THE JUDGMENT OF PETER AND PAUL ON OLYMPUS

A POEM IN PROSE

It was a night of spring, calm, silvery, and fragrant with dewy jasmine. The full moon was sailing above Olympus, and on the glittering, snowy summit of the mountain it shone with a clear, pensive, greenish light. Farther down in the Vale of Tempe was a dark thicket of thorn-bushes, shaken by the songs of nightingales—by entreaties, by complaints, by calls, by allurements, by languor, by sighs. These sounds flowed like the music of flutes, filling the night; they fell like a pouring rain, and rushed on like rivers. At moments they ceased; then such silence followed that one might almost hear the snow thawing on the heights under the warm breath of May. It was an ambrosial night.

On that night came Peter and Paul, and sat on the highest grassmound of the slope to pass judgment on the gods of antiquity. The heads of the Apostles were encircled by halos, which illuminated their gray hair, stern brows, and severe eyes. Below, in the deep shade of beeches, stood the assembly of gods, abandoned and in dread, awaiting their sentence.

Peter motioned with his hand, and at the sign Zeus stepped forth first from the assembly and approached the Apostles. The Cloud-Compeller was still mighty, and as huge as if cut out of marble by Phidias, but weakened and gloomy. His old eagle dragged along at his feet with broken wing, and the blue thunderbolt, grown reddish in places from rust, and partly quenched, seemed to be slipping from the stiffening right hand of the former father of gods and men. But when he stood before the Apostles the feeling of ancient supremacy filled his broad breast. He raised his head haughtily, and fixed on the face of the aged fisherman of Galilee his proud and glittering eyes, which were as angry and as terrible as lightnings.

Olympus, accustomed to tremble before its ruler, shook to its foundations. The beeches quivered with fear, the song of the nightingales ceased, and the moon sailing above the snows grew as white as the linen web of Arachne. The eagle screamed through his crooked beak for the last time, and the lightning, as if animated by its ancient force, flashed and began to roar terribly at the feet of its master; it reared, hissed, snapped, and raised its three-cornered, flaming forehead, like a serpent ready to stab with poisonous fang. But Peter pressed the fiery bolts with his foot and crushed them to the earth. Turning then to the Cloud-Compeller, he pronounced this sentence: “Thou art cursed and condemned through all eternity.” At once Zeus was extinguished. Growing pale in the twinkle of an eye, he whispered, with blackening lips, “᾽Ανάγκη” (“Necessity”), and vanished through the earth.

Poseidon of the dark curls next stood before the Apostles, with night in his eyes, and in his hand the blunted trident. To him then spoke Peter:

“It is not thou who wilt rouse the billows. It is not thou who wilt lead the storm-tossed ships to a quiet haven, but she who is called the ‘Star of the Sea.’”

When Poseidon heard this he screamed, as if pierced with sudden pain, and turned into vanishing mist.

Next rose Apollo, the Silver-bowed, with a hollow lute in his hand, and walked toward the holy men. Behind him moved slowly the nine Muses, looking like nine white pillars. Terror-stricken, they stood before the judgment-seat, as if petrified, breathless, and without hope; but the radiant Apollo turned to Paul, and, in a voice which resembled wondrous music, said:

“Slay me not! Protect me, lord; for shouldst thou slay me, thou wouldst have to restore me to life again. I am the blossom of the soul of humanity; I am its gladness; I am light; I am the yearning for God. Thou knowest best that the song of earth will not reach heaven if thou break its wings. Hence I implore thee, O saint, not to smite down Song.”

A moment of silence came. Peter raised his eyes toward the stars. Paul placed his hands on his sword-hilt, rested his forehead on them, and for a time fell into deep thought. At last he rose, made the sign of the cross calmly above the radiant head of the god, and said:

“Let Song live!”

Apollo sat down with his lute at the feet of the Apostle. The night became clearer, the jasmine gave out a stronger perfume, the glad fountains sounded, the Muses gathered together like a flock of white swans, and, with voices still quivering from fear, began to sing in low tones marvellous words never heard on the heights of Olympus till that hour:

To thy protection we flee, holy Mother of God.
We come with our prayers; deign thou not to reject us,
But be pleased to preserve us from every evil,
O thou, our Lady!

Thus they sang on the heather, raising their eyes like pious nuns with heads covered with white.

Other gods came now. Bacchus and his chorus dashed past, wild, unrestrained, crowned with ivy and grapevine, and bearing the cithara and the thyrsus. They rushed on madly, with shouts of despair, and fell into the bottomless pit.

Then before the Apostles stood a lofty, proud, sarcastic divinity, who, without waiting for question or sentence, spoke first. On her lips was a smile of derision.

“I am Pallas Athene. I do not beg life of you. I am an illusion, nothing more. Odysseus honored and obeyed me only when he had become senile. Telemachus listened to me only till hair covered his chin. Ye cannot take immortality from me, and I declare that I have been a shadow, that I am a shadow now, and shall remain a shadow forever.”

At last her turn came to the most beautiful, the most honored goddess. As she approached, sweet, marvellous, tearful, the heart under her snow-white breast beat like the heart in a bird, and her lips quivered like those of a child that fears cruel punishment. She fell at their feet, and, stretching forth her divine arms, cried in fear and humility:

“I am sinful, I deserve blame, but I am Joy. Have mercy, forgive; I am the one happiness of mankind.” Then sobbing and fear took away her voice.

