Babinski followed the melody of each ballad or song, and rattled it out like a barrel organ, merely repeating two very discordant syllables innumerable times: "Dyna, dyna, dyna, dyna." He sang with the greatest enthusiasm, however; strong as he always was and burning with inward fire, he was terrible now with his wordless songs, into which he put all the sufferings and sorrows he had never expressed in words.

At last we had exhausted all the songs we knew, and sung them to the end; no one could recall any more. But since the frenzy which had seized us had now reached its height, it was necessary to find some new song giving ample outlet by its words and motifs to the emotions already aroused, and answering to our present state of feeling.

Among the songs of our nation which give an outlet to its longings, the greatest are the religious songs; for whether sad or joyous, mournful or festive, they are always n.o.ble in their deep and calm feeling. The people who can hear and find nothing in these songs are poor indeed. The Lenten, Easter, and Christmas songs are the greatest artistic inheritance handed down to us from the past. It is the one sphere of artistic creativeness not produced by separate epochs and cla.s.ses, but to which the whole nation has contributed throughout the centuries of its existence, giving to it all its earthly joys and griefs--all its soul.

And therefore we possess a treasury of melodies which are as deep as the soul of the nation--indifferent to superficial or cheap sentiment--and as great as existence itself, obscured by the veil of ages.

Cast into this depth any amount of the blackest sorrow or the most exuberant joy, its surface will never even be ruffled. It replies to the greatest cataclysms with a ripple, and its smooth current scarcely even suggests any troubling of its waters.

From this treasury, as yet insufficiently prized, the great artists of the future will draw inspiration, as those in real suffering do to-day.

Who does not know the favourite carol, "Star of the Sea"? Yet it is probably sung in few churches as we sang it there. Both words and melody corresponded to our feelings. The simple words of the song might have been written for us; its solemn, grand melody soothed our hearts, which were suffering so terribly from self-inflicted wounds.

Bartek was the first to fall on his knees. The rest of us followed his example, and earnest, ardent prayers flowed from our lips. But when we came to the words, "Turn from us hunger and grievous plague, protect us from bloodshed and war," we prayed with so much fervour that hearing we did not hear, and seeing we did not see Bartek rise weeping. "Oh, the merciful Father won't hear such a great prayer from this den of infection! We must pray to the G.o.d of the heavens in the open!" he cried, and went out of the room dressed as he was.

But our strength was now nearly exhausted. Even Babinski stopped singing now and then, showing only by his open mouth and hand beating time that he was still singing on in his heart. Suddenly, electrifying us afresh, a strong voice sounded outside the door: "G.o.d is born, power trembles"; and Bartek, led in by Eudoxia from the "open," in which he would infallibly have been frozen, started the carol in his ba.s.s voice.

Another spring, not struck as yet, gushed out before us. Was it possible we could have forgotten this? So, although our lips could scarcely move, we drank eagerly from this fresh source, and our choir sang a fresh song in unison with strength refreshed. The joyful song of the Birth of our Lord bore us far away again from the Yakut country, and kindled our hearts with new fire, the fire of truth, confidence, and hope.

We prayed long and fervently. Even Eudoxia, attracted by our praying, came in carrying a holy eikon, and bowing before it, repeated imploringly:

"Tangara! Aj, Tangara! Aj, Tangara, urj!"[17]

FOOTNOTES:

[9] "Sorokowiki"--58 degrees below zero.

[10] Alluding to the universal custom in Poland at the Christmas Eve dinner. The host hands round a wafer--which has been blessed by the priest--and breaks it with the guests, and they with another, good wishes being exchanged meanwhile. It is also sent with good wishes to friends at a distance.

[11] "Get thee behind me, Satan!" In Yakut the accent falls on the last syllable.--_Author's note._

[12] "Pepki"--from Russian "pupki," the salted roes of a large fish caught in the Lena.

[13] The Polish custom is to spread hay under the tablecloth at the Christmas Eve dinner--an allusion to the hay in the manger.

[14] "Oladi"--a favourite Yakut dish. It is a kind of pancake, made with reindeer fat, and eaten with reindeer milk which is frozen into lumps.

[15] Country dances interspersed with songs.

[16] A well-known Cracowiak.

[17] "G.o.d, great G.o.d, have mercy!"

THE TRIAL

BY WLADYSLAW REYMONT

The door opened suddenly with a bang, letting the wind into the room, and a silent, sinister crowd of peasants began to pour in from the dark hall. They did not even say, "The Lord be praised!"[18]

The miller dropped his spoon on the table, and looked round in astonishment from one to the other. Then he turned down the lamp which was flaring from the draught.

"There are rather a lot of you," he muttered.

"There are more waiting outside," Jedrzej, one of the peasants, said, coming forward quickly.

"Have you any business to settle with me?"

"We didn't come here just for a talk," someone said, shutting the door.

"Then sit down; I shall have finished supper in a minute."

"To your good health! We will wait a while...."

The miller began to sip up his porridge hastily. The peasants meanwhile settled themselves on the benches round the stove, warming their backs and carefully watching Jedrzej, who had sat down by the table and was leaning his elbows on it in deep reflection.

"Beastly weather this!" the miller accosted them.

"Real March weather."

"It's always like this before the spring."

Here the conversation broke off again, and the only thing to be heard in the silence of the room was the miller's spoon sc.r.a.ping along the earthenware bowl. But outside someone was stamping the mud off his boots, while at times the howling gusts of wind struck the walls till they creaked, and the rain beat against the steamed window-panes.

"Jadwis!" called the miller, wiping his short moustache with his hand.

A strong and very good-looking girl, not wearing a peasant's dress, appeared from a side room. She threw a keen glance at the peasants, and, taking the bowl in her arm, went out again with a rolling gait.

"What is this business?" began the miller, taking snuff.

Not a hand was stretched out towards the snuff; the peasants' faces had suddenly clouded. Someone cleared his throat, others scratched their heads in indecision, and they all looked at Jedrzej, who, straightening himself and fixing his light, searching eyes on the miller, said slowly:

"We have come to make you tell us who the thieves were."

The miller started back, stared, spread out his arms, and stuttered: "In the Name of the Father and the Son! How should I know that?..."

"We think you are the man to know," Jedrzej said in a lower voice, standing up. The other peasants also got up, and planted themselves round the miller in a circle, like a thick wall, fixing him with eyes as keen as a hawk's, so that the blood mounted to his face. "We have come to you for the truth," Jedrzej whispered impressively.

"And you must tell us--you've got to!" the rest echoed in low, stern voices.

"What truth? Are you mad? How am I to know? Am I a party to thieves?

Or what?..." He spoke quickly, turning the light up and down with trembling hands.