SIELANKA.
An Idyll.
In the woods, in the deep woods, was
an open glade in which stood the house of
the forester Stephan. The house was
built of logs packed with moss, and the
roof was thatched with straw; hard by
the house stood two outbuildings; in
front of it was a piece of fenced-in ground,
and an old well with a long, crooked sweep;
the water in the well was covered with a
green vegetation at the edges.
Opposite the windows grew sunflowers
and wild hollyhocks, high, stately, and
covered with blossoms as if with a swarm
of gorgeous butterflies; between the sunflowers
there peeped the red heads of the
poppy; around the hollyhocks entwined
sweet peas with pink blossoms and morning-glories;
close to the ground grew
nasturtiums, marigolds, primroses, and
asters, pale because they were shaded from
the sunlight by the leaves of the hollyhocks
and sunflowers.
The fenced ground on either side of the
pathway leading to the house was planted
with vegetables—carrots, beets, and cabbage;
further off in a separate fenced-in
lot there waved with each breath of wind
the tender blue flower of the flax; still beyond
could be seen the dark green of the
potato patch; the rest of the clearing was
checkered with the variegated shades of
the different cereals that ran to the edge
of the lake which touched the glade on
one side.
Near to the house a few trees were
growing. Some were cherry trees, and
one was a birch, with long, slender
branches which swayed in the wind, and
with every breeze its leaves touched the
dilapidated moss-covered straw thatch of
the roof; when the stronger gusts of wind
bent its boughs to the wall, and pressed
its twigs and the waves of leaves against
the roof, it would seem as if the tree loved
the house and embraced it.
In this tree the sparrows made their
home; the rustling of the leaves and twigs
commingled with the chirp and joyous
noise of the birds; in the eaves of the
house the doves had built their nests, and
the place was filled with their speech,
cooing and calling to each other, entreating
and discussing as is customary between
doves, these noisy and talkative people.
At times it happened that they were
startled by some unknown cause; then
around the house was heard a loud flapping,
the air was filled with the whirl of
wings and a multitude of white-feathered
breasts; you could hear tumult, noise and
excited cries—the whole flock flew out
suddenly, circled round the house, now
near, now far off. Sometimes they melted
in the blue, sometimes their white feathers
reflected the sunlight, again they hung
over the house, undulating in the air, and
alighting at last like a downfall of snowflakes
on the gray straw of the roof.
If this occurred in the rosy morning or
in the splendor of the red setting sun,
then in the glory of the air these doves
were not white, but tinted pink, and
settled on the roof and birch tree as flames
or scattered rose leaves.
At twilight, when the sun had hidden
itself beyond the woods, this cooing under
the roof and chirping in the birch tree
became gradually quiet. The sparrows
and the doves shook the dew from their
wings and prepared to sleep; sometimes
one of them gave voice once more, but
more rarely, more softly, more drowsily,
and then all was silent—the dusk was falling
from the heavens upon the earth.
The house, cherry trees, and birch were
losing their form, mingling together,
melting, and veiled in a mist which rose
from the lake.
Around the glade, as far as the eye
could reach, there stretched the wall of
dark pine trees and thick undergrowth.
This wall was broken in one place by a
wide dividing line, which reached to the
edge of the lake. The lake was a very
large one, the opposite side was nearly
lost to view, and in the mist could be
hardly discerned the red roof and steeple
of a church, and the black line of the
woods closing the horizon beyond the
church.
The pines were looking from the high
sandy banks upon their reflection in the
lake as if in a mirror, and it seemed as if
there was another forest in the water; and
when the trees were swaying on the earth
they were also swaying in the water, and
when they quivered on the earth they
seemed to quiver in the water; as they
stood in the still air motionless, then
every needle of the pines was painted distinctly
on the smooth, unruffled surface,
and the straight trunks of the trees standing
like rows of pillars reaching afar off
into infinity. In the middle of the lake
the water in the daytime reflected the
sun, and in the morning and the evening
the glories of its rising and its setting; at
night the moon and stars; and it seemed
to be as deep as the dome of the sky
above us is high, beyond the sun, moon,
and stars.
In the house dwelt the forester, named
Stephan, and his daughter, Kasya, a
maiden of sixteen. Kasya was the light
of the household, as bright and fresh as
the morning. She was brought up in
great innocence and in the fear of God.
Her uncle, who was now dead, and who was
a poor but devout man, the organist of the
neighboring church, had taught her to
read her prayer book, and her education
was perfected by her communing with
nature. The bees taught her to work,
the doves taught her purity, the happy
sparrows to speak joyfully to her father,
the quiet water taught her peace, the
serenity of the sky taught her contemplation,
the matin-bell of the distant church
called her to devotion, and the universal
good in all nature, which reflected the
love of God, sank deep into her soul.
Therefore the father and Kasya led a
peaceful and happy life, surrounded by
the silence and solitude of the woods.
One noon, before Ascension Day,
Stephan came home to his dinner. He
had visited a large tract of the forest, so
he arrived weary, having returned through
the thickets of the swamp. Kasya placed
the dinner on the table, and after they
had finished and she had fed the dog and
washed the dishes, she said:
“Papa.”
“What is it?”
“I shall go into the woods.”
“Go, go,” adding jestingly, “and let
some wolf or wild beast devour you.”
“I shall go and gather herbs. To-morrow
is Ascension Day and they will be
needed in the church.”
“If so, you can go.”
She covered her head with a yellow
kerchief embroidered with blue flowers,
and looking for her basket she began
singing:
“The falcon came flying, the falcon came grey.”
The old man began to grumble: “If
you were as fond of working as you are of
singing.”
Kasya, who was standing on her tiptoes
to look on a shelf, turned her head to
her father, laughed merrily, and showing
her white teeth, sang again as if to tease
him:
“He hoots in the woods and the cuckoo’s his prey.”
“You would be glad yourself to be a
cuckoo until a falcon came,” said the old
man. “Perhaps ’tis falcon who is at the
turpentine works? but this is folly. You
can’t earn a piece of bread by singing.”
Kasya again sang:
“Hoot not thou, my falcon, unhappy thy quest,
In the depths of the lake thy cuckoo doth rest.”
Then she said:
“Wilt thou decorate the room with the
evergreens for to-morrow? I shall return
in time to milk the cows, but they should
be brought from the pasture.”
She found her basket, kissed her father,
and went out. Old Stephan got his unfinished
fishing-net, and seated himself
on a bench outside the door. He gathered
his twine, and half-closing one eye
he tried to thread his netting needle; after
several attempts he succeeded and began
to work.
