The Writings of Prosper Mérimée/Volume 5/Lokis/2
II
It was a warm night, and I had left open the window overlooking the park. I did not feel ready for sleep after I finished my letter, so I set to work to rehearse the irregular Lithuanian verbs, and to look into Sanskrit to find the origins of their different irregularities. In the middle of my absorbing labours a tree close to my window shook violently. I could hear the dead branches creak, and it seemed as though some heavy animal were trying to climb it. Still engrossed with the bear stories that the doctor had told me, I got up, feeling rather uneasy, and saw, only a few feet from my window, a human head among the leaves of the tree, lit up plainly by the light from my lamp. The vision only lasted a second, but the singular brilliance of the eyes which met my gaze struck me more than I could say. Involuntarily I took a step backwards; then I ran to the window and demanded in severe tones what the intruder wanted. Meanwhile he climbed down quickly, and, seizing a large branch between both hands, he swung himself off, jumped to the ground, and was soon out of sight. I rang the bell and told the adventure to a servant who answered it.
"Sir," he said, "you must be mistaken."
"I am certain of what I tell you," I replied. "I am afraid there is a burglar in the park." "It is impossible, sir." "Well, then, is it someone out of the house?"
The servant opened his eyes wide without replying, and in the end asked me if I wanted anything. I told him to fasten my window, and I went to bed.
I slept solidly, neither dreaming of bears nor of thieves. In the morning, while I was dressing, someone knocked at my door. I opened it and found myself face to face with a very tall and finely built young man in a Bokhara dressing-gown, holding in his hand a long Turkish pipe.
"I come to beg your pardon, Professor," he said, "for having welcomed such a distinguished guest so badly. I am Count Szémioth."
I hastened to say that, on the contrary, my humble thanks were due to him for his most courteous hospitality, and inquired if he had lost his headache.
"Very nearly," he said. "At all events, until the next crisis," he added, with a melancholy expression. " Are you comfortable here? You must not forget that you are among barbarians; it would be difficult to think otherwise in Samogitia."
I assured him I was most comfortably entertained. All the time I was speaking I could not prevent myself from studying him with a very impolite curiosity; there was something strange in his look which reminded me, in spite of my- self, of the man whom I had seen climbing the tree the night before. . . .
"But what probability," I said to myself, "is there that Count Szémioth would climb trees by night?"
His forehead was high and well-developed, although rather narrow. His features were large and regular, but his eyes were too close together, and I did not think that, measured from one lachrymal gland to the other, there was the width of an eye, the canon of Greek sculptors. His glance was piercing. Our eyes met several times, in spite of ourselves, and we looked at each other with some embarrassment. All at once the Count burst out laughing.
"You recognise me!" he said.
"Recognise you?"
"Yes, you detected me yesterday playing a scoundrelly part."
"Oh! Monsieur le Comte!"
"I had passed a suffering day shut up in my bedroom. As I was somewhat better at night I went for a walk in the garden. I saw your light and yielded to curiosity. . . . I ought to have told you who I was, and introduced myself properly, but I was in such a ridiculous situation. . . . I was ashamed, and so I fled. . . . Will you excuse me for having disturbed you in the midst of your work?"
He said all this with a would-be playful air; but he blushed, and was evidently confused. I did my best to reassure him that I did not retain any unpleasant impression from our first interview, and, to change the subject, I asked him if he really possessed the Samogitic Catechism of Father Lawiçki.
"It may be so; but, to tell you the truth, I do not know much about my father's library. He loved old and rare books. I hardly read any- thing beyond modern works; but we will look for it. Professor. You wish us, then, to read the Gospel in Jmoudic?"
"Do you not consider, M. le Comte, that a translation of the Scriptures into the language of this country is very desirable?"
"Certainly; nevertheless, if you will permit me a slight remark, I can tell you that amongst the people who know no other language than the Jmoudic, there is not a single person who can read."
"Perhaps so, but I ask permission of Your Excellency[1] to point out that the greatest obstacle in the way of learning to read is the absence of books. When the Samogitic countries have a printed text they will wish to read it, and will learn to read. This has already happened in the case of many savage races . . . not that I wish to apply such a term to the people of this country. . . . Furthermore," I went on, "is it not a deplorable thing that a language should disappear, leaving no trace behind? Prussian became a dead language thirty years ago, and the last person who knew Cornic died the other day."
"Sad," interrupted the Count. "Alexander Humboldt told my father he had met with a parrot in America that was the only living thing which knew several words of the language of a tribe now entirely wiped out by small-pox. Will you allow me to order our tea here?"
While we drank tea the conversation turned upon the Jmoudic tongue. The Count found fault with the way Germans print Lithuanian, and he was right.
"Your alphabet," he said, "does not lend itself to our language. You have neither our J, nor our L, Y, or Ë. I have a collection of daïnos published last year at Koenigsberg, and I had immense trouble to understand the words, they are so queerly formed."
"Your Excellency probably speaks of Lessner's daïnos?"
"Yes, it is very vapid poetry, do you not think?"
"He might perhaps have selected better. I admit that, as it is, this collection has but a purely philological interest; but I believe if careful search were made one would succeed in collecting the most perfect flowers of your folk-poetry."
"Alas! I doubt it very much, in spite of my patriotic desires."
"A few weeks ago a very fine ballad was given me at Wilno — an historical one. . It is a most remarkable poem. . . . May I read it? I have it in my bag."
"With the greatest pleasure."
He buried himself in an armchair, after asking permission to smoke.
" I can't understand poetry unless I smoke," he said.
"It is called The Three Sons of Boudrys."
"The Three Sons of Boudrys? " exclaimed the Count with a gesture of surprise.
"Yes, Boudrys, as Your Excellency knows better than I, is an historic character."