But Peter looked at the goddess with compassion, and placed his aged palm on her golden hair, while Paul, bending toward a cluster of white field-lilies, broke off one blossom, and touching her with it, said:

“Joy, be henceforth like this flower, and live thou for mankind.”

Then came dawn—the divine dawn that looked out from beyond a depression between two peaks. The nightingales stopped singing, and immediately finches, linnets, and wrens began to draw their sleepy little heads from under their moistened wings, shaking the dew from their feathers, and repeating in low voices, “Svit! svit!” (“Light! light!”).

The earth awoke, smiled, and was delighted, because Song and Joy had not been taken from it.

THE ZAGLOBA ROMANCES by Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin.

WITH FIRE AND SWORD

An Historical Novel of Poland and Russia. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. $1.50.

The first of the famous trilogy of historical romances of Poland, Russia, and Sweden. Their publication has been received as an event in literature. Charles Dudley Warner, in Harper’s Magazine, affirms that the Polish author has in Zagloba given a new creation to literature.

A capital story. The only modern romance with which it can be compared for fire, sprightliness, rapidity of action, swift changes, and absorbing interest is “The Three Musketeers” of Dumas.—New York Tribune.

THE DELUGE

An Historical Novel of Poland, Sweden, and Russia. A Sequel to “With Fire and Sword.” With map. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. $3.00.

Marvellous in its grand descriptions.—Chicago Inter-Ocean.

Has the humor of a Cervantes and the grim vigor of Defoe.—Boston Gazette.

PAN MICHAEL

An Historical Novel of Poland, Russia, and the Ukraine. A Sequel to “With Fire and Sword” and “The Deluge.” Crown 8vo. $1.50.

The interest of the trilogy, both historical and romantic, is splendidly sustained.—The Dial, Chicago.

QUO VADIS

A Narrative of the Time of Nero. By Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. $1.50.

One of the greatest books of our day.—The Bookman.

The book is like a grand historical pageant.—Literary World.

Of intense interest to the whole Christian civilization.—Chicago Tribune.

Interest never wanes; and the story is carried through its many phases of conflict and terror to a climax that enthralls.—Chicago Record.

As a study of the introduction of the gospel of love into the pagan world typified by Rome, it is marvellously fine.—Chicago Interior.

The picture here given of life in Rome under the last of the Cæsars is one of unparalleled power and vividness.—Boston Home Journal.

One of the most remarkable books of the decade. It burns upon the brain the struggles and triumphs of the early church.—Boston Daily Advertiser.

It will become recognized by virtue of its own merits as the one heroic monument built by the modern novelist above the ruins of decadent Rome, and in honor of the blessed martyrs of the early Church.—Brooklyn Eagle.

Our debt to Sienkiewicz is not less than our debt to his translator and friend, Jeremiah Curtin. The diversity of the language, the rapid flow of thought, the picturesque imagery of the descriptions are all his.—Boston Transcript.

THE KNIGHTS OF THE CROSS

An Historical Romance of Poland and Germany. By Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin. Illustrated. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. $2.00.

The greatest work Sienkiewicz has given us.—Buffalo Express.

It seems superior even to “Quo Vadis” in strength and realism.—The Churchman.

The construction of the story is beyond praise. It is difficult to conceive of any one who will not pick the book up with eagerness.—Chicago Evening Post.

There are some scenes in the book that for power and excitement remind one of the great encounter between Ursus and the bull in “Quo Vadis.”—Minneapolis Tribune.

Vivid, dramatic, and vigorous.... His imaginative power, his command of language, and the picturesque scenes he sets combine to fascinate the reader.—Philadelphia Bulletin.

A book that holds your almost breathless attention as in a vise from the very beginning, for in it love and strife, the most thrilling of all worldly subjects, are described masterfully.—The Boston Journal.

Another remarkable book. His descriptions are tremendously effective; one can almost hear the sound of the carnage; to the mind’s eye the scene of battle is unfolded by a master artist.—The Hartford Courant.

Thrillingly dramatic, full of strange local color and very faithful to its period, besides having that sense of the mysterious and weird that throbs in the Polish blood and infects alike their music and literature.—The St. Paul Globe.

OTHER NOVELS AND ROMANCES by Henryk Sienkiewicz.
Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin.

CHILDREN OF THE SOIL

Crown 8vo. $1.50.

It must be reckoned among the finer fictions of our time, and shows its author to be almost as great a master in the field of the domestic novel as he had previously been shown to be in that of imaginative historical romances.—The Dial, Chicago.

HANIA, AND OTHER STORIES

With portrait. Crown 8vo. $1.50.

At the highest level of the author’s genius.—The Outlook.

SIELANKA, A FOREST PICTURE

And Other Stories. With frontispiece. Crown 8vo. $1.50.

They exhibit the masterly genius of Sienkiewicz even better than his longer romances. They abound in fine character-drawings and beautiful descriptions.—Chicago Inter-Ocean.

LIFE AND DEATH AND OTHER LEGENDS AND STORIES

Illustrated. 16mo. Decorated cloth, $1.00.

WITHOUT DOGMA

A Novel of Modern Poland.
(Translated from the Polish by Iza Young.)
Crown 8vo. $1.50.

A human document read in the light of a great imagination.—Boston Beacon.

LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, Publishers
Boston, Massachusetts