From time to time he watched Kasya.
She was walking on the left side of the
lake; against the background of the sandy
banks she stood out in relief as if in a
picture. Her white waist and red striped
skirt and yellow kerchief glistened in the
sunlight like a variegated flower. Though
it was spring the heat was unbearable.
After she had gone about half a mile she
turned aside and disappeared into the
woods. The afternoon hours were hot in
the sun, but in the shade of the trees it
was quite cool. Kasya pressed forward,
suddenly stopped, smiled, and blushed like
a rose.
In front of her in the pathway stood a
youth about eighteen years of age.
This youth was the turpentine worker,
from the edge of the woods, who was now
on his way to visit Stephan.
“The Lord be praised!” said he.
“Forever and ever,” answered she, and
in her confusion she covered her face with
her apron, peeping shyly out of a corner
of it and smiling at her companion.
“Kasya,” said he.
“What is it, John?”
“Is your father at home?”
“He is.”
The turpentine worker, poor fellow,
perhaps desired to speak of something
else beside the father, but somehow he
was frightened and unconsciously inquired
for him; then he became silent and waited
for Kasya to speak to him first. She
stood confused, twisting the corners of
her apron.
At last she spoke.
“John?”
“What is it, Kasya?”
“Does the turpentine works smoke to-day?”
She also wished to speak of something
else.
“Why should it not? The turpentine
works never stop. I left lame Frank
there; but dost thou wish to go there?”
“No, I go to gather plants.”
“I will go with thee, and on our return,
if thou dost not chase me away, I
will come to thy house.”
“Why should I chase thee away?”
“If thou dost like me thou wilt not
chase me away, and if thou dost not, then
thou wilt. Tell me, Kasya, dost thou like
me?”
“Fate, my fate,” and Kasya covered her
face with her hands. “What can I say
to thee? I like thee, John, very much I
like thee,” she whispered faintly.
Then before he could reply she uncovered
her blushing face and cried out,
“Let us go and gather plants; let us
hurry.”
And so went they, John and Kasya.
The radiance of love surrounded them,
but these simple children of nature dared
not speak of it. They felt it, although
they knew not what they felt; they were
embarrassed but happy. Never before
had the forest sung so wonderfully over
their heads, never was the wind so sweet
and caressing, never at any time had the
noises of the forest, the rustling of the
breeze in the trees, the voices of the birds,
the echoes of the woods, seemed to merge
into such an angelic choir, so sweet and
grand, as at this moment, full of unconscious
happiness.
Oh, holy power of love! how good an
angel of light thou art, how rosy an
aureole in the dusk, how bright a rainbow
on the cloud of human tears!
Meanwhile, in the woods resounded
echoes from pine to pine, the barking of
the dog, Burek, who had escaped from
the house and ran on the pathway after
Kasya. He came panting heavily, and
with great joy he jumped with his big
paws on Kasya and John, and looked from
one to the other with his wise and mild
eyes, as if wishing to say:
“I see that you love one another; this
is good.”
He wagged his tail and ran quickly
ahead of them, then circled round to them,
then stopped, barked once more with joy,
and rushed into the woods, looking back
from time to time on the boy and girl.
Kasya put her hand to her forehead,
and looking upward upon the bright sun
between the leaves she said:
“Just think, the sun is two hours beyond
noontime and we have not yet gathered
any plants. Go thou, John, to the
left side and I shall go the right, and let
us begin. We should hasten, for the dear
Lord’s sake.”
They separated and went into the woods,
but not far from one another and in a
parallel direction, so that they could see
each other. Among the ferns between
the pine trees could be seen fluttering the
vari-colored skirt and yellow kerchief of
Kasya. The slender, supple maiden
seemed to float amid the berry-laden
bushes, mosses and ferns. You would
say it was some fairy wila or rusalka of
the woods; every moment she stooped and
stood erect again, and so, further and
further, passing the pine trees, she entered
deeper into the forest as some
spritely nymph.
Sometimes the thick growth of young
hemlocks and cedars would conceal her
from view, then John stopped, and putting
his hand to his mouth would shout,
“Halloo! Halloo!”
Kasya heard it; she stopped with a
smile, and pretending that she did not
see him, answered in a high, silvery
voice:
“John!”
The echo answers:
“John! John!”
Meanwhile Burek had espied a squirrel
up a tree, and, standing before it looking
upward, barked. The squirrel sitting on
a branch covered herself with her tail in a
mocking manner, lifted her forepaws to
her mouth and rubbed her nose, seemed
to play with her forefingers, make grimaces,
and laugh at the anger of Burek.
Kasya, seeing it, laughed with a resounding,
silvery tone, and so did John, and so
the woods were filled with the sound of
human voices, echoes, laughter and sunny
joy.
Sometimes there was a deep silence, and
then the woods seemed to speak; the
breeze struck the fronds of the ferns,
which emitted a sharp sound; the trunks
of the pines swayed and creaked, and
there was silence again.
Then could be heard the measured
strokes of the woodpecker. It seemed as
if some one kept knock—knocking at a
door, and you could even expect that
some mysterious voice would ask:
“Who is there?”
Again, the wood thrush was whistling
with a sweet voice; the golden-crowned
hammer plumed his feathers. In the
thicket the pheasants clucked and the
bright green humming birds flitted between
the leaves; sometimes on the top of
the pine tree a crow, hiding itself from
the heat of the sun, lazily flapped its
wings.
On this afternoon the weather was most
clear, the sky was cloudless, and above the
green canopy of the leaves there spread
out the blue dome of the heavens—immense,
limitless, transparently gray-tinted
on the sides and deep blue above. In the
sky stood the great golden sun; the space
was flooded with light; the air was bright
and serene, and far-off objects stood out
distinctly, their forms clearly defined.
From the height of heaven the eye of the
great Creator embraced the whole earth;
in the fields the grain bowed to Him with
a golden wave, rustled the heavy heads of
the wheat, and the delicate tasseled oats
trembled like a cluster of tiny bells. In
the air, filled with brightness here and
there, floated the spring thread of the
spider’s web, blue from the azure of the
sky and golden from the sun, as if a veritable
thread from the loom of the Mother
of God.
In the vales between the fields of the
waving grain stood dark-green meadows;
here and there were crystal springs, around
whose edges the grass was greener still;
the whole meadows were sprinkled with
yellow buttercups and dandelions which
struck the eye with a profusion of golden
brightness. In the wet places there thrived
cypress trees, which had an air of coldness
and moisture.
