Генрик Сенкевич
Sielanka: An Idyll
“O Lord, have mercy upon me. Have mercy upon me, O Lord.”
Again, sometimes, when the oaks and pines cease for a moment, there rises from under their feet a faint, modest voice, low as the murmur of insects, silent as silence itself, which says:
“A small berry am I, O Lord, and hidden in the moss. But Thou wilt hear, discern and love me; though small, devout am I, and sing Thy glory.”
Thus every evening prays the forest, and these orchestral sounds rise at every sunset from earth to heaven – and float high, high, reaching where there is no creature, where there is nothing only the silvery dust and the milky way of the stars, and above the stars – God.
At this moment the sun hides his radiant head in the far-distant seas; the farmer turns upward his plowshares and hastens to his cottage. From the pastures return the bellowing herds; the sheep raise clouds of the golden dust. The twilight falls; in the village creek the well sweeps; later the windows shine, and from the distance comes the barking of the dogs.
The sun had not gone beyond the woods when Kasya had seated herself under the mossy stone to weave her garlands. Its rays were thrown upon her face, broken by the shadows of the leaves and twigs. The work did not proceed rapidly, for Kasya was tired from heat and running in the woods. Her sunburnt hands moved slowly at her work. The warm breeze kissed her temples and face, and the voices of the forest lulled her to sleep. Her large eyes became heavy and drowsy; her eyelashes began to close slowly; she leaned her head against the stone, opened her eyes once more as a child looking upon the divine beauty of the world; then the noise of the trees, the rows of the stumps, the ground full of pine needles, and the skies that could be seen between the branches all became indistinct, darkened, dissolved, disappeared – and she smiled and slept. Her head was hidden in a soft shade, but the covering of her breast shone all rosy and purple. Her soft breathing lifted her bosom gently; so wonderful and beautiful she looked in this quiet sleep in the evening rays that John looked upon her as if upon the image of a saint, glorious with gold, and colored as the rainbow.
Kasya’s hands were clinging yet to the unfinished garland of herbs. She slept with a sleep light and sweet, for she smiled through her dreams as a child who speaks with the angels. Perhaps she verily conversed with angels, for pure she was as a child, and had dedicated her whole day to the service of God by gathering and weaving the garlands for His temple.
John was sitting by her side, but he did not sleep. His simple breast could not contain the feelings that arose there; he felt as if his soul had got wings and was preparing to fly away to the realms of heaven. He knew not what was happening to him, and he only raised his eyes to the skies and was motionless; you would say that love had transfigured him.
Kasya slumbered on, and for a long time they both remained there. Meanwhile the dusk came. The remnants of the purple light fought with the darkness. The interior of the woods deepened – became dumb. From the canes of the lake near the glade with its cottage came the buzzing of a night beetle.
Suddenly on the other side of the lake from the church rang out the Angelus bell. Its tones floated on the wings of the evening breeze over the face of the quiet waters, clear, resonant, and distinct. It called the faithful to prayer, and also proclaimed: “Rest! Enough of work and the heat of the day,” spoke the bell. “Wrap yourself to sleep in the wing of God. Come, come ye weary to Him – in Him is joy! Here is peace! here gladness! here sleep! here sleep! here sleep!”
John took off his hat at the sound of the bell, Kasya shook the sleep from her eyes, and said:
“The bell rings.”
“For the Angel of the Lord.”
Both kneeled near by the mossy stone as if before an altar. Kasya began to pray with a low, soft voice:
“The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary,”
“And she conceived by the Holy Ghost,” answered John.
“Behold the handmaiden of the Lord; may it be done to me according to Thy word.”
Thus kneeling, prayed these children of God. The silent summer lightning shone from the east to the west, and upon its light flew down from heaven a radiant host of winged angels, and hovered above their heads. Then they blended with the angels and were themselves as if angels, for upon earth there were no two souls more bright, more pure, more innocent.
