Henryk Sienkiewicz "The Lighthouse" (Latarnik)

(autotranslated, could have mistakes)

##I

The small town of Espinval, located near Panama, was alarmed by the disappearance of a lamplighter. Since this happened during a storm, they assumed that the poor fellow came too close to the shore of the small rocky island on which the lighthouse stands, and was carried away by the wave. Such an assumption was all the more likely because the next day even the lamplighter’s boat was not at its usual anchorage in a small bay.

It was necessary to place someone in the vacant position, and to place it as soon as possible, because the lighthouse is of considerable importance both for local shipping and for ships sailing from New York to Panama. Mosquito Bay is replete with shoals and underwater rocks, between which the road is difficult even during the day, but at night, especially among the fogs that often rise from these expanses of water, heated by the equatorial sun, it is almost impossible. Then the only guide for numerous ships is the light of the lighthouse. The work of finding a new lamplighter fell to the lot of the United States Consul - not an easy task: firstly, because a successor had to be found within twelve hours; secondly, the successor must be an extremely careful person; finally, in

there were no general candidates in mind. Life at the lighthouse is extremely difficult and does not smile at all on the lazy people of the south. The lamplighter is almost a prisoner. Except on Sundays, he cannot leave his rocky islet. A boat from Espinval brings him food and water once a day and returns immediately; there is not a single living soul on the island (the size of a tithe). The lamplighter lives in the lighthouse and keeps it in order; During the day, he must hang multi-colored flags, in accordance with the indications of the barometer, and at night he lights a fire. All this would not be particularly difficult if it were not for a staircase of four hundred steps leading from below, from the base of the tower to the lamp, and the lamplighter must make such a journey several times a day. In general, life is difficult and exhausting. It is therefore not surprising that Mr. Isaac Fauconbridge was in great difficulty, not knowing where to find a lamplighter in place of the deceased, and one can easily imagine his joy when a substitute appeared quite unexpectedly on the same day. He was an old man, about seventy years old, maybe even more, but healthy, straight, with the appearance of a soldier. His hair was completely gray, his complexion was dark, like that of the Creoles, only his blue eyes

They identified a native of the north. The face is sad, but inspiring confidence. Mr. Fauconbridge liked him at first sight. All he had to do was examine him.

• Where are you from?

• Pole.

• What have you been doing until now?

• Wandered around the world.

— The lamplighter must sit still.

• I already need rest.

— Did you serve somewhere? Do you have evidence of your service?

The old man took from his pocket a piece of faded silk material, similar to an old banner, and unfurled it.

• Here is all my evidence. The cross... I received it in 1930. The other is Spanish, for the Carlist war; the third - French, Legion of Honor; I received the fourth one in Hungary. Then I fought in the States, against the southerners, but they don’t give crosses there, only paper.

Fauconbridge took the paper and began to read.

• Hm... Skawiński? Is this your last name? Hm... two banners were taken in a hand attack... You were a brave soldier.

“I’ll try to be a good lamplighter.”

• You will have to climb to the very top of the tower several times. Are your legs strong?

— I walked captivity.

• All right! Are you familiar with the maritime service?

“I spent three years on a whaling ship.

— So you’ve tried many professions?

• Yes, but I didn’t stop at one.

• Why?

The old man shrugged.

• So... fate...

“Still, you seem to me too old for a lamplighter.”

• Sir! — the candidate’s voice trembled from internal excitement. “I’m terribly tired and broken.” You can see for yourself how much I had to endure in life. This place is one of those to which I greedily strive with all my soul. I am old, I want to tell myself: here you will stand, here is your port. Ah, sir, it all depends on you! Another time, maybe I won't have to attack a place like this. What a blessing that I happened to be in Panama at this time! I beg you... I swear to God, I am like an old boat: if it does not enter the port, it will sink... If you want to make the old man happy... I will serve well...

The old man's blue eyes looked at Fauconbridge with such pleading that he could not remain calm.

• Well! - he said, - I accept you. You will be a lamplighter.