In the woods among the pine trees there
were now both heat and silence. It seemed
as if a dreamy stillness enveloped the
whole world. Not a breath of wind stirred;
the trees, grain, and grass were motionless.
The leaves hung on the trees as if
rocked to sleep; the birds had ceased their
noises, and the moment of rest had come.
But this rest seemed to come from an ineffable
sweetness, and all nature seemed
to meditate. Only the great expanse of
heaven seemed to smile, and somewhere,
high in the unknowable depths of its blue,
the great and beneficent God was glad
with the gladness of the fields, the woods,
the meadows, and the waters.
Kasya and John were still busy in the
woods collecting herbs, laughing gleefully
and speaking to each other joyfully. Man
is as artless as a bird; he will sing when
he can, for this is his nature. John now
began to sing a simple and touching song.
As Kasya and John sang in unison the
last refrain of the song ended mournfully,
and as if in accompaniment the echo repeated
it in the dark depths of the woods;
the pines gave resonance as the words
ran between their trunks and died away in
the far distance like a sigh, less distinct,
light, ethereal; then silence.
Later Kasya sang a more cheerful song,
beginning with the words:
“I shall become a ring of gold now.”
This is a good song. A willful young
girl quarrels with her lover and enumerates
the means she intends to use to escape
from him. But it is useless. When she
says that she will be a golden ring and
will roll away on the road, he says that he
will quickly see and recover her. When
she wants to be a golden fish in the water
he sings to her of the silken net; when
she wants to be a wild fowl on the lake he
appears before her as a hunter. At last
the poor maiden, seeing she is unable to
hide herself from him on the earth,
sings:
“I shall become a star in heaven,
Light to earth by will be given.
My love to thee I shall not render,
Nor my sweet will to thee surrender.”
But the undaunted youth answers:
“Then shall I pray to the saint’s grace
That the star may fall from its heavenly place.
Thy love to me thou then wilt render,
And thy sweet will to me surrender.”
The maiden, seeing there is no refuge
either in heaven or on earth for her,
accepts the view of Providence and sings:
“I see, I see, fate’s decree doth bind me;
Where’er I hide, thou sure wilt find me.
My love to thee I must now render,
And my sweet will to thee surrender.”
John, turning to Kasya, said:
“Do you understand?”
“What, John?”
He began to sing:
“Thy love to me thou must now render,
And thy sweet will to me surrender.”
Kasya was troubled, and laughed loudly
to cover her confusion; and wishing to
speak, she said:
“I have gathered a large lot of plants;
it would be well to dip them in water, for
in this heat they will wither.”
Verily the heat was great; the wind had
entirely ceased. In the woods, though in
the shade, the air vibrated with moist
heat, the pines exuding a strong, resinous
odor. The delicate, golden-tinted
face of Kasya was touched with perspiration,
and her blue eyes showed traces of
weariness. She removed the kerchief
from her head, and began to fan herself.
John, taking the basket from her, said:
“Here, Kasya, stand two aspen trees,
and between them a spring. Come, let us
drink.”
Both went. After a short interval they
noticed that the ground of the forest
began to slope here. Among the trees,
instead of bushes, ferns and dry mosses,
there was a green, damp turf, then one
aspen tree, then another, and after them
whole rows. They entered into this dark,
humid retreat, where the rays of the sun,
passing through the leaves, took on their
color and reflected on the human face a
pale green light. John and Kasya descended
lower and lower into the shadows
and dampness; a chilliness breathed upon
them, refreshing after the heat of the
woods; and in a moment, between the
rows of the aspen trees, they espied in
the black turf a deep stream of water
winding its way under and through canes
and bushy thickets, and interspersed
with the large, round leaves of the water-lilies,
which we call “nenufars,” and by
the peasants are called “white flowers.”
Beautiful was this spot, quiet, secluded,
shady, even somewhat sombre and solemn.
The transparent stream of water wound
its way between the trees. The nenufars,
touched by the light movement of the
water, swayed gently backward and forward,
leaning toward each other as if kissing.
Above their broad leaves, lying like
shields on the surface of the water,
swarmed indigo-colored insects with wide,
translucent, sibilant wings, so delicate and
fragile that they are justly called water-sprites.
Black butterflies, with white-edged,
mournful wings, rested on the
sharp, slender tops of the tamarack. On
the dark turf blossomed blue forget-me-nots.
On the edge of the stream grew
some alder trees, and under the bushes
peeped out heads of the lily-of-the-valley,
bluebells and honeysuckles. The
white heads of the biedrzenica hung over
the waters; the silvery threads of the
strojka spread out upon the current of
the stream and weaved themselves into
thin and long strands; besides—seclusion—a
wild spot, forgotten by men, peaceful,
peopled only with the world of birds,
flowers and insects.
In such places generally dwell nymphs,
rusalki, and other bad or good forest
sprites. Kasya, who was in advance,
stood first on the banks of the stream and
looked upon the water in which was reflected
her graceful form. She verily appeared
as one of those beautiful forest
spirits as they are seen sometimes by the
woodsmen or lumber men who float on
their rafts down the rivers through the
woods. She had no covering upon her
head, and the wind gently played with
her locks and ruffled her ray-like hair.
Sunburned she was, blond-haired, and
her eyes, as blue as turquoise, were as
laughing as her lips. Besides, she was
a divinely tall, slender, and fairy-like
maiden. No one could swear, if she was
suddenly startled, that she would not jump
into the water—would not dissolve into
mist—into rainbow rays—would not turn
quickly into a water-lily or kalina tree,
which, when robbed of its flowers, remonstrates
with a voice so human, yet recalling
the sigh of the forest:
“Don’t touch me.”
Kasya, bending over the water so that
her tresses fell on her shoulders, turned
toward John and said:
“How shall we drink?”
“As birds,” answered John, pointing
to some silver pheasants on the opposite
side of the stream.
John, who knew how to help himself
better than the birds, plucked a large leaf
from a tree, and, making a funnel out of
it, filled it with water and gave it to
Kasya.
They both drank, then Kasya gathered
some forget-me-nots, and John with his
knife made a flute from the willow bark,
on which, when he had finished, he began
to play the air which the shepherds play
in the eventide on the meadows. The
soft notes floated away with ineffable tenderness
in this secluded spot. Shortly
he removed the flute and listened intently
as if to catch an echo returning from the
aspen trees, and it seemed that the clear
stream, the dark aspen trees, and the birds
hidden in the canes listened to these notes
with him.
