By the inner wall of the room stood a fair-sized table, covered, as it should be, with a white cloth. The hay spread on the table[13]

underneath the cloth was peeping through the holes. The table was lighted with two candles in very battered candlesticks. At one end stood a large dish heaped with temptingly smoking and savoury "oladis,"[14] at the other end a dish of pepki, prepared with vinegar and pepper. Round the dish lay bread, and a bottle of wine stood near it, surrounded by small drinking vessels of various kinds. But in the very centre of the table, on the only plate--once white, now yellow and chipped--lay the fragments of the wafer which had been sent to me from home.

No one had expected either the tablecloth, the hay, or the wafer; the impression produced by so many unexpected accessories was therefore very great.

Highly pleased with the effect, Porankiewicz now went to the table and carefully took up the plate with the wafer. Straightening himself until his back almost cracked, he cleared his throat, opened his mouth, and when everyone was on tiptoe of expectation, awaiting a speech, he said in a trembling voice:

"H'm-h'm! Gentlemen, the wafer comes straight from Warsaw!"

Chrysostom himself could not have spoken more powerfully.

We had been impatient to sit down to table beforehand, for the inviting smell of the oladis had begun to gain ascendancy over the solemnity of the moment. But these few words threw a dead silence round the room, and somehow we all involuntarily drew ourselves up into a row, and our five heads turned to the plate alone.

Porankiewicz straightened himself once more.

"H'm-h'm! Gentlemen, this is such a sacred----"

"Has it been blessed by the priest?" Bartek interrupted anxiously, full of joyful admiration.

"I should hope so! They would not otherwise have sent it,"

Porankiewicz answered, with deep conviction. "But," he continued, "h'm--I should like to say, as it is such a sacred thing, shall we not break it?"

"Let us break it! Of course we must break it!" came from five mouths as though from one.

Porankiewicz made a fresh effort to hold himself straighter.

"But since--that is--I should like to say--without offence to our dear Pan Babinski"--and he bowed to him respectfully--"we are all hosts of this palace, I therefore hope--that is, I think--it will be best if this gentleman, who is our guest, takes it round...."

As crimson and perspiring as after the hardest piece of work, he handed me the plate with a bow.

And now, when it was my own turn to speak, I understood the difficulty my predecessor had had in making his short speech. My hands trembled, and I could not utter a word. Babinski became as white as a sheet, and when I went up to him his stern face was as still as if it had been cut out of marble. Had it not been that his eyelids quivered, I might have thought that it was a corpse and not a living man before me. He was a long time in gathering the crumbs; they fell from his hands, and I doubt if he ate even one.

It was the same with all the rest.

Porankiewicz, being the softest-hearted, was the first to begin sobbing like a child; and although Bartek, who was standing beside him, kept nudging and touchingly entreating him to "be quiet, or he himself would bleat like a sheep," it was of no avail. By the time I came to Bartek, his strength was failing; he bent his grey head low, and, stretching out his hand for the wafer, he slowly began aloud: "In the Name of the Father ... and of the Son ... and of the Holy Ghost.... And of the Holy Ghost," he repeated lower, and burst out crying in a loud voice.

Tears brought relief to us all--to all but Babinski, who, instead of weeping with us, stood as though petrified, merely blinking his eyes.

We could see that he was touched to the quick. For, standing near the table, he stretched out both hands among the cups and gla.s.ses standing round the wine-bottle, and clinked a gla.s.s loudly. His eyelids quivered and his hands trembled as in fever, refusing to obey him; and when Porankiewicz, who was calm again, ran up to him, he only whispered in a weak voice:

"Pour it out, brother."

Porankiewicz began to pour, and every hand was stretched out towards the table.

It was, of course, impossible for all to pour at once. But as we all found we needed something to drink, we reproached one another for not having thought of filling the gla.s.ses earlier. This, however, Bartek cut short by sagely observing that "n.o.body here was the Holy Ghost, and could know that so much sorrow would fall upon all of us." When at last all the cups and gla.s.ses had been filled, we emptied them in silence, fearing a fresh outburst of emotion, and proceeded in turn to the peppered and salted pepki course. This is food of the kind which cannot be eaten without being suitably moistened. So when Porankiewicz repeatedly took up the bottle, all hands were again stretched towards him. And then we noticed that Babinski's hand was not among the rest.

Babinski stood in the same att.i.tude as before, with his empty gla.s.s, silent, immovable, and pale. Bartek, who had experience of sick people, was the first to perceive his danger, and, going up to him at once, examined him anxiously.

"It's clear it has got hold of him all at once," was his final verdict. "If it has no outlet, it may strangle him, just as a savage wolf kills a lamb. There's only one way to prevent it: if sorrow doesn't come out with tears through the eyes, you must let it flow down gently inside, and as it slowly runs off, the pressure leaves the heart. He ought to have drunk out three gla.s.ses at once. But it's not so bad yet; he's a strong man; he'll come to himself after a bit."

And, choosing the grandest cup, Bartek ordered: "Fill it, Porankiewicz!"

Porankiewicz filled it, and Babinski drained it mechanically; again he filled it, and again Babinski drained it. But the pain having evidently not abated, Bartek began to examine him afresh.