Skawiński's face instantly cleared up.

• Thank you. Oh, thank you!

-Can you go to the lighthouse now?

• Fine.

• Well, then, good bye... Another word: for every offense - resignation.

• All right!

That same evening, when the sun set on the other side of the isthmus and the bright day immediately, without twilight, gave way to night, the new lamplighter was obviously already in his place: the lantern threw sheaves of its dazzling light onto the water, as before. The night was completely quiet, a real equatorial night, all saturated with a luminous haze, which is why for about a month a large circle was formed with shades of all the colors of the rainbow. Only the sea was boiling; the tide was approaching. Skawinski stood on the balcony, near the huge lamps and looked like a small black dot from below. He tried to gather all his thoughts into one and discuss his new situation, but his thoughts did not want to obey and flow in a measured sequence. He felt the way an animal feels when, in view of the approaching pursuit, it hides in some inaccessible place. And the time has come for him to calm down. The consciousness of safety filled his soul with inexpressible joy. On this rock he could simply laugh at his former wanderings, at his old sorrows and failures. It really looked like a ship whose masts were broken by a storm, its ropes and sails were torn, and it was playing with it like a ball, lifting it almost into the sky and dropping it almost to the bottom.

sea, and who still achieved his port. Other moments of this storm, when compared with the present silence, appeared especially clearly to him now. He had already told Fauconbridge some of his adventures, but there was a lot more - oh, so much! As soon as he pitched a tent somewhere and lit a fire to firmly establish himself in place, the wind immediately tore out the stakes of his tent, blew out the fire, and picked him up and carried him to his death. Now, looking from the balcony of the tower at the illuminated waves, he remembered everything he had experienced. He fought in four parts of the world and tried many professions. Hard-working and tireless, he often amassed more or less substantial sums of money and always lost them, despite all assumptions and caution. He was a gold prospector in Australia, a diamond miner in Africa, and served in the army of East India. Once he founded a farm in California - drought ruined him; traded with wild tribes living in the middle part of Brazil - his boat crashed in the Amazon, and he himself, unarmed, half-naked, wandered for several weeks in the forests, ate wild fruits, every minute risking becoming the prey of predatory animals. He opened the body

a small establishment in Helena, Arkansas, and was destroyed in a large fire. Then in the Rocky Mountains he fell into the hands of the Indians and was only miraculously saved by the Canadian riflemen. He served as a sailor on a ship sailing between Bahia and Bordeaux, and as a harpooneer on a whaling ship, and both ships crashed. He started a cigar factory in Havana and was robbed by his comrades while he was sick with yellow fever. Finally, he arrived in Espinval, and here his failures must end. What could befall him on this rocky piece of land? Neither water, nor fire, nor people, and, finally, Skawinski did not see much evil from people. Those who knew him simply said that he was not happy. This explained everything. In the end, he himself became partly a maniac. He believed that some powerful, vengeful hand was pursuing him everywhere, across all seas and lands, but he did not like to talk about it, and only when they asked him what hand it was, he mysteriously pointed to the polar star and said that everything came from there... And indeed, his failure was so constant that anyone in his place would have believed in some mysterious influence. He had the patience of an Indian and the

unshakable persistence, which is the result of confidence in one’s rightness. In Hungary, he received several blows with a bayonet because he did not want to grab the stirrup, which was pointed out to him as the only means of salvation, and shout: sorry. He also did not succumb to misfortune and climbed the mountain like an ant; having been overthrown a hundred times, he calmly began his ascent to the hundred and first. He was a remarkable man in his own way. An old soldier, smoked with gunpowder, God knows how many battles, seasoned in troubles, had the heart of a child. During the epidemic in Cuba, the only reason he fell ill was because he gave away his entire supply of quinine to the sick, without leaving a single grain for himself.