All became silent, but shortly, as if in
answer—as if a challenge—came the first
faint note of the nightingale, followed by
a stronger trill. The nightingale wanted
to sing—it challenged the flute.
Now he began to sing. All nature was
listening to this divine singer. The lilies
lifted their heads above the water; the
forget-me-nots pressed closer together; the
canes ceased to rustle; no bird dared to
peep except an unwise and absent-minded
cuckoo, who with her silent wing alighted
near by on a dry bough, lifted her head,
widely opened her beak, and foolishly
called aloud:
“Cuckoo! cuckoo!”
Afterward it seemed as if she was
ashamed of her outbreak, and she quietly
subsided.
Vainly Kasya, who stood on the edge of
the stream with the forget-me-nots in her
hand, turned to the side from whence
came the voice of the cuckoo and queried:
“Cuckoo, blue-gray cuckoo, how long
shall I live?”
The cuckoo answered not.
“Cuckoo, shall I be rich?”
The cuckoo was silent.
Then John: “Cuckoo, gray cuckoo,
how soon will I wed?”
The cuckoo replied not.
“She cares not to answer us,” said
John; “let us return to the forest.”
On returning they found the large stone
by which they had placed the basket and
bunches of herbs. Kasya, seating herself
beside it, began to weave garlands, and
John helped her. Burek lay near them,
stretched his hairy forepaws, lolled out his
tongue and breathed heavily from fatigue,
looking carefully around to see if he could
not spy some living thing to chase and
enjoy his own noise. But everything in
the woods was quiet. The sun was traveling
toward the west, and through the
leaves and the needles of the pines shot
his rays, becoming more and more red,
covering the ground of the woods in places
with great golden circles. The air was
dry; in the west were spreading great
shafts of golden light, which flooded all
like an ocean of molten gold and amber.
The wondrous beauties of the peaceful,
warm spring evening were glowing in the
sky. In the woods the daily work was
gradually ceasing. The noise of the woodpecker
had stopped; black and bronzed
ants returned in rows to their hills, which
were red in the rays of the setting sun.
Some carried in their mouths pine needles
and some insects. Among the herbs here
and there circled small forest bees, humming
joyfully as they completed their last
load of the sweet flower-dust. From the
fissures in the bark of the trees came
gloomy and blind millers; in the streams
of the golden light circled swarms of midgets
and gnats scarcely visible to the eye;
mosquitoes began their mournful song.
On the trees the birds were choosing their
places for the night; a yellow bird was
softly whistling; the crows flapped their
wings, crowding all on one tree and
quarreling about the best places. But
these voices were more and more rare, and
became fainter; gradually all ceased, and
the silence was interrupted by the evening
breeze playing among the trees. The
poplar tree tried to lift her bluish-green
leaves upward; the king-oak murmured
softly; the leaves of the birch tree slightly
moved—silence.
Now the sky became more red; in the
east the horizon became dark blue, and all
the voices of the woods merged into a
chorus, solemn, deep and immense.
Thus the forest sings its evening song of
praise, and says its prayers before it sleeps;
tree speaks to tree of the glory of God,
and you would say that it spoke with a
human voice.
Only very innocent souls understand
this great and blessed speech. Only very
innocent hearts hear and understand
when the first chorus of the parent oaks
begins its strain:
“Rejoice, O sister pines, and be glad.
The Lord hath given a warm and peaceful
day, and now above the earth He makes
the starry night. Great is the Lord, and
mighty, powerful and good is He, so let
there be glory to Him upon the heights,
upon the waters, upon the lands, and upon
the air.”
And the pines pondered a moment upon
the words of the oaks, and then they
raised their voices together, saying:
“Now, O Lord, to thy great glory, we,
as censers, offer to Thee the incense of
our sweet-smelling balsam, strong, resinous
and fragrant. ‘Our Father, who art in
heaven, hallowed be Thy Name.’”
Then the birches said:
“Thy evening brightness illumines the
heavens, O Lord! and in Thy splendors
our small leaves golden are and burning.
Now with our golden leaves we sing to
Thee, O Lord, and our delicate twigs play
as the strings of the harp, O good Father
of ours!”
Again the sorrowing cypress said:
“Upon our sad foreheads, exhausted
with the heat, softly falls the evening dew.
Praise be to Thee, O Lord; brothers and
sisters rejoice, because there falls the cooling
dew.”
Amid this chorus of trees the aspen
alone trembles and is afraid; for it gave
the wood for the Cross of the Saviour of
the world; at times it faintly groans:
“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.
The crowds follow the procession, the
place around the circus becomes deserted,
the parrots cease their chatter, and the
monkeys their gymnastics. But “the
greatest attractions” do not take part in
the procession. The “incomparable
artist of the whip,” the manager, the
“unconquerable Orso,” and the “Aërial
Angel, Jenny,” are all absent. All this is
preserved for the evening so as to attract
the crowds.
The manager is somewhere in one of
the wooden buildings, or looks into the
ticket seller’s van, where he pretends to
be angry. Orso and Jenny are in the ring
practicing some of their feats. Under its
canvas roof reigns dust and silence. In
the distance, where the seats are arranged,
it is totally dark; the greatest part of the
light falls through the roof on the ring,
with its sand and sawdust covering. With
the help of the gray light which filters
through the canvas can be seen a horse
standing near the parapet. The big horse
feels very lonely, whisks the flies with his
tail, and often sways his head. Gradually
the eye, becoming accustomed to the dim
light, discerns other objects—for instance:
the mast upon which Orso carries Jenny,
the hoops pasted with paper for her to
jump through. All these lie on the
ground without order, and the half-lighted
arena and nearly dark benches give an
impression of a deserted building with
battened windows. The terrace of seats,
only here and there broken with a stray
glimmer of light, look like ruins. The
horse, standing with drooping head, does
not enliven the picture.
Where are Orso and Jenny? One of the
rays of light that stream through an
aperture of the canvas, in which floats
the golden dust, falls on a row of distant
seats. This body of light, undulating
with the swaying canvas, at last falls upon
a group composed of Orso and Jenny.
Orso sits on top of the bench, and near
to him is Jenny. Her beautiful childish
face leans against the arm of the athlete
and her hand rests on his neck. The
eyes of the girl are lifted upward, as if
listening intently to the words of her companion,
who bends over her, moving his
head at times, apparently explaining something.
