Stanisława's death exercised so much influence over Dr. Paweł's disposition that for some time afterwards, in his leisure moments, he read Dante's Divine Comedy; he gave up playing whist, and dismissed his housekeeper, aged twenty-four. But gradually he grew calm. He is now doing exceedingly well; he has grown stout, and has made a nice little sum. He has even revived some of his optimistic tendencies. For thanks to his energetic agitation, all the world in Obrzydłówek, with the exception of a few conservatives, is now smoking cigarettes rolled by themselves, instead of buying ready-made ones which are known to be injurious.
At last!...
THE CHUKCHEE
By WACŁAW SIEROSZEWSKI
The country was shrouded in the bitter Arctic night. Cold mists swept along the ground below; a dark sky, spangled with stars, stretched above.
A man was standing on the steps of a little house with small windows and a flat roof; his head was bare, his hands were thrust deep into his pockets. He was gazing fixedly towards the south, where the first dawn was to break upon the long darkness. At times he fancied that he could already see it there, for something seemed to quiver in the infinite darkness; but then the changing mist merely swayed to and fro, and the stars trembled on the horizon. His weary eyes therefore turned towards the little town; his house stood on the outskirts of it. Lights were twinkling in the windows there, and the dogs in the various backyards were yelping and howling loudly in chorus. "Oh, how deadly this is!" he thought—"enough to drive anyone mad. And in a frost like this it's certain no one will come."
He was just turning to go indoors, when he caught the sound of snow creaking under quick footsteps. He began to listen; the footsteps turned into the path leading up to his house.