joy, the crown of
his life. But Poland demands another sacrifice, and Michael brings
it without hesitation. He goes to a self-determined death with only
this message to his wife: "Remember, this life is nothing. " The
author's own wife died before the trilogy for which she had been his
inspiration and encouragement was completed; and the sublime scenes
of lovers' parting and heroic self-sacrifice with which the series ends,
are filled with a spirit of profound and chastened sorrow that is partly
autobiographic. The lofty sublimity of this conclusion is wholly
worthy of the noble thought that dominates it all: it is the apothe-
osis of Polish patriotism. In Sienkiewicz, as in all the great Polish
poets of the nineteenth century, love of country, pride in its glorious


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HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13405
past, and hope unquenched for the future, are the great inspiring
forces. There is a solemn pathos in the words with which the author
lays down his pen: "Here ends this series of books, written in the
course of a number of years and with no little toil, for the strength-
ening of hearts. "
Chest Grung
ZAGLOBA CAPTURES A BANNER
From With Fire and Sword. ' Copyright 1890, by Jeremiah Curtin.
printed by permission of Little, Brown & Co. , publishers
Re-
[At the decisive moment in a battle between the Polish forces under Prince
Yeremi and the peasant mob of the Zaporojians, the hussars of the former
are ordered to advance. Zagloba, reluctant, alarmed, indignant, is carried
forward with them. ]
WHE
WHEN the hussars moved forward, Zagloba, though he had
short breath and did not like a throng, galloped with the
others, because in fact he could not do otherwise without
danger of being trampled to death. He flew on therefore, closing
his eyes; and through his head there flew with lightning speed
the thought, "Stratagem is nothing, stratagem is nothing: the
stupid win, the wise perish! " Then he was seized with spite
against the war, against the Cossacks, the hussars, and every
one else in the world. He began to curse, to pray. The wind
whistled in his ears, the breath was hemmed in his breast. Sud-
denly his horse struck against something; he felt resistance.
Then he opened his eyes, and what did he see? Scythes, sabres,
flails, a crowd of inflamed faces, eyes, mustaches,—and all indefi-
nite, unknown, all trembling, galloping, furious. Then he was
transported with rage against those enemies, because they are not
going to the devil, because they are rushing up to his face and
forcing him to fight. "You wanted it, now you have it," thought
he, and he began to slash blindly on every side. Sometimes
he cut the air, and sometimes he felt that his blade had sunk
into something soft. At the same time he felt that he was still
living, and this gave him extraordinary hope. "Slay! kill! " he


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13406
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
roared like a buffalo. At last those frenzied faces vanished from
his eyes, and in their places he saw a multitude of visages, tops
of caps, and the shouts almost split his ears. "Are they fleeing? "
shot through his head. "Yes! " Then daring sprang up in
him beyond measure. "Scoundrels! " he shouted, "is that the way
you meet a noble? " He sprang among the fleeing enemy, passed
many, and entangled in the crowd, began to labor with greater
presence of mind now.
Meanwhile his comrades pressed the Cossacks to the bank of
the Sula, covered pretty thickly with trees, and drove them along
the shore to the embankment,-taking no prisoners, for there
was no time.
Suddenly Zagloba felt that his horse began to spread out
under him; at the same time something heavy fell on him and
covered his whole head, so that he was completely enveloped in
darkness.
"Oh, save me! " he cried, beating the horse with his heels.
The steed, however, apparently wearied with the weight of the
rider, only groaned and stood in one place.
Zagloba heard the screams and shouts of the horsemen rush-
ing around him; then that whole hurricane swept by, and all was
in apparent quiet.
Again thoughts began to rush through his head with the
swiftness of Tartar arrows: "What is this? What has happened?
Jesus and Mary, I am in captivity! "
On his forehead drops of cold sweat came out. Evidently his
head was bound just as he had once bound Bogun. That weight
which he feels on his shoulder is the hand of a Cossack. But
why don't they hang him or kill him? Why is he standing in
one place?
"Let me go, you scoundrel! " cried he at last, with a muffled
voice.
Silence.
"Let me go! I'll spare your life. Let me go,
I
No answer.
say! "
Zagloba struck into the sides of his horse again with his heels,
but again without result; the prodded beast only stretched out
wider and remained in the same place.
Finally rage seized the unfortunate captive; and drawing a
knife from the sheath that hung at his belt, he gave a terrible
stab behind. But the knife only cut the air.