Another remarkable feature about him was that after everything he had experienced, he did not lose hope that everything would improve, everything would be fine. In winter, he always became animated and predicted some great events, but the winters passed one after another and Skawiński only waited for them to whiten his head. He was getting old and starting to lose energy; His patience began to look more and more like despair with each passing day. The former calm of spirit was replaced by some kind of unusual nervous sensitivity - and the old soldier could burst into tears at every opportunity. In addition, from time to time he was attacked by a terrible homesickness. To arouse her, the most insignificant circumstance was enough: a swallow, a gray bird that looked like a sparrow, snow on the mountains, even just a tune similar to a familiar one heard once, long ago... Finally, he was completely possessed by only one thought: the thirst for reassurance - it took possession of the entire old man and drowned out all other thoughts and desires. The eternal wanderer could not even think of anything more desirable, more valuable, than a quiet corner where he could rest and calmly await the end. Maybe only because some strange

This game of chance threw him to all corners of the world, not allowing him to catch his breath, and he thought that the greatest human happiness was not to wander. True, he won such modest happiness for himself, but he saw so many vicissitudes in his life that he thought of peace as something extraordinary. He did not even dare to hope, and suddenly, unexpectedly, he found himself in a place that was exactly created for him. It is not surprising that when he lit his lamp in the evening, he kept asking himself whether it was true, and did not dare to say: yes. Meanwhile, reality confirmed with hundreds of pieces of evidence that this was true. Hour after hour passed, Skawiński kept looking, thinking, and little by little he became convinced. One might have thought that he was seeing the sea for the first time; The Espinval clock struck midnight, he had not yet left his post and was still watching. Below, at his feet, the sea roared. The hole of the lamp cut through the darkness with a huge cone of light, behind which the old man’s gaze was lost in the distance, almost black, mysterious and terrible, but the very distance seemed to strive towards light. Long waves rolled out of the darkness, growling, reaching the shores of the island, and then their crests were visible, illuminated by the pink light of the fire in the lantern. Tide

intensified and flooded the sandbanks. The mysterious speech of the ocean came clearer and clearer, resembling the volleys of guns, the noise of giant forests, or the distant talk of a thousand-strong crowd of people. It became quiet for minutes. Then some sighs, sobs, and again - menacing volleys reached the old man's ears. Suddenly the wind, with a strong gust, dispersed the darkness, but piled up a mass of torn clouds in the sky, which completely obscured the month. It was starting to blow stronger from the west. The waves were wildly jumping onto the lighthouse tower and were already approaching the very base. A storm was starting in the distance. On the black, disturbed surface, only a few greenish lights were visible from the lanterns on the masts of the ships. The green dots flew up high, then sank deeply, swaying to the right and left. Skawinski entered his room. The storm was getting stronger and stronger. There, in the courtyard, people were struggling with the night, with the darkness, with the angry moisture; here in the room it was quiet and calm, even the echoes of the storm faintly penetrated through the thick walls and only the measured ticking of the clock lulled the tired old man.

II

Time passed. Days floated by days, weeks by weeks... The sailors claim that at times, when the sea is too agitated, in the middle of the night and darkness some voice calls them by name. If the infinity of the sea can call someone, then, probably, when a person grows old, he is called by another infinity, even darker, more mysterious and all the more desirable, the more exhausted a person is by life. But to hear this voice, silence is necessary. In addition, old age loves solitude, as if in anticipation of an imminent grave. The lighthouse was like a coffin for Skawiński. There is nothing more monotonous than life in a tower. Even if young people enter such a service, they soon leave it, so the lamplighter is usually an elderly person, stern, withdrawn into himself. If he leaves his tower and mixes with a crowd of people, he walks there as if suddenly awakened from a heavy sleep. In the tower there is a complete absence of small impressions, which make everyday life also small. Everything that a lamplighter encounters is enormous, everything is unlimited. Sky is one element, water is another, and between these two infinities is a lonely human soul! In such a life, thinking is quickly replaced