"Haven't you got some spirits somewhere, by chance?"

Babinski nodded in a.s.sent; and when the vodka had been brought, Bartek chose an ordinary gla.s.s from among the other drinking vessels, filled it well to the half, and offered it to Babinski.

The remedy worked wonders. Babinski sipped it, but when he had drained the gla.s.s the pallor left his face, and he sat down to the table and asked for something to eat. He was offered some pepki, and when we had all had visible proof that it was disappearing with due rapidity, a heavy weight fell from our minds. Bartek was now no less proud of his remedy than Porankiewicz of his Christmas Eve dinner, and each began to call the other to testify to his excellence. So when Babinski had consumed two pounds of pepki, and stopped eating, the first critical episode of the evening was safely over.

There was now a buzzing in the solitude, as of a swarm of bees; everyone talked, and, although it appeared to each that he spoke in his natural voice, there was enough noise for twelve.

We were all filled with the happiness for which we had yearned, and our hearts were so softened that recent troubles, long-forgotten pain, and wounds which each had concealed from the world more closely than even a miser conceals his chest filled with ducats were opened to receive the balm of comfort. Phantoms of manifold suffering pa.s.sed before us in a long unending chain, showing us all forms of human misery, as though through a kaleidoscope.

Having now experienced the relief we longed for, and seeing the faces round us wet with tears of sympathy, we each spontaneously acknowledged our failings and sins, making our confession in public, as it were, and expressing sincere penitence for our misdeeds.

Bartek beat his breast, accusing himself of very great weakness; Porankiewicz sobbed, piteously begging to be pardoned for his bad habit on account of the difficulties he had gone through, which had been beyond his strength; the others also accused themselves.

Only after each had shown penitence and regret, and full pardon for the failings by which every one had been overcome on his th.o.r.n.y road had restored our lost dignity, the yellow, wrinkled faces brightened with sincere and childlike joy, and we dared to look up. Now we were all on an equality. The second episode, no less critical than the first, had pa.s.sed safely.

It gave way to the third episode.

The harmony reigning amongst us, the happy feeling of mutual love, brotherhood, and sympathy, began to thrill us with delight, and foretold the longed-for moment.

Like birds flying to the fire on a dark night, the people inexperienced in the life here fling themselves upon that deadly hashish. But the experienced flee from the cup of sweetness which had so often ensnared and deluded us by its bewitching draught. They fly from it as from the phantom of death. That cup now stood unveiled before us. One after the other the coverings hiding the tempting poison had fallen away; there was nothing left but to approach and drink--to drink till strength was utterly exhausted.

The first to recall the delightful recollections of home was old Bartek, who unrolled on a golden background pictures of his native Sandomierz fields, pictures full of strength, simplicity, and charm.

With dishevelled hair, with face aflame, and the inspired look of an old Biblical prophet, he showed us the most beautiful plains, meadows, and forests, of his native soil. He led us to hamlets with rustic thatched roofs; he grieved over the misery sheltering beneath them; he led us to the churches where the Name of G.o.d is hallowed.

And the longed-for miracle took place; the goal of hidden desires, dreamt of when watching through sleepless nights, was realized. Our distant country, our native air, the golden sun, were with us here in this dark room in the solitude. We saw that country, felt and touched it; we were here, yet living there; far away from it, we decked it with verdure, we adorned it with flowers, we decorated it with the most beautiful of decorations, with our hearts beating alone for our country--our bride to whom we would be faithful while strength lasted.

Is this no exertion? Indeed, may G.o.d preserve everyone from such an exertion! Strong men have tried to lift that stone of Sisyphus, and to-day their bones whiten the cemeteries. A few drunkards, tramping from tavern to tavern, a throng of madmen, breathing their last in hospitals, are testimonies to the fact that this stone shall not be lifted; for the higher a man is fool enough to lift it, with the greater force will it crush his frenzied head.

A frenzy had seized us all, and with bloodshot eyes, distended nostrils, and hearts ready to burst from our anguished b.r.e.a.s.t.s, we undertook this superhuman task.

Then woe to the bold man who would have dared to handle our illusions rudely! Woe to the unhappy one whose strength gave out too soon! Ere he could recollect himself, a knife, brandished by an otherwise friendly hand, would have flashed before his eyes. The unhappy man would have perished as the weaker wild animals perish without mercy among an enraged herd.

A choir composed of six voices resounded with a deep echo round the large rooms of the solitary house. Sad and joyful songs alternated naturally in the same unchangeable order in which everything is carried out in this world. A native of the Cracow district, Bartek with his Cracowiaks[15] was a host in himself. "We're not such bad fellows"[16] alone would have satisfied the most ardent vocal enthusiast, we sang it so many times. For it was not five or ten, but rather twenty years or even more, since many of us had heard that little song. So, although Bartek was already hoa.r.s.e, to everyone's delight he sang it again for the fifth time, repeating the second verse, which is the more beautiful, six or seven times. Each word of that song, so charmingly and poetically nave, called forth indescribable enthusiasm.

"Ay, ay, what a song! That is a song!" the brief applause burst out; and although Bartek sang on without interruption, glancing round triumphantly, he found time to answer each exclamation briefly but distinctly:

"That's a Cracowian song!"