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HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13407
Then Zagloba pulled with both hands at the covering which
bound his head, and tore it in a moment. What is this?
No Cossack. Deserted all around. Only in the distance was
to be seen in the smoke the red dragoons of Volodyovski flying
past; and farther on, the glittering armor of the hussars pursuing
the remnant of the defeated, who were retreating from the field
toward the water. At Zagloba's feet lay a Cossack regimental
banner. Evidently the fleeing Cossack had dropped it so that
the staff hit Zagloba's shoulder, and the cloth covered his head.
Seeing all this, and understanding it perfectly, that hero re-
gained his presence of mind completely.
"Oh, ho! " said he, "I have captured a banner. How is this?
Didn't I capture it? If justice is not defeated in this battle,
then I am sure of a reward. Oh, you scoundrels! it is your luck
that my horse gave out! I did not know myself when I thought
I was greater in strategy than in bravery. I can be of some
higher use in the army than eating cakes. Oh, God save us!
some other crowd is rushing on. Don't come here, dog-brothers;
don't come this way! May the wolves eat this horse! Kill!
slay! "
Indeed a new band of Cossacks were rushing toward Zagloba,
raising unearthly voices, closely pursued by the armored men of
Polyanovski. And perhaps Zagloba would have found his death
under the hoofs of their horses, had it not been that the hussars
of Skshetuski, having finished those whom they had been pur-
suing, turned to take between two fires those onrushing parties.
Seeing this, the Zaporojians ran toward the water, only to find
death in the swamps and deep places after escaping the sword.
Those who fell on their knees begging for quarter died under
the steel. The defeat was terrible and complete, but most ter-
rible on the embankment. All who passed that, were swept away
in the half-circle left by the forces of the prince. Those who did
not pass, fell under the continual fire of Vurtsel's cannon and the
guns of the German infantry. They could neither go forward
nor backward; for Krívonos urged on still new regiments, which,
pushing forward, closed the only road to escape. It seemed as
though Krívonos had sworn to destroy his own men; who stifled,
trampled, and fought one another, fell, sprang into the water on
both sides, and were drowned. On one side were black masses
of fugitives, and on the other masses advancing; in the middle,
piles and mountains and rows of dead bodies; groans, screams,
men deprived of speech; the madness of terror, disorder, chaos.


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HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
The whole pond was full of men and horses; the water over-
flowed the banks.
At times the artillery was silent. Then the embankment,
like the mouth of a cannon, threw forth crowds of Zaporojians
and the mob, who rushed over the half-circle and went under the
swords of the cavalry waiting for them. Then Vurtsel began to
play again with his rain of iron and lead; the Cossack reinforce-
ment barred the embankment. Whole hours were spent in these
bloody struggles.
Krivonos, furious, foaming at the mouth, did not give up the
battle yet, and hurried thousands of men to the jaws of death.
Yeremi, on the other side, in silver armor, sat on his horse,
on a lofty mound called at that time the Kruja Mogila, and
looked on. His face was calm; his eye took in the whole em-
bankment, pond, banks of the Sluch, and extended to the place
in which the enormous tabor of Krívonos stood wrapped in the
bluish haze of the distance. The eyes of the prince never left
that collection of wagons. At last he turned to the massive voe.
voda of Kieff, and said:-
"We shall not capture the tabor to-day. "
"How? You wished to — "
Time is flying quickly. It is too late. See! it is almost
evening. "
In fact, from the time the skirmishers went out, the battle,
kept up by the stubbornness of Krívonos, had lasted already so
long that the sun had but an hour left of its whole daily half-
circle, and inclined to its setting. The light, lofty, small clouds,
announcing fair weather and scattered over the sky like white-
fleeced lambs, began to grow red and disappear in groups from
the field of heaven. The flow of Cossacks to the embankment
stopped gradually, and those regiments that had already come.
upon it retreated in dismay and disorder.
The battle was ended; and ended because the enraged crowd
fell upon Krivonos at last, shouting with despair and madness:
"Traitor! you are destroying us. You bloody dog! We will
bind you ourselves, and give you up to Yeremi, and thus secure
our lives. Death to you, not to us! "
"To-morrow I will give you the prince and all his army, or
perish myself," answered Krivonos.
But the hoped-for to-morrow had yet to come, and the pres-
ent to-day was a day of defeat and disorder. Several thousand
of the best warriors of the lower country, not counting the mob,