deep thoughtfulness, and nothing awakens the lamplighter from this thoughtfulness, not even his activities. The day becomes similar to another day, like two grains of a rosary. Despite this, Skawiński felt happier than ever in his life. He got up at dawn, had breakfast, cleaned the glass of the lantern and then, sitting on the balcony, peered into the sea, and his eyes could not get enough of the picture unfolding before them. Against a huge dark blue background one could constantly see flocks of tightly stretched sails, glowing under the rays of the sun so brightly that the eyes hurt from the excessive shine; sometimes the boats, taking advantage of the trade wind, stretched out in a long line, one after the other, like a chain of seagulls or albatrosses. The red barrels indicating the way swayed on the waves with a quiet, smooth movement; Every day a giant column of gray smoke appeared between the sails. That steamer from New York was carrying passengers and goods to Espinval, leaving behind a long furrow of foam. On the other hand, the view of Espinval, with its noisy port, with a forest of masts, with boats and boats, opened up in full view; A little further away the houses and towers of the city were white. From the height of the lighthouse, the houses looked like nests of seagulls, l

the odks looked like beetles, and people moved along the white streets like little black dots. From early morning, a light east wind carried the mixed noise of city life, over which the whistle of steam locomotives reigned. The traffic in the port died down, the seagulls hid in the crevices of the rocks, the waves subsided and moved somewhat lazily; At that time, on the mainland, at sea, in the lighthouse, there was a time of undisturbed silence. The yellow sands, from which the waves had subsided, sparkled like gold; Streams of sunlight poured from the sky onto the water, onto the earth, onto the rocks. Then the old man was overcome by sweet languor. He felt that the rest he was indulging in was charming, and when he remembered that it would last for a long time, he didn’t need anything in the world. Skawiński admired his happiness; but a person soon gets used to his position, gradually gains confidence - so he thought that if people build houses for the disabled, then why shouldn’t God shelter his disabled person? Time passed and strengthened him in this assumption. The old man got used to the tower, the lantern, the rocks, the sandbanks and loneliness. He also made acquaintance with the seagulls that lived in the crevices of the rocks, and in the evening held a noisy meeting on the roof of the lighthouse. Scavi

Nsky always threw them the remains of his meal; the birds soon became so comfortable with him that they subsequently flew close to him, surrounded him with a whole cloud of white wings, and the old man walked among the birds like a shepherd in the middle of his flock. At low tide he would go down and collect the delicious slugs and pretty shells that the passing tide had left on the sand; at night, by the light of the moon and a lantern, he went fishing - the small coves and bays of the island were teeming with it. In the end he fell in love with his rock and his barren island, where only a short, thick plant grew that gave sticky sap. The island's poverty was rewarded with a magnificent panorama. At noon, when the atmosphere became unusually transparent, the entire isthmus was visible, covered, right down to the ocean shore, with luxurious vegetation. It seemed to Skavinsky then that one continuous garden was unfolding in front of him. Groups of coconuts and giant muses formed lush bouquets just outside the walls of Espinval. Further, between Espinval and Panama, lay a huge forest, above which reddish steam rose in the morning and evening - a tropical forest, flooded with water, entangled in vines, rustling with one wave of giant palms, milk and rubber trees.

With the help of his telescope, the old man could see not only trees, not only wide banana leaves, but also entire herds of monkeys, large marabou, flocks of parrots, sometimes rising like a rainbow cloud over the forest. Skawiński knew such forests well when, after the crash in the Amazon, he wandered among the thickets for many weeks - he knew that danger and death lurked under their wonderful, smiling appearance. At night he often heard the ominous growl of jaguars nearby; he also saw huge snakes, like vines hanging on the trees; I also knew these sleepy forest lakes, with their crocodiles and electric stingrays. He knows well the oppression under which man lives in those unexplored forests, where one leaf is ten times the height of a man, where there are bloodthirsty mosquitoes, tree leeches, poisonous spiders... He learned all this himself, from personal experience, he endured all this once, and with greater pleasure he can look at these from the height of his tower. matos5(http://ru.wikisource.org/wiki/%D0%A4%D0%BE%D0%BD%D0%B0%D1%80%D1%89%D0%B8%D0%BA_%D0%BD%D0%B0_%D0%BC%D0%B0%D1% 8F%D0%BA%D0%B5_%28%D0%A1%D0%B5%D0%BD%D0%BA%D0%B5%D0%B2%D0%B8%D1%87/%D0%9B%D0%B0%D0%B2%D1%80%D0%BE%D0%B2%29#cite_note-4), lovingly