Leaning as they are against each other,
you might take them for a pair of lovers,
but for the fact that the girl’s uplifted
eyes express strong attention and intense
thought, rather than any romantic feeling,
and that her legs, which are covered
with pink fleshings, and her feet in
slippers, sway to and fro with a childish
abandon. Her figure has just begun to
blossom into maidenhood. In everything
Jenny is still a child, but so charming and
beautiful that, without reflecting upon
the ability of Mr. Harvey, who decorated
the Palace Hotel, of San Francisco, it
would be difficult even for him to imagine
anything to equal her. Her delicate face
is simply angelic; her large, sad blue eyes
have a deep, sweet and confiding expression;
her dark eyebrows are penciled with
unequaled purity on her forehead, white
and reposeful as if in deep thought, and the
bright, silky hair, somewhat tossed, throws
a shadow on it, of which, not only Master
Harvey, but a certain other painter, named
Rembrandt, would not have been ashamed.
The girl at once reminds you of Cinderella
and Gretchen, and the leaning posture
which she now maintains suggests timidity
and the need of protection.
Her posture, which strongly reminds
you of those of Greuz, contrasts strangely
with her circus attire, composed of a short,
white muslin skirt, embroidered with
small silver stars, and pink tights. Sitting
in a golden beam of light with the
dark, deep background, she looks like
some sunny and transparent vision, and
her slender form contrasts with the square
and sturdy figure of the youth.
Orso, who is dressed in pink tights,
appears from afar as if he were naked,
and the same ray of light distinctly reveals
his immense shoulders, rounded
chest, small waist, and legs too short in
proportion to the trunk.
His powerful form seems as if it were
hewn out with an ax. He has all the features
of a circus athlete, but so magnified
that they make him noticeable; besides,
his face is not handsome. Sometimes,
when he raises his head, you can see his
face, the lines of which are regular, perhaps
too regular, and somewhat rigid, as
if carved from marble. The low forehead,
with the hair falling on it, like the
mane of a horse, straight and black, inherited
from his squaw mother, gives to
his face a gloomy and threatening expression.
He has a similarity to both the
bull and the bear, and he personifies a
terrible and somewhat evil force. He is
not of a good disposition.
When Jenny passes by the horses, those
gentle creatures turn their heads and look
at her with intelligent eyes, and neigh and
whinny, as if wishing to say: “How do
you do, darling?” while at the sight of
Orso they shudder with fear. He is a
reticent and gloomy youth. Mr. Hirsch’s
negroes, who are his hostlers, clowns, minstrels,
and rope-walkers, do not like Orso
and tease him as much as they dare, and
because he is half-Indian they think nothing
of him, and plague and mock him.
Truly, the manager, who offers the hundred
dollars to any one who can defeat
him, does not risk much; he dislikes and
fears him, as the tamer of the wild animals
fears a lion, and whips him on the
slightest provocation.
Mr. Hirsch feels that, if he does not
keep the youth in subjection by constantly
beating him, he will be beaten himself,
and he follows the principle of the Creole
woman, who considered beating a punishment,
and no beating a reward.
Such was Orso. Recently he began to
be less sullen, because little Jenny had a
good influence over him. It happened
about a year ago that when Orso, who
was then the attendant of the wild animals,
was cleaning the cage of the puma,
the beast put its paws through the bars of
the cage and wounded his head severely.
Then he entered the cage, and after a terrible
fight between them, he alone remained
alive. But he was so badly hurt
that he fainted from loss of blood. He was
ill a long time, which was greatly aggravated
by a severe whipping which the
manager gave him for breaking the spine
of the puma.
When he was ill Jenny took great care
of him, and dressed his wounds, and when
she had leisure, read the Bible to him.
That is a “good book” which speaks of
love, of forgiveness, of mercy—in a word,
of things that are never mentioned in Mr.
Hirsch’s circus. Orso, listening to this
book, pondered long in his Indian head
and at last came to the conclusion that if
it would be as good in the circus as in this
book, perhaps he would not be so bad. He
thought also that then he would not be
beaten so often, and some one would be
found who would love him. But who?
Not negroes and not Mr. Hirsch; little
Jenny, whose voice sounded as sweetly in
his ears as the voice of the mavis, might
be the one.
One evening, under the influence of
this thought, he began to weep and kiss
the small hands of Jenny, and from this
time on he loved her very much. During
the performance in the evening, when
Jenny was riding a horse, he was always in
the ring and carefully watching over her
to prevent any accident. When he held
the paper hoops for her to jump through
he smiled on her; when to the sound of
the music be balanced her on the top of
the high mast, and the audience was
hushed with fright, he felt uneasy himself.
He knew very well if she should
fall that no one from the “good book”
would be left in the circus; he never removed
his eyes from her, and the evident
caution and anxiety expressed in his
movements added to the terror of the
people. Then, when recalled into the
ring by the storm of applause, they would
run in together, he would push her forward,
as if deserving of all the praise, and
murmur from joy. This reticent youth
spoke only to Jenny, and to her alone he
opened his mind. He hated the circus
and Mr. Hirsch, who was entirely different
from the people in the “good book.”
Something always attracted him to the edge
of the horizon, to the woods and plains.
When the circus troupe in their constant
wanderings chanced to pass through wild,
lonely spots, he heard voices awakening
the instincts of a captive wolf, who sees
the woods and plains for the first time.
This propensity he inherited not only
from his mother, but also from his father,
who had been a frontiersman. He shared
all his hopes with Jenny, and often narrated
to her how fully and untrammeled
live the people of the plains. Most of this
he guessed or gleaned from the hunters of
the prairies, who came to the circus with
wild animals which they had captured for
the menagerie, or to try their prowess for
the hundred-dollar prize.
Little Jenny listened to these Indian
visions, opening widely her blue eyes and
falling into deep reveries. For Orso
never spoke of going alone to the desert;
she was always with him, and it was very
good for them there. Every day they
saw something new; they possessed all they
needed, and it seemed right to make all
their plans carefully.
So now they sit in this beam of light,
talking to each other, instead of practicing
and attempting new feats. The horse
stands in the ring and feels lonely. Jenny
leans on Orso’s arm, thoughtfully contemplating
and looking with wistful, wondering
eyes into the dim space, swinging
her feet like a child and musing—how it
will be on the plains, and asking questions
from Orso.
“How do they live there?” says she,
raising her eyes to the face of her friend.
“There is plenty of oaks. They take
an ax and build a house.”
“Well,” says Jenny, “but until the
house is built?”
“It is always warm there. The
‘Grizzly Killer’ says it is very warm.”
Jenny begins to swing her feet more
lively, as if the warmth there has settled
the question in her mind; but shortly she
remembers that she has in the circus a
dog and a cat, and that she would like to
take them with her. She calls her dog
Mister Dog and her cat Mister Cat.