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HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13409
lay on the field of battle, or were drowned in the pond and
river. Nearly two thousand were taken prisoners; fourteen colo-
nels were killed, not counting sotniks, essauls, and other elders.
Pulyan, next in command to Krívonos, had fallen into the hands
of the enemy alive, but with broken ribs.
"To-morrow we will cut them all up," said Krívonos. "I
will neither eat nor drink till it is done. "
In the opposite camp the captured banners were thrown down
at the feet of the terrible prince. Each of the captors brought
his own, so that they formed a considerable crowd,- altogether
forty. When Zagloba passed by, he threw his down with such
force that the staff split. Seeing this, the prince detained him,
and asked: -
―――
"And you captured that banner with your own hands? "
"At your service, your Highness. "
"I see that you are not only a Ulysses, but an Achilles. "
"I am
a simple soldier, but I serve under Alexander of
Macedon. "
"Since you receive no wages, the treasurer will pay you, in
addition to what you have had, two hundred ducats for this hon-
orable exploit. "
Zagloba seized the prince by the knees, and said, "Your favor
is greater than my bravery, which would gladly hide itself be-
hind its own modesty. "
A scarcely visible smile wandered over the dark face of
Skshetuski; but the knight was silent, and even later on he
never said anything to the prince, or any one else, of the fears
of Zagloba before the battle: but Zagloba himself walked away
with such threatening mien that, seeing him, the soldiers of the
other regiments pointed at him, saying:-
"He is the man who did most to-day. "
-
Night came. On both sides of the river and the pond, thou
sands of fires were burning, and smoke rose to the sky in col-
umns. The wearied soldiers strengthened themselves with food
and gorailka, or gave themselves courage for to-morrow's battle
by relating the exploits of the present day. But loudest of all
spoke Zagloba, boasting of what he had done, and what he could
have done if his horse had not failed.
"I can tell you," said he, turning to the officers of the prince
and the nobles of Tishkyevich's command, "that great battles
are no novelty for me. I was in many of them in Moldavia and
XXIII-839


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13410
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
Turkey; but when I was on the field I was afraid - not of the
enemy, for who is afraid of such trash! -- but of my own impuls-
iveness, for I thought immediately that it would carry me too far. "
"And did it? "
"It did. Ask Skshetuski. The moment I saw Vershul fall-
ing with his horse, I wanted to gallop to his aid without asking
a question. My comrades could scarcely hold me back. "
True," said Skshetuski, "we had to hold you in. "
"But," interrupted Karvich, "where is Vershul? "
"He has already gone on a scouting expedition: he knows no
rest. "
"See then, gentlemen," said Zagloba, displeased at the inter-
ruption, "how I captured the banner. "
"Then Vershul is not wounded? " inquired Karvich again.
"This is not the first one that I have captured in my life, but
none cost me such trouble. "
"He is not wounded, only bruised," answered Azulevich, a
Tartar, "and has gulped water, for he fell head first into the
pond. »
"Then I wonder the fish didn't die," said Zagloba with anger,
"for the water must have boiled from such a flaming head. "
"But he is a great warrior. "
"Not so great, since a half John was enough for him. Tfu!
it is impossible to talk with you. You might learn from me how
to capture banners from the enemy. "
*
PODBIPIENTA'S DEATH
From With Fire and Sword. Copyright 1890, by Jeremiah Curtin. Reprinted
by permission of Little, Brown & Co. , publishers
[Within the fortifications of Zbaraj the Poles are closely besieged. Their
only hope lies in getting news of their plight to the King. The four comrades
Pan Longin Podbipienta, Pan Yan Skshetuski, Pan Michael Volodyovski, and
Pan Zagloba, are together on the ramparts, keeping watch. ]
PAN
LONGIN fell into deep thought; his brows were covered
with furrows, and he sat a whole hour in silence. Suddenly
he raised his head, and spoke with his usual sweetness: "I
will undertake to steal through the Cossacks. "
* A pun on "Pulyan," which in Polish means "half Yan" or John.