b their beauty and being protected from all adversity. His tower protected him from all evil. He left her only on Sunday morning. Then he put on his customs garnet uniform with silver buttons, hung up his insignia, and his white head rose with pride when he heard the Creoles say as he approached: “We have a good lamplighter. “And not a heretic, although he is a Yankee!” Straight from mass he returned to the island, and returned happy, because he still did not particularly trust solid ground. On Sunday he also read a Spanish newspaper, which he bought in the city, or a New York Herald6(http://ru.wikisource.org/wiki/%D0%A4%D0%BE%D0%BD%D0%B0%D1%80%D1%89%D0%B8%D0%BA_%D0%BD%D0%B0_%D0%BC%D0%B0%D1%8F% D0%BA%D0%B5_%28%D0%A1%D0%B5%D0%BD%D0%BA%D0%B5%D0%B2%D0%B8%D1%87/%D0%9B%D0%B0%D0%B2%D1%80%D0%BE%D0%B2%29#cite_note-Herald-5), which Fauconbridge gave him, read and eagerly sought news from Europe there. The poor old heart on this tower, on the other hemisphere, was still beating for its homeland. From time to time, when a boat brought him food landed, he went to talk with the ferryman Jones, but this was only at first, and then apparently he became wild, he stopped coming to the city, he says.

write newspapers and have political conversations with Jones. Whole weeks passed without anyone seeing him, nor he anyone. The only proof that the old man was still alive was only the disappearance of food left on the shore, and the light of a lantern, which appeared every evening with such regularity as the sun sets in those parts. Obviously, the old man had become indifferent to the light. It was not nostalgia, and it turned into sad resignation to fate. The whole world now began and ended for the old man on his island. He had already gotten used to the idea that he would not leave the tower until he died, and had completely forgotten that there was something else behind the tower. Moreover, he became a mystic, and his already gentle eyes now became completely childlike and constantly rushed into the distance. In eternal isolation, in the face of majestic nature, the old man began to lose his sense of individuality, ceased to exist separately and merged more and more with what surrounded him. He didn’t think about it, he just felt it directly, and suddenly it began to seem to him that the sky, the water, its rock, the tower, the yellow sandbanks, the stretched sails, the ebb and flow of the tides were all one, one great, mysterious soul; he himself is also immersed in this mystery

responsibility and feels this soul that lives and calms all suffering. He drowned, forgot himself, and in that detachment from individual life, in that half-sleep, half-consciousness, he found such peace that it could almost be compared to death.

III

But the awakening came.

One day, when the boat brought water and a supply of food, Skavinsky, coming down an hour later, noticed that, in addition to the usual package, there was another one. The rough canvas showed United States postage stamps and the clear address "Skawinski, Esq.”7(http://ru.wikisource.org/wiki/%D0%A4%D0%BE%D0%BD%D0%B0%D1%80%D1%89%D0%B8%D0%BA_%D0%BD%D0%B0_%D0%BC%D0%B0%D1% 8F%D0%BA%D0%B5_%28%D0%A1%D0%B5%D0%BD%D0%BA%D0%B5%D0%B2%D0%B8%D1%87/%D0%9B%D0%B0%D0%B2%D1%80%D0%BE%D0%B2%29#cite_note-6) The interested old man tore the canvas and saw the books: he took one and put it back, and his hands trembled violently. He closed his eyes, as if not trusting himself; it seemed to him that he was sleeping - the books were Polish. What does this mean? Who could send him books? At first he obviously forgot that at the beginning of his service at the lighthouse he had to read in his room Herald6(http://ru.wikisource.org/wiki/%D0%A4%D0%BE%D0%BD%D0%B0%D1%80%D1%89%D0%B8%D0%BA_%D0%BD%D0%B0_%D0%BC%D0%B0%D1%8F%D 0%BA%D0%B5_%28%D0%A1%D0%B5%D0%BD%D0%BA%D0%B5%D0%B2%D0%B8%D1%87/%D0%9B%D0%B0%D0%B2%D1%80%D0%BE%D0%B2%29#cite_note-Herald-5)'a about the founding of a Polish society in New York, and that he immediately sent polos there