“And will Mr. Dog and Mr. Cat go
with us?”
“They will,” answers Orso, looking
pleased.
“Will we take with us the ‘good
book’?”
“We will,” says Orso, still more pleased.
“Well,” says the girl in her innocence,
“Mr. Cat will catch birds for us; Mr.
Dog will drive away bad people with his
bark; you will be my husband and I will
be your wife, and they will be our
children.”
Orso feels so happy that he cannot
speak, and Jenny continues:
“There, there will be no Mr. Hirsch,
no circus, we will not work, and basta!
But no!” she adds a moment later, “the
‘good book’ says that we should work, and
I sometimes will jump through one—through
the two hoops, the three, the four
hoops.”
Jenny evidently does not imagine work
under any other form than jumping
through hoops.
Shortly she says again:
“Orso, will I indeed be always with
you?”
“Yes, Jen, for I love you very much.”
His face brightens as he says so, and
becomes almost beautiful.
And yet he does not know himself how
dear to him has become this small bright
head.
He has nothing else in this world but
her, and he watches her as the faithful
dog guards his mistress. By her fragile
side he looks like Hercules, but he is
unconscious of this.
“Jen,” says he after a moment, “listen
to what I tell you.”
Jenny, who shortly before had got up
to look at the horse, now turns and,
kneeling down before Orso, puts her two
elbows on his knees, crosses her arms and,
resting her chin on her wrists, uplifts
her face and is all attention.
At this moment, to the consternation of
the children, the “artist of the whip”
enters the ring in a very bad humor, because
his trial with a lion had entirely
failed.
This lion, who was bald from old age,
desired only to be let alone, had no inclination
to attack the “artist,” and hid
himself from the lash of the whip in a far
corner of the cage. The manager thought
with despair that if this loyal disposition remained
with the lion until the evening the
contest with the whip would be a failure;
for to fight a lion who slinks away needs
no more art than to eat a lobster from his
tail. The bad temper of the proprietor
became still worse when he learned from
the ticket seller that he was disposing of
no seats in the “gods;” that the Cahuillas
evidently had spent all their money that
they had earned in the vineyards for drinks,
and that they came to his window and
offered their blankets, marked “U. S.,”
or their wives, especially the old ones, in
exchange for tickets of admission. The
lack of money among the Cahuillas was no
small loss for the “artist of the whip;”
for he counted on a “crowded house,” and
if the seats in the “gods” were not sold no
“crowded house” was obtainable; therefore
the manager wished at this moment
that all the Indians had but one back, and
that he might give an exhibition of his
skill with the whip on that one back, in the
presence of all Anaheim. Thus he felt as
he entered the ring, and seeing the horse
standing idle under the parapet, he felt
like jumping with anger. Where are Orso
and Jenny? Shading his eyes with his
hand he looked all around the circus, and
observed in a bright beam, Orso, and Jenny
kneeling before him with her elbows resting
on his knees. At this sight he let
the lash of his whip trail on the ground.
“Orso!”
If lightning had struck in the midst of
the children they could not have been
more startled. Orso jumped to his feet and
descended in the passageway between the
benches with the hasty movement of an
animal who comes to his master at his
call; behind him followed Jenny with eyes
wide open from fright, and clutching the
benches as she passed them.
Orso, on entering the ring, stopped by
the parapet, gloomy and silent, the gray
light from above bringing into relief his
Herculean trunk upon its short legs.
“Nearer,” cried out the manager in a
hoarse voice; meanwhile the lash of his
long whip moved upon the sand with a
threatening motion, like the tail of a
tiger watching his approaching prey.
Orso advanced several steps, and for a
few minutes they looked into each other’s
eyes. The manager’s face resembled that
of the tamer who enters the cage, intending
to subdue a dangerous animal, and at
the same time watches it.
His rage overcame his caution. His
legs, incased in elk riding breeches and
high boots, pranced under him with anger.
Perhaps it was not the idleness alone of
the children which increased his rage.
Jenny, from above, looked at both of them
like a frightened hare watching two
lynxes.
“Hoodlum! dog catcher, thou cur!”
hissed the manager.
The whip with the velocity of lightning
whistled through the air in a circle,
hissed and struck. Orso winced and
howled a little, and stepped toward the
manager, but the second stroke stopped
him at once, then the third, fourth—tenth.
The contest had begun, although
there was no audience. The uplifted
hand of the “great artist” scarcely moved,
but his wrist revolved, as if a part of some
machinery, and, with each revolution, the
sharp point of the lash stung the skin of
Orso. It seemed as if the whip, or rather
its poisonous fang, filled the whole space
between the athlete and the manager, who
in his increasing excitement reached the
genuine enthusiasm of the artist. The
“master” simply improvised. The cracking
end flashing in the air twice had
written down its bloody trace on the bare
neck of the athlete. Orso was silent in
this dance. At every cut he stepped one
step forward and the manager one step
backward. In this way they circled the
arena, and at last the manager backed out
of the ring as a conqueror from the cage,
and disappeared through the entrance to
the stables, still as the conqueror. As he
left his eye fell on Jenny.
“Get on your horse,” he cried; “I will
settle with you later.”
His voice had scarcely ceased before her
white skirt flashed in the air, and in a
moment she was on the back of the horse.
The manager had disappeared, and the
horse began to gallop around the ring, occasionally
striking the side with its hoofs.
“Hep! Hep!” agitatedly said Jenny to
the horse with her childish voice: “Hep!
hep!” but this “hep, hep,” was at the
same time a sob. The horse increased his
speed, clattering with his hoofs as he
leaned more and more to the center. The
girl, standing on the pad with her feet
close together, seemed scarcely to touch it
with the ends of her toes; her bare rosy
arms rose and fell as she maintained her
balance; her hair and light muslin dress
floated behind her supple figure, which
looked like a bird circling in the air.
“Hep! hep!” she kept exclaiming.
Meanwhile her eyes were filled with tears,
and to see she had to raise her head; the
movement of the horse made her dizzy;
the terrace of seats and the ring seemed to
revolve around her; she wavered once,
twice, and then fell down into the arms of
Orso.
“Oh! Orso, poor Orso!” cried the child.
“What’s the matter, Jen? why do you
cry? I don’t feel the pain, I don’t feel
it.”
Jenny threw both her arms around his
neck and began to kiss his cheeks. Her
whole body trembled, and she sobbed
convulsively.
