Stories by Foreign Authors: Polish, Greek, Belgian, Hungarian | Page 4

is
beyond reach. He did not dare to hope for it. Meanwhile, unexpectedly,
in the course of twelve hours he had gained a position which was as if
chosen for him out of all the world. We are not to wonder, then, that
when he lighted his lantern in the evening he became as it were
dazed,--that he asked himself if that was reality, and he did not dare to
answer that it was. But at the same time reality convinced him with
incontrovertible proofs; hence hours one after another passed while he
was on the balcony. He gazed, and convinced himself. It might seem
that he was looking at the sea for the first time in his life. The lens of
the lantern cast into the darkness an enormous triangle of light, beyond
which the eye of the old man was lost in the black distance completely,
in the distance mysterious and awful. But that distance seemed to run
toward the light. The long waves following one another rolled out from
the darkness, and went bellowing toward the base of the island; and
then their foaming backs were visible, shining rose-colored in the light
of the lantern. The incoming tide swelled more and more, and covered
the sandy bars. The mysterious speech of the ocean came with a fulness
more powerful and louder, at one time like the thunder of cannon, at
another like the roar of great forests, at another like the distant dull
sound of the voices of people. At moments it was quiet; then to the ears
of the old man came some great sigh, then a kind of sobbing, and again
threatening outbursts. At last the wind bore away the haze, but brought
black, broken clouds, which hid the moon. From the west it began to
blow more and more; the waves sprang with rage against the rock of
the light-house, licking with foam the foundation walls. In the distance
a storm was beginning to bellow. On the dark, disturbed expanse
certain green lanterns gleamed from the masts of ships. These green
points rose high and then sank; now they swayed to the right, and now
to the left. Skavinski descended to his room. The storm began to howl.
Outside, people on those ships were struggling with night, with
darkness, with waves; but inside the tower it was calm and still. Even
the sounds of the storm hardly came through the thick walls, and only
the measured tick-tack of the clock lulled the wearied old man to his

slumber.
CHAPTER II.
Hours, days, and weeks began to pass. Sailors assert that sometimes
when the sea is greatly roused, something from out the midst of night
and darkness calls them by name. If the infinity of the sea may call out
thus, perhaps when a man is growing old, calls come to him, too, from
another infinity still darker and more deeply mysterious; and the more
he is wearied by life the dearer are those calls to him. But to hear them
quiet is needed. Besides old age loves to put itself aside as if with a
foreboding of the grave. The light-house had become for Skavinski
such a half grave. Nothing is more monotonous than life on a beacon-
tower. If young people consent to take up this service they leave it after
a time. Light-house keepers are generally men not young, gloomy, and
confined to themselves. If by chance one of them leaves his light-
house and goes among men, he walks in the midst of them like a person
roused from deep slumber. On the tower there is a lack of minute
impressions which in ordinary life teach men to adapt themselves to
everything. All that a light-house keeper comes in contact with is
gigantic, and devoid of definitely outlined forms. The sky is one whole,
the water another; and between those two infinities the soul of man is
in loneliness. That is a life in which thought is continual meditation,
and out of that meditation nothing rouses the keeper, not even his work.
Day is like day as two beads in a rosary, unless changes of weather
form the only variety. But Skavinski felt more happiness than ever in
life before. He rose with the dawn, took his breakfast, polished the lens,
and then sitting on the balcony gazed into the distance of the water; and
his eyes were never sated with the pictures which he saw before him.
On the enormous turquoise ground of the ocean were to be seen
generally flocks of swollen sails gleaming in the rays of the sun so
brightly that the eyes were blinking before the excess of light.
Sometimes the ships, favored by the so-called trade winds, went in an
extended line one after another, like