the guilt of his monthly salary, which he didn’t know what to do with. The society, as a sign of gratitude, sent him books. They came in a simple way, but the old man couldn’t figure anything out at first. Polish books in Espinval, in his tower, on his lonely island were a surprise for him, like an echo of times long past, a miracle. Now he felt like those sailors. Someone called him by name in a dear voice, but - alas! - forgotten. He sat for several minutes with his eyes closed and was almost sure that as soon as he opened them, sleep would disappear. No! The torn pack lay right there in front of him, illuminated by the rays of the sun; the unfolded book remained in the same position. When Skawiński again extended his hand for her, he could almost hear his own heartbeat in the silence. He looked, it was poetry. At the top was the title of the play in large letters, at the bottom was the name of the author. This name was not alien to Skawiński; he knew that it belonged to the great poet, and he had read his works in the thirties in Paris. Then, fighting in Algeria and Spain, he heard from his compatriots about the growing glory of the great bard; but I was so used to the carbine that I didn’t even pick up the book. IN

In 1949 he left for America and, leading the life of an adventurer, met almost no Poles, and did not see Polish books at all. It was with greater curiosity and a beating heart that he turned the title page. It seemed to him that a holiday was beginning on his wild rock. It was the hottest time. The Espinval clock struck five in the afternoon. Not a single cloud darkened the clear sky, only a few seagulls swam in the endless blue. The ocean was almost completely asleep. The coastal waves barely murmured, quietly kissing the edges of the shores. In the distance, the white houses of Espinval and wonderful groups of palm trees smiled. Indeed, everywhere it was quiet and solemn. Suddenly, amid the calm, the trembling voice of an old man was heard. He read out loud so he could understand it better:

Lithuania, my homeland! How are you and our health?

When we lose you, you are dearer and more beautiful to us.

Now, having parted with you, oh, my homeland!

I sing to you with heartache and I see...

Skawiński did not have enough voice. The letters began to jump around in his eyes; It was as if something had torn in my chest and a wave was moving higher and higher from my heart, muffling my voice, squeezing my throat... A minute passed; he recovered and read further:

Heavenly Queen! You are marvelous in the Sharp Brama

You shine with heavenly glory! You are in the Częstochowa Church

And you keep your children in the Novogrudok castle!

You healed me in the morning of my young days,

When my dear, having lost all hope,

I, too, have laid down my ailing eyelids before You

Having lifted up the most pure face, he could unexpectedly rebel

And with a fervent prayer fall on your threshold:

So miraculously you will return me to my dear homeland!

The diverging wave broke through the dam of will. The old man began to sob and fell to the ground, his gray hair touching the sea sand. It will soon be forty years since he has seen his homeland, and God knows how long, since he has not heard his native speech; but now this speech itself came to him, swam across the ocean and found him, alone, on the other hemisphere, so beloved, so dear, so wonderful! In the sobs that shook him, there was no pain, but only an unexpectedly awakened, inexpressible love, before which everything seems nothing... He simply begged with his tears for forgiveness from her, his distant, beloved, for the fact that he had already grown so old, had become so accustomed to his lonely rock, had forgotten so much that the grief in him began to fade away. And now he was “returning miraculously”... His heart was breaking. Minutes passed after minutes, and still he lay there. The seagulls flew in, as if worried about their old friend. The moment was approaching when he usually gave them the remains of his dinner. Some of them flew from the top of the tower towards him, then more and more flew in, and began to lightly nod to him and rustle with their wings above his head. The sound of wings woke him up. He cried out all the tears, his face now lit up with some kind of clear peace, inspiration shone in his eyes. He gave

gave all his lunch to the birds, they flew away, and he took the book again. The sun had already set behind the gardens, behind the virgin forest of Panama and was now slowly sinking over the isthmus, towards another ocean, although the Atlantic was still burning, as if red-hot gold was flowing in it. There was still light in the air, it was possible to read.

