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STORIES BY FOREIGN AUTHORS

POLISH, GREEK, BELGIAN, HUNGARIAN

THE LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL BY HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ

THE PLAIN SISTER BY DEMETRIOS BIKELAS

THE MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS BY MAURICE MAETERLINCK

SAINT NICHOLAS EVE BY CAMILLE LEMONNIER

IN LOVE WITH THE CZARINA BY MAURICE JOKAI



THE LIGHT-HOUSE KEEPER OF ASPINWALL

BY

HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ

From "Yanko the Musician and other Stories." Translated by Jeremiah
Curtin. Published by Little, Brown & Co.

Copyright, 1893, by Little, Brown & Co.





CHAPTER I


On a time it happened that the light-house keeper in Aspinwall, not far
from Panama, disappeared without a trace. Since he disappeared during a
storm, it was supposed that the ill-fated man went to the very edge of
the small, rocky island on which the light-house stood, and was swept
out by a wave. This supposition seemed the more likely as his boat was
not found next day in its rocky niche. The place of light-house keeper
had become vacant. It was necessary to fill this place at the earliest
moment possible, since the light-house had no small significance for
the local movement as well as for vessels going from New York to
Panama. Mosquito Bay abounds in sandbars and banks. Among these
navigation, even in the daytime, is difficult; but at night, especially
with the fogs which are so frequent on those waters warmed by the sun
of the tropics, it is nearly impossible. The only guide at that time
for the numerous vessels is the light-house.

The task of finding a new keeper fell to the United States consul
living in Panama, and this task was no small one: first, because it was
absolutely necessary to find the man within twelve hours; second, the
man must be unusually conscientious,--it was not possible, of course,
to take the first comer at random; finally, there was an utter lack of
candidates. Life on a tower is uncommonly difficult, and by no means
enticing to people of the South, who love idleness and the freedom of a
vagrant life. That light-house keeper is almost a prisoner. He cannot
leave his rocky island except on Sundays. A boat from Aspinwall brings
him provisions and water once a day, and returns immediately; on the
whole island, one acre in area, there is no inhabitant. The keeper
lives in the light-house; he keeps it in order. During the day he gives
signals by displaying flags of various colors to indicate changes of
the barometer; in the evening he lights the lantern. This would be no
great labor were it not that to reach the lantern at the summit of the
tower he must pass over more than four hundred steep and very high
steps; sometimes he must make this journey repeatedly during the day.
In general, it is the life of a monk, and indeed more than that,--the
life of a hermit. It was not wonderful, therefore, that Mr. Isaac
Falconbridge was in no small anxiety as to where he should find a
permanent successor to the recent keeper; and it is easy to understand
his joy when a successor announced himself most unexpectedly on that
very day. He was a man already old, seventy years or more, but fresh,
erect, with the movements and bearing of a soldier. His hair was
perfectly white, his face as dark as that of a Creole; but, judging
from his blue eyes, he did not belong to a people of the South. His
face was somewhat downcast and sad, but honest. At the first glance he
pleased Falconbridge. It remained only to examine him. Therefore the
following conversation began:

"Where are you from?"

"I am a Pole."

"Where have you worked up to this time?"

"In one place and another."

"A light-house keeper should like to stay in one place."

"I need rest."

"Have you served? Have you testimonials of honorable government
service?"

The old man drew from his bosom a piece of faded silk resembling a
strip of an old flag, unwound it, and said:

"Here are the testimonials. I received this cross in 1830. This second
one is Spanish from the Carlist War; the third is the French legion;
the fourth I received in Hungary. Afterward I fought in the States
against the South; there they do not give crosses."

Falconbridge took the paper and began to read.

"H'm! Skavinski? Is that your name? H'm! Two flags captured in a
bayonet attack. You were a gallant soldier."

"I am able to be a conscientious light-house keeper."

"It is necessary to ascend the tower a number of times daily. Have you
sound legs?"