The Count looked at me fixedly with that odd gaze of his. It was something indefinable, both timid and ferocious, and produced an almost painful impression until one grew accustomed to it. I hurriedly began to read to escape it.
"THE THREE SONS OF BOUDRYS.
"In the courtyard of his castle old Boudrys called together his three sons — three genuine Lithuanians like himself.
"'My children,' he said to them, 'feed your war horses, and get ready your saddles; sharpen your swords and your javelins. It is said that at Wilno war has broken out between the three quarters of the globe. Olgerd will march against Russia; Skirghello against our neighbours, the Poles; Keystut will fall upon the Teutons.[2] You are young, strong and bold; go and fight; and may the gods of Lithuania protect you! This year I shall not go to war, but I wish to counsel you. There are three of you, and three roads are open to you.
"'One of you must accompany Olgerd to Russia, to the borders of Lake Ilmen, under the walls of Novgorod. Ermine skins and em- broidered stuffs you will find there in plenty, and among the merchants as many roubles as there are blocks of ice in the river.
"'The second must follow Keystut in his incursion. May he scatter the cross-bearing rabble! Amber is there as common as is the sea sand; their cloths are without equal for sheen and colour; their priests' vestments are ornamented with rubies.
"'The third shall cross the Niemen with Skirghello, On the other side he will find base implements of toil. He must choose good lances and strong bucklers to oppose them, and he will bear away a daughter-in-law.
"'The women of Poland, my sons, are the most beautiful of all our captives — sportive as kittens and as white as cream. Under their black brows their eyes sparkle like stars. When I was young, half a century ago, I brought away captive from Poland a beautiful girl who became my wife. She has long been dead, but I can never look at her side of the hearth without remembering her.'
"He blessed the youths, who already were armed and in the saddle. They set out. Autumn came, then winter . . . but they did not come back, and the old Boudrys believed them to be dead.
"There came a snowstorm, and a horseman drew near, who bore under his black bourka[3] a precious burden.
"'Is it a sackful of roubles from Novgorod? ' asked Boudrys.
"'No, father. I am bringing you a daughter-in-law from Poland.'
" In the midst of the snowstorm another horseman appeared. His bourka was also dis- tended with a precious burden. What have you, my child ; yellow amber from Germany?'
"'No, father. I bring you a daughter-in-law from Poland.'
" The snow fell in squalls. A horseman advanced hiding a precious burden under his bourka. . . . But before he had shown his spoil Boudrys had invited his friends to a third wedding."
"Bravo! Professor," cried the Count; "you pronounce Jmoudic to perfection. But who told you this pretty ddina ? "
"A young lady whose acquaintance I had the honour to make at Wilno, at the house of Princess Katazyna Paç."
" What is her name? "
"The panna Iwinska."
"Mlle. Ioulka!"[4] exclaimed the Count. "The little madcap! I might have guessed it. My dear Professor, you know Jmoudic and all the learned tongues; you have read every old book, but you have let yourself be taken in by a young girl who has only read novels. She has translated to you, more or less correctly, in Jmoudic, one of Miçkiewicz's dainty ballads, which you have not read because it is no older than I am. If you wish it I will show it to you in Polish, or, if you prefer, in an excellent Russian translation by Pushkin."
I confess I was quite dumfounded. How the Dorpat professor would have chuckled if I had published as original the daïna of the "Sons of Boudrys"!
Instead of being amused at my confusion, the Count, with exquisite politeness, hastened to turn the conversation.
"So you have met Mlle. Ioulka?" said he.
"I have had the honour of being presented to her."
"What do you think of her? Speak quite frankly."
"She is a most agreeable young lady."
"So you are pleased to say."
"She is exceedingly pretty."
"Oh!"
"Do you not think she has the loveliest eyes in the world?"
"Yes."
"A complexion of the most dazzling whiteness? . . . I was reminded of a Persian ghazel, wherein a lover extols the fineness of his mistress's skin. 'When she drinks red wine,' he said, ' you see it pass down her throat.' The panna Iwinska made me think of those Persian lines."
" Mlle. loulka may possibly embody that phenomenon; but I do not know if she has any blood in her veins. . . . She has no heart. . She is as white and as cold as snow! "
He rose and walked round the room some time without speaking, as though to hide his emotion; then, stopping suddenly —
" Pardon me, he said, " we were talking, I beheve, of folk-poetry. . . . "
" We were. Your Excellency."
" After all it must be admitted that she translated Mi9kiewicz very prettily. . . . ' Frolicsome as a kitten, . . . white as cream, . . . eyes hke stars,' . . . that is her own portrait, do you not agree? "
" Absolutely, Your Excellency."
" With reference to this roguish trick . . . a very iU- judged one, to be siu"e, . . . the poor child is bored to death by an old aimt. She leads the life of a nun."
" At Wilno she went into society. I saw her at the ball given by the officers of the regiment."
" Ah, yes! the society of young officers suits her exactly. To laugh with one, to backbite with another, and to flirt with all of them. . Will you come and see my father's library, Professor? "
I followed him to a long gallery, lined with many handsomely bound books, which, to judge from the dust which covered their edges, were rarely opened. What was my delight to find that one of the first volumes I pulled out of a glass case was the Catechismus Samogiticus! I could not help uttering a cry of pleasure. It seemed as though some mysterious power were exerting its influence unknown to us.
The Count took the book, and, after he had turned over the leaves carelessly, wrote on the fly-leaf: " To Professor Wittembachj from Michael Szemioth." I did not know how to ex- press my great gratitude, and I made a mental resolution that after my death this precious book should be the ornament of my own University library.
" If you like to consider this library your workroom," said the Count, " you shall never be disturbed here."