ORSO
The last days of autumn in Anaheim, a town situated in Southern California, are days of joy and celebration. The grape gathering is finished and the town is crowded with the vineyard hands. There is nothing more picturesque than the sight of these people, composed partly of a sprinkling of Mexicans, but mainly of Cahuilla Indians, who come from the wild mountains of San Bernardino to earn some money by gathering grapes. They scatter through the streets and market places, called lolas, where they sleep in tents or under the roof of the sky, which is always clear at this time of the year. This beautiful city, surrounded with its growths of eucalyptus, olive, castor, and pepper trees, is filled with the noisy confusion of a fair, which strangely contrasts with the deep and solemn silence of the plains, covered with cacti, just beyond the vineyards. In the evening, when the sun hides his radiant head in the depths of the ocean, and upon the rosy sky are seen in its light the equally rosy-tinted wings of the wild geese, ducks, pelicans and cranes, descending by the thousands from the mountains to the ocean, then in the town the lights are lit and the evening amusements begin. The negro minstrels play on bones, and by the campfires can be heard the picking of the banjo; the Mexicans dance on an out-spread poncha their favorite bolero; Indians join in the dance, holding in their teeth long white sticks of kiotte, or beating time with their hands, and exclaiming, “E viva;” the fires, fed with redwood, crackle as they blaze, sending up clouds of bright sparks, and by its reflection can be seen the dancing figures, and around them the local settlers with their comely wives and sisters watching the scene.
The day on which the juice from the last bunch of grapes is trampled out by the feet of the Indians is generally celebrated by the advent of Hirsch’s Circus, from Los Angeles. The proprietor of the circus is a German, and besides owns a menagerie composed of monkeys, jaguars, pumas, African lions, one elephant, and several parrots, childish with age – “The greatest attraction of the world.” The Cahuilla will give his last peso, if he has not spent it on drink, to see not only wild animals – for these abound in the San Bernardino Mountains – but to see the circus girls, athletes, clowns, and all its wonders, which seem to him as “a great medicine” – that is, magical feats, impossible of accomplishment except by the aid of supernatural powers.
Mr. Hirsch, the proprietor of the circus, would be very angry with any one who would dare to say that his circus only attracted Mexicans, Indians, and Chinese. Certainly not; the arrival of the circus brings hither not only the people of the town and vicinity, but even those of the neighboring towns of Westminster, Orange, and Los Nietos. Orange Street is crowded with buggies and wagons of divers shapes, so that it is difficult to get through. The whole world of settlers come as one man. Young, bright girls, with their hair prettily banged over their eyes, sitting on the front seats, drive some of these vehicles, and gracefully upset passing pedestrians, chatter and show their white teeth; the Spanish senoritas from Los Nietos cover you with their warm, ardent glances from under their lace mantillas; the married women from the country, dressed in their latest and best fashions, lean with pride on the arms of the sunburned farmers, who are dressed in old hats, jean pants, and flannel shirts, fastened with hook and eye, and without neckties.
All these people meet and greet each other, gossip, and the women inspect with critical eye the dresses of their neighbors, to see if they are “very fashionable.”
Among the buggies are some covered with flowers, which look like huge bouquets; the young men, mounted on mustangs, bend from their high Mexican saddles and peer under the hats of the young girls; the half-wild horses, frightened by the noise and confusion, look here and there with their bloodshot eyes, curvet, rear, and try to unseat their riders, but the cool riders seem to pay no attention to them.