"I crossed the plains on foot." (The immense steppes between the East
and California are called "the plains.")

"Do you know sea service?"

"I served three years on a whaler."

"You have tried various occupations."

"The only one I have not known is quiet."

"Why is that?"

The old man shrugged his shoulders. "Such is my fate."

"Still you seem to me too old for a light-house keeper."

"Sir," exclaimed the candidate suddenly in a voice of emotion, "I am
greatly wearied, knocked about. I have passed through much as you see.
This place is one of those which I have wished for most ardently. I am
old, I need rest. I need to say to myself, 'Here you will remain; this
is your port.' Ah, sir, this depends now on you alone. Another time
perhaps such a place will not offer itself. What luck that I was in
Panama! I entreat you--as God is dear to me, I am like a ship which if
it misses the harbor will be lost. If you wish to make an old man
happy--I swear to you that I am honest, but--I have enough of
wandering."

The blue eyes of the old man expressed such earnest entreaty that
Falconbridge, who had a good, simple heart, was touched.

"Well," said he, "I take you. You are light-house keeper."

The old man's face gleamed with inexpressible joy.

"I thank you."

"Can you go to the tower to-day?"

"I can."

"Then good-bye. Another word,--for any failure in service you will be
dismissed."

"All right."

That same evening, when the sun had descended on the other side of the
isthmus, and a day of sunshine was followed by a night without
twilight, the new keeper was in his place evidently, for the
light-house was casting its bright rays on the water as usual. The
night was perfectly calm, silent, genuinely tropical, filled with a
transparent haze, forming around the moon a great  rainbow with
soft, unbroken edges; the sea was moving only because the tide raised
it. Skavinski on the balcony seemed from below like a small black
point. He tried to collect his thoughts and take in his new position;
but his mind was too much under pressure to move with regularity. He
felt somewhat as a hunted beast feels when at last it has found refuge
from pursuit on some inaccessible rock or in a cave. There had come to
him, finally, an hour of quiet; the feeling of safety filled his soul
with a certain unspeakable bliss. Now on that rock he can simply laugh
at his previous wanderings, his misfortunes and failures. He was in
truth like a ship whose masts, ropes, and sails had been broken and
rent by a tempest, and cast from the clouds to the bottom of the
sea,--a ship on which the tempest had hurled waves and spat foam, but
which still wound its way to the harbor. The pictures of that storm
passed quickly through his mind as he compared it with the calm future
now beginning. A part of his wonderful adventures he had related to
Falconbridge; he had not mentioned, however, thousands of other
incidents. It had been his misfortune that as often as he pitched his
tent and fixed his fireplace to settle down permanently, some wind tore
out the stakes of his tent, whirled away the fire, and bore him on
toward destruction. Looking now from the balcony of the tower at the
illuminated waves, he remembered everything through which he had
passed. He had campaigned in the four parts of the world, and in
wandering had tried almost every occupation. Labor-loving and honest,
more than once had he earned money, and had always lost it in spite of
every prevision and the utmost caution. He had been a gold-miner in
Australia, a diamond-digger in Africa, a rifleman in public service in
the East Indies. He established a ranch in California,--the drought
ruined him; he tried trading with wild tribes in the interior of
Brazil,--his raft was wrecked on the Amazon; he himself alone,
weaponless, and nearly naked, wandered in the forest for many weeks
living on wild fruits, exposed every moment to death from the jaws of
wild beasts. He established a forge in Helena, Arkansas, and that was
burned in a great fire which consumed the whole town. Next he fell into
the hands of Indians in the Rocky Mountains, and only through a miracle
was he saved by Canadian trappers. Then he served as a sailor on a
vessel running between Bahia and Bordeaux, and as harpooner on a
whaling-ship; both vessels were wrecked. He had a cigar factory in
Havana, and was robbed by his partner while he himself was lying sick
with the vomito. At last he came to Aspinwall, and there was to