“Orso, oh, Orso,” she sobbed, for she
could not speak, and her arms clung closer
to his neck. She could not have cried more
if she had been beaten herself. So, in the
end, he began to pet and console her.
Forgetting his own pain he took her in his
arms and pressed her to his heart, and his
nerves being excited by the beating, he
now felt for the first time that he loved
her more than the dog loved his mistress.
He breathed heavily, and his lips panted
out the words:
“I feel no pain. When you are with
me, I am happy, Jenny, Jenny!”
When this was transpiring the manager
was walking in the stables, foaming with
rage. His heart was filled with jealousy.
He saw the girl on her knees before Orso;
recently this beautiful child had awakened
the lower instincts in him, but as yet undeveloped,
and now he fancied that she
and Orso loved each other, and he felt revengeful,
and had a wild desire to punish
her—to whip her soundly. This desire
he could not resist. Shortly he called to
her.
She at once left Orso, and in a moment
had disappeared in the dark entrance to
the stables. Orso stood stupefied, and
instead of following her he walked with
unsteady steps to a bench, and, seating
himself, began to breathe heavily.
When the girl entered the stables she
could see nothing, as it was much darker
there than in the ring. Yet, fearing that
she would be suspected of having delayed
her coming, she cried out in a faint voice:
“I am here, master, I am here.”
At the same moment the hand of the
manager caught hers, and he hoarsely
said:
“Come!”
If he had shown anger or badly scolded
her she would have felt less frightened
than at this silence with which he led her
to the circus wardrobe. She hung back,
resisting him, and repeating quickly:
“Oh, dear Mr. Hirsch, forgive me! forgive
me!”
But forcibly he dragged her to the long
room where they stored their costumes,
and turned the key in the door.
Jenny fell down on her knees. With
uplifted eyes and folded hands, trembling
as a leaf, the tears streaming down her
cheeks, she tried to arouse his mercy; in
answer to her supplications, he took from
the wall a wire whip, and said:
“Lie down.”
With despair she flung herself at his
feet, nearly dying from fright. Every
nerve of her body quivered; but vainly she
pressed her pallid lips to his polished
boots. Her alarm and pleading seemed to
arouse the demon in him more than ever.
Grasping her roughly, he threw her
violently on a heap of dresses, and in an
instant, after trying to stop the kicking
of her feet, he began beating her cruelly.
“Orso! Orso!” she shouted.
About this moment the door shook on
its hinges, rattled, creaked and gave way,
and half of it, pushed in with a tremendous
force, fell with a crash upon the
ground.
In this opening stood Orso.
The wire whip fell from the hand of the
manager, and his face became deadly pale,
because Orso looked ferocious. His eyes
were bloodshot, his lips covered with
foam, his head inclined to one side like a
bull’s, and his whole body was crouched
and gathered, as if ready to spring.
“Get out!” cried the manager, trying to
hide his fear behind a show of authority.
The pent-up dam was already broken.
Orso, who was usually as obedient to every
motion as a dog, this time did not move,
but leaning his head still more to one side,
he moved slowly and threateningly toward
the “artist of the whip,” his iron muscles
taut as whipcords.
“Help! help!” cried the manager.
They heard him.
Four brawny negroes from the stables
ran in through the broken door and fell
upon Orso. A terrible fight ensued, upon
which the manager looked with chattering
teeth. For a long time you could see
nothing but a tangled mass of dark bodies
wrestling with convulsive movements,
rolling on the ground in a writhing heap;
in the silence which followed sometimes
was heard a groan, a snort, loud short
breathing, the gritting of teeth.
In a moment one of the negroes, as if
by a superhuman force, was sent from
this formless mass, whirling headlong
through the air, and fell at the feet of the
manager, striking his skull with great
force on the ground; soon a second flew
out; then from the center of this turbulent
group Orso’s body alone arose, covered
with blood and looking more terrible than
before. His knees were still pressing
heavily on the breasts of the two fainting
negroes. He arose to his feet and moved
toward the manager.
Hirsch closed his eyes.
The next moment he felt that his feet
had left the ground, that he was flying
through the air—then he felt nothing;
his whole body was dashed with monstrous
force into the remaining half of the door,
and he fell to the earth unconscious.
Orso wiped his face, and, coming over
to Jenny, said:
“Let us go.”
He took her by the hand and they
went.
The whole town was following the circus
procession and the steam calliope, playing
“Yankee Doodle,” and the place around
the circus was deserted. The parrots
only, swinging in their hoops, filled the
air with their cries. Hand in hand, Orso
and Jenny went forward; from the end of
the street could be seen the immense plains,
covered with cacti. Silently they passed
by the houses, shaded by the eucalyptus
trees; then they passed the slaughter-houses,
around which had gathered thousands
of small black birds with red-tipped
wings. They jumped over the large irrigation
ditches, entered into an orange
grove, and on emerging from it found
themselves among the cacti.
This was the desert.
As far as the eye could reach these
prickly plants rose higher and higher;
thick leaves growing from other leaves
obstructed the path, sometimes catching
on Jenny’s dress. In places they grew to
such a great height that the children
seemed to be as much lost here as if they
were in the woods, and no one could find
them there. So they kept threading
their way through them, now to the right
and then to the left, but careful always to
go from the town. Sometimes between the
cacti they could see on the horizon the
blue mountains of Santa Ana. They
went to the mountains. The heat was
great. Gray-colored locusts chirped in
the cacti; the sun’s rays poured down
upon the earth in streams; the dried-up
earth was covered with a network of
cracks; the stiff leaves of the cacti seemed
to soften from the heat, and the flowers
were languid and half-wilted. The children
proceeded, silent and thoughtful.
But all that surrounded them was so new
that they surrendered themselves to their
impressions, and for the moment forgot
even their weariness. Jenny’s eyes ran
from one bunch of cacti to another; again
she looked to the farther clusters, saying
to her friend:
“Is this the wilderness, Orso?”
But the desert did not appear to be
deserted. From the farther clumps came
the calling of the male quail, and around
sounded the different murmurs of clucking,
of twittering, of the ruffling of
feathers: in a word, the divers voices of
the small inhabitants of the plains. Sometimes
there flew up a whole covey of
quail; the gaudy-topped pheasants scattered
on their approach; the black squirrels
dived into their holes; the rabbits disappeared
in all directions; the gophers were
sitting on their hind legs beside their
holes, looking like fat German farmers
standing in their doorway.
After resting an hour the children proceeded
on their journey. Jenny soon felt
thirsty. Orso, in whom had awakened
his Indian inventive faculties, began to
pluck cactus fruits. They were in abundance,
and grew together with the flowers
on the same leaves. In plucking them
they pricked their fingers with the
sharp points, but the fruit was luscious.