They all speak of “the greatest attraction,” which was about to excel everything that had been seen before. Truly the flaming posters announced genuine wonders. The proprietor, Hirsch, that renowned “artist of the whip,” will in the arena give a contest with a fierce, untamed African lion. The lion, according to the programme, springs upon the proprietor, whose only defense is his whip. This simple weapon in his hands (according to the programme) will change itself into a fiery sword and shield. The end of this whip will sting as a rattlesnake, flash as lightning, shoot as a thunderbolt, and keep at a proper distance the enraged monster, who vainly roars and tries to jump on the artist. This is not the end yet: sixteen-year-old Orso, an “American Hercules,” born of a white father and Indian mother, will carry around six people, three on each shoulder; besides this, the management offers one hundred dollars to any man, regardless of color, who can throw Orso in a wrestling match. A rumor arose in Anaheim that from the mountains of San Bernardino comes for this purpose the “Grizzly Killer,” a hunter who was celebrated for his bravery and strength, and who, since California was settled, was the first man who attacked these great bears single-handed and armed only with a knife. It is the probable victory of the “Grizzly Killer” over the sixteen-year-old athlete of the circus that highly excites the minds of the males of Anaheim, because if Orso, who until now, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, had overthrown the strongest Americans, will be defeated, great glory will cover all California. The feminine minds are not less excited by the following number of the programme: Orso will carry, on a pole thirty feet high, a small fairy, the “Wonder of the World,” of which the poster says that she is the most beautiful girl that ever lived on this earth since the beginning of the “Christian Era.” Though she is only thirteen years of age, the management also offers one hundred dollars to every maiden, “without regard to color of skin,” who will dare to compete and wrest the palm of beauty from this “Aerial Angel.” The maidens of Anaheim, both great and small, make grimaces on reading this, and say that it would not be ladylike to enter such a contest. Nevertheless they gladly surrender the comfort of their rocking chairs rather than miss the show and the chance of seeing their childish rival, in whose beauty, in comparison with the sisters Bimpa, for instance, none of them believed. The two sisters Bimpa, the elder Refugio, and the younger Mercedes, sitting gracefully in a handsome buggy, are now reading the posters; their faces show no trace of emotion, though they feel that the eyes of Anaheim are on them, as if supplicating them to save the honor of the whole county, and with a patriotic pride, founded upon the conviction that there is none more beautiful than these two California flowers in all the mountains and cañons of the whole world. Oh, beautiful indeed are the sisters Refugio and Mercedes! Not in vain does the pure Castilian blood flow in their veins, to which their mother constantly refers, showing her disdain for all colored races, as well as for the Americans.
The figures of the sisters are slender, subtle, and full of mysterious grace, quiet, and so luxurious that they greatly impress all young men who come near them. From Donnas Refugio and Mercedes exhales a charm as the fragrance from the magnolia and the lily. Their faces are delicate, complexions transparent with a slight rosy tint, as if illumed with the dawn; the eyes dark and dreamy, sweet, innocent, and tender in their glances. Wrapped in muslin rebosos, they sit in their buggy adorned with flowers, pure and innocent, unconscious of their own beauty. Anaheim looked upon them, devoured them with its eyes, was proud of them, and loved them. Who then is this “Jenny,” that can win victory over these? “Truly,” the Saturday Review wrote, “when little Jenny had climbed to the top of the mast, resting on the powerful shoulders of Orso, and from this eminence, suspended above the earth, in danger of death, she outstretched her arms and poised like a butterfly, the circus became silent and all eyes and hearts followed with trembling the movements of this wonderful child. That he who saw her on the mast or on a horse,” concluded the Saturday Review, “will never forget her, because the greatest painter in the world, even Mr. Harvey, of San Francisco, who decorated the Palace Hotel, could paint nothing equal to it.”
The youths of Anaheim who were enamored by the Misses Bimpa were skeptical of this, and affirmed that it was a “humbug,” but this question will be settled in the evening. Meanwhile, the commotion around the circus is increasing each moment. From among the long, low wooden buildings surrounding the canvas circus there comes the roar of the lions and elephant; the parrots, fastened to rings hanging to the huts, fill the air with their cries and whistles; the monkeys swing suspended by their tails or mock the public, who are kept at a distance by a rope fence. At last, from the main inclosure the procession emerges for the purpose of whetting and astonishing the curiosity of the public to a greater extent. The procession is headed by a gaudy band-wagon, drawn by six prancing horses with fine harness, and feathers on their heads. The riders on the saddles are in the costume of French postilions. On the other wagons come cages of lions, and in every cage is seated a lady with an olive branch in her hand. Then follows an elephant, covered with a carpet, and a tower on its back, which contains several men arrayed as East Indian hunters. The band is playing, the drums are beating, the lions are roaring, the whips are cracking; in a word, this cavalcade moves forward with great noise and uproar. But this is not all: behind the elephant there follows a machine on wheels, with a locomotive pipe, somewhat resembling an organ, which, blown by steam, emits the most discordant yells and whistles intended for the national “Yankee Doodle.” The Americans cry “Hurrah!” the Germans, “Hoch!” the Mexicans, “E viva!” and the Cahuillas howl for joy.