Now let my sad soul rush away

There, to the green hills, in the expanse of those forests...

Dusk has fallen - in the south twilight is as short as the blink of an eye. The old man leaned his head against the rock and closed his eyes. And then She who “wonderfully shines with heavenly glory in the Sharp Brahma” took his soul to his native fields “with golden wheat and silver haw.”

Long stripes of gold and purple still burned in the sky as he strove along this road towards his native land. The pine forests rustled, the native rivers began to gurgle. He sees everything as it was. He keeps asking him: “remember?” He remembers! He sees: vast fields, boundaries, meadows, forests and villages. It's already night. At this time his lantern usually came on, but now the old man is in his native village. The old head leans towards his chest and falls asleep. One picture is replaced by another quickly and somewhat chaotically. He does not see his home - it was wiped off the face of the earth by the war; does not see either his father or mother - they died in his infancy; but the village is still the same as if he left it only yesterday: a row of huts with lights in the windows, a dam, a mill, two ponds, screaming choruses of frogs all night long. Once upon a time he stood watch all night in his village; now this night also appears to him. Here he is again, a lancer, standing guard: the tavern looks from afar with its burning eyes and makes noise, and knocks, and whines in the silence of the night with the stamping of feet, the screeching of violins and the thick voice of the double bass: “Uh-ha! Uh-ha!” The lancers are beating time with their horseshoes, but he is so bored alone! Time passes slowly, finally the lights go out; now, wherever you look

darkness, darkness, impenetrable fog: vapors rise from the meadows and envelop the whole world in a white shroud. You’ll say it’s like a boundless sea, but it’s just fields: you just have to hear a twitch scream in the dark, or a frog croak in a bog. The night is calm and cold, a real Polish night! In the distance, a pine forest rustles without wind, like a sea wave. Soon the dawn will color the sunrise: the roosters have already started crowing, sitting on the fences, one another is raising its voice from hut to hut; here the cranes are screaming somewhere in the heights. Ulan is so fresh, good. They said something about tomorrow's battle. Well, he will go, like others will go, with shouts and the rustle of waving banners. Young blood flows in full swing, although the morning wind cools it. But here comes the dawn, dawn... The night turns pale; Forests, bushes, a row of houses, a mill, and poplars emerge from the darkness. The wells creak like a tin weathervane on a tower. What a beloved land this is, beautiful, in the pink rays of dawn! Oh, darling, darling!

Hush!.. The vigilant sentry hears someone approaching. Surely they are going to kill the guards.

Suddenly a voice is heard above Skawiński himself:

• Hey, old man! Get up! What's wrong with you?

The old man opens his eyes and looks in surprise at the man standing in front of him. Scraps of dreams mix with reality in his head. Finally, the visions fade and disappear. In front of him is Jones, a port guard.

• What's wrong with you? Jones asks. -Are you sick?

• No.

-You didn't light the lantern. You are about to retire. The boat from San Jeromo ran aground. Luckily, no one drowned, otherwise you would have ended up in court. Sit down with me, you will hear the rest at the consulate.

Skawinski turned pale; He really didn’t light the lantern that night.

A few days later an old man could be seen on the deck of a ship sailing from Espinval to New York. The poor man has lost his place. A new path of wandering lay before him; the wind again tore off this leaf to throw it from one place to another, to have fun with it to their heart's content. Over the course of several days, the old man became very haggard and sagging, only his eyes still glowed. From time to time his hand groped for the book on his chest, as if fearing that it had gone missing. ata of creation: 1882.

Source: Senkevich G. Novels and stories. - M.: Editorial office of the magazine “Russian Thought”, 1893. - P. 308

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