Their sweet and acid flavor quenched at
once their thirst and appeased their
hunger. The prairies fed the children
as a mother; thus strengthened they could
proceed further. The cacti arose higher,
and you could say that they grew on the
head of one another. The ground on
which they walked ascended gradually and
continuously. Looking backward once
more they saw Anaheim, dissolving in the
distance and looking like a grove of trees
upon the low plains. Not a trace of the
circus could be distinguished. They still
pressed steadily onward to the mountains,
which now became more distinct in the
distance. The surroundings assumed
another phase. Between the cacti appeared
different bushes and even trees;
the wooded portion of the foothills of
Santa Ana had commenced. Orso broke
one of the saplings, and, clearing off its
branches, made a cudgel of it, which, in
his hands, would prove a terrible weapon.
His Indian instincts whispered to him
that in the mountains it was better to be
provided, even with a stick, than to go
unarmed, especially now that the sun had
lowered itself into the west. Its great
fiery shield had rolled down far beyond
Anaheim, into the blue ocean. After a
while it disappeared, and in the west there
gleamed red, golden, and orange lights,
similar to ribbons and gauzy veils, stretched
over the whole sky. The mountains uplifted
themselves in this glow; the cacti
assumed different fantastical shapes, resembling
people and animals. Jenny felt
tired and sleepy, but they still hastened to
the mountains, although they knew not
why. Soon they saw rocks, and on reaching
them they discovered a stream; they
drank some water and continued along its
course. The rocks, which were at first
broken and scattered, then changed into
a solid wall, which became higher and
higher, and soon they entered into a
cañon.
The rosy lights died away; deeper and
deeper dusk enveloped the earth. In
places immense vines reached from one
side of the cañon to the other, covering
it like a roof, and making it dark and uncanny.
On the mountain side, above
them, could be heard the voices of the
swaying and creaking forest trees. Orso
implied that now they were in the depths of
the wilderness, where certainly there were
many wild animals. From time to time
his ear detected suspicious sounds, and
when night fell he distinctly heard the
hoarse mewing of the lynxes, the roar of
the pumas, and the melancholy howling of
the coyotes.
“Are you afraid, Jen?” asked Orso.
“No,” replied the girl.
But she was already very tired, and
could proceed no farther, so Orso took her
in his arms and carried her. He went
forward with the hope that he would reach
the house of some squatter, or should meet
some Mexican campers. Once or twice it
seemed to him that he saw the gleam of
some wild animal’s eyes. Then with one
hand he pressed Jenny, who had now
fallen asleep, to his breast, and with the
other he grasped his stick. He was very
tired himself; notwithstanding his great
strength Jenny began to prove heavy to
him, especially as he carried her on his
left arm; the right one he wished to have
free for defense. Occasionally he stopped
to regain his breath and then continued
on. Suddenly he paused and listened
intently. It seemed to him as if he heard
the echoes of the small bells which the
settlers tie for the night to the neck of
their cows and goats. Rushing forward,
he soon reached a bend in the stream.
The sound of the bells became more distinct,
and joined with them in the distance
was heard the barking of a dog.
Then Orso was sure that he was nearing
some settlement. It was high time that
he did, for he was exhausted by the events
of the day, and his strength had begun to
fail him. On turning another bend he
saw a light; as he moved forward his
quick eyes discerned a campfire, a dog,
evidently tied to a stump, tearing and
barking, and at last the figure of a man
seated by the fire.
“God send that this may be a man
from the ‘good book’!” thought he.
Then he resolved to awaken Jenny.
“Jen!” called he, “awake, we shall
eat.”
“What is it?” asked the girl; “where
are we?”
“In the wilderness.”
She was now wide awake.
“What light is that?”
“A man lives there; we shall eat.”
Poor Orso was very hungry.
Meanwhile they were nearing the fire.
The dog barked more violently, and the
old man, sitting by the fire, shaded his
eyes and peered into the gloom. Shortly
he said:
“Who is there?”
“It is us,” answered Jenny in her
delicate voice, “and we are very hungry.”
“Come nearer,” said the old man.
Emerging from behind a great rock,
which had partly concealed them, they
both stood in the light of the fire, holding
each other’s hands. The old man looked
at them with astonishment, and involuntarily
exclaimed:
“What is that?”
For he saw a sight which, in the
sparsely populated mountains of Santa
Ana, would astonish any one. Orso and
Jenny were dressed in their circus attire.
The beautiful girl, clothed in pink tights
and short white skirt, appearing so suddenly
before him, looked in the firelight
like some fairy sylph. Behind her stood
the youth with his powerful figure, covered
also with pink fleshings, through which
you could see his muscles standing out
like knots on the oak.
The old squatter gazed at them with
wide-open eyes.
“Who are you?” he inquired.
The girl, relying more on her own eloquence
than on that of Orso, began to
speak.
“We are from the circus, kind sir!
Mr. Hirsch beat Orso very much and then
wanted to beat me, but Orso did not let
him, and fought Mr. Hirsch and four
negroes, and then we ran off on the plains,
and went a long distance through the
cacti, and Orso carried me; then we came
here and are very hungry.”
The face of the old man softened and
brightened as he listened to her story, and
he looked with a fatherly interest on this
charming child, who spoke with great
haste, as if she wished to tell all in one
breath.
“What is your name, little one?” he
asked.
“Jenny.”
“Welcome, Jenny! and you, Orso!
people rarely come here. Come to me,
Jenny.”
Without hesitation the little girl put
her arms around the neck of the old man
and kissed him warmly. He appeared
to her to be some one from the “good
book.”
“Will Mr. Hirsch find us here?” she
said, as she took her lips from his face.
“If he comes he will find a bullet here,”
replied the old man; then added, “you
said that you wanted to eat?”
“Oh, yes, very much.”
The squatter, raking in the ashes of the
fire, took out a fine leg of venison, the
pleasant odor of which filled the air.
Then they sat down to eat.
The night was gorgeous; the moon came
out high in the heavens above the cañon;
in the thicket the mavis began to sing
sweetly; the fire burned brightly, and
Orso was so filled with joy that he chanted
with gladness. Both he and the girl ate
heartily. The old man had no appetite; he
looked upon little Jenny, and, for some
unknown cause, his eyes were filled with
tears.
Perhaps he had been once a father, or,
perhaps, he so rarely saw people in these
deserted mountains.
Since then these three lived together.