## p. 13411 (#225) ##########################################

HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13411
The knights, hearing these words, sprang from their seats in
amazement. Zagloba opened his mouth, Volodyovski's mustaches
quivered, Skshetuski grew pale; and the starosta, striking him-
self on the breast, cried, "Would you undertake to do this? "
"Have you considered what you say? " asked Pan Yan.
"I considered it long ago," answered the Lithuanian; "for
this is not the first day that the knights say that notice must be
given the King of our position. And I, hearing this, thought to
myself: 'If the Most High God permits me to fulfill my vow,
I will go at once. I am an obscure man: what do I signify ?
What harm to me, even if I am killed on the road? › »
"But they will cut you to pieces, without doubt! " cried
Zagloba. "Have you heard what the starosta says,— that it is
evident death? »
"What of that, brother? If God wishes he will carry me
through; if not, he will reward me in heaven. "
"But first they will seize you, torture you, give you a fearful
death. Have you lost your reason, man? " asked Zagloba.
"I will go, anyhow," answered the Lithuanian mildly.
"A bird could not fly through, for they would shoot it from
their bows. They have surrounded us like a badger in his
hole. "
"Still I will go! " repeated the Lithuanian. "I owe thanks
to the Lord for permitting me to fulfill my vow. "
"Well, look at him, examine him! " said Zagloba in despera-
tion. "You had better have your head cut off at once and shoot
it from a cannon over the tabor; for in this way alone could you
push through them. "
"But permit me, my friends-" said Pan Longin, clasping his
hands.
"Oh, no: you will not go alone, for I will go with you," said
Skshetuski.
"And I with you both! " added Volodyovski, striking his
sword.
"And may the bullets strike you! " cried Zagloba, seizing
himself by the head. "May the bullets strike you with your
'And I,' 'And I,' with your daring! They have not had enough
blood yet, not enough of destruction, not enough of bullets!
What is doing here is not sufficient for them; they want more
certainty of having their necks twisted. Go to the dogs, and
give me peace! I hope you will be cut to pieces. " When he


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HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
had said this he began to circle about in the tent as if mad.
"God is punishing me," cried he, "for associating with whirl-
winds instead of honorable, solid men. It serves me right. " He
walked through the tent awhile longer with feverish tread: at
last he stopped before Skshetuski; then putting his hands behind
his back and looking into his eyes, began to puff terribly: "What
have I done that you persecute me? "
us! " exclaimed the knight.
"What do you
"God save
mean? »
"I do not wonder that Podbipienta invents such things: he
always had his wit in his fist. But since he has killed the three
greatest fools among the Turks he has become the fourth him-
self—»
"It is disgusting to hear him," interrupted the Lithuanian.
"And I don't wonder at him," continued Zagloba, pointing
at Volodyovski. "He will jump on a Cossack's boot-leg, or hold
to his trousers as a burr does to a dog's tail, and get through
quicker than any of us. The Holy Spirit has not shone upon
either of the two; but that you, instead of restraining their
madness, should add excitement to it, that you are going your-
self, and wish to expose us four to certain death and torture,-
that is the final blow! Tfu! I did not expect this of an officer
whom the prince himself has esteemed a valiant knight. "
"How four? " asked Skshetuski in astonishment.
"Do you
want to go? "
"Yes! " cried Zagloba, beating his breast with his fists, "I
will go. If any of you go, or all go together, I will go too.
My blood be on your heads! I shall know next time with whom
to associate. "
"Well may you! " said Skshetuski.
The three knights began to embrace him; but he was angry
in earnest, and puffed and pushed them away with his elbows
saying, "Go to the Devil! I don't want your Judas kisses. " Then
was heard on the walls the firing of cannon and muskets.
"There it is for you,-go! "
"That is ordinary firing," remarked Pan Yan.
« Well,
"Ordinary firing! " repeated Zagloba, mocking him.