Page:The Czechoslovak Review, vol4, 1920.pdf/190

 sinall portrait of Byron pasted among the other pictures on the partition.

“I dare say” began the young man in a low voice, and from time to time his speech was interrupted by a fit of coughing, “that my father told you I deserted my studies and ruined my prospects. And yet I have conscientiously fulfilled my task in life. I know very well that I have not much longer to live. Do not shake your head, do not smile comfortingly,—I do not need any consolation. Whether my end comes within a year, or within a week,—I shall die contented. What I was able to accomplish in this short life of mine, I have accomplished. I have worked diligently, of course, my good but simple parents could not appreciate this work, but I have concealed it from others as well. A comparison with the growth of maize forces itself upon my mind; in its green husk, concealed from human eyes, it seethes and ripens until finally the leafy covering withers and falls, and the splendid crop of golden grain emerges to view. In the same way, what I have created in secret will soon come to light. This bodily wrapping will fall and decay, but the fruit will remain and shine for evermore. You are an educated man. Moreover I have had confidence in you from the very first moment I saw you. Well then, I will entrust you with my secret,—I am a poet.”

So he was a poet! So he was a victim of that youthful sickness from which happily the vast majority recover soon after their moustache begins to grow, but which nevertheless causes a few to rhyme themselves gradually to death. In my youth I myself meddled with “The golden strings of the lyre.” But now it is a long time since I even read any poems. I do not care for them, especially lyrical ones. I am not fond of exciting myself over other people’s fantasies, especially as they are always a little artificial. My poem is the starry night, when I am returning on horseback from a patient through the slumbering forest, in whose black chaos glimmers the flowery cynosure of the wild elder-tree which dazes me with the strength of its fragrance. when the thicket in front of me is set asparkle by a swarm of glow-worms, so that it lookes like Moses’ burning bush My poem is the hurricane when it sweeps down with its mighty blast upon our golf. so that masts are shattered, waves beat howling and hissing upon the shore, and the forest shrieks and groans dreadfully. It might be supposed that, holding such opinions as these. I coldly drew the young poet’s attention to the fact that I was not an editor but a doctor, and that I had no time for literary discussions. But actually I felt deep compassion for this young man.

“Yes. I am a poet,” continued the sick man after a while. “Not one of those vain young men who rack their brains with the counting of syllables merely so that they can plume themselves with the name of poets. I am a true poet, one of the elect. Yes, I am,—I am! It is only ecstacy which summons me to song, now, even now it approaches afresh,—it roars like an ocean,—I feel it here in my throbbing temples,—here upon my trembling lips,—here within my quivering breast,—my whole body from head to foot is set astir by this blissful tempest.”

At that moment he was like a different man. He stood up with lifted hand; it seemed as if his limbs had suddenly gained strength and suppleness, movements of fire. His eyes glittered rapturously beneath the arched curve of their delicate brows, his cheeks reddened slightly, his gentle beardless face was at that moment almost beautiful. And his cough had left him for the time being.

It was like the outburst of some mental malady. I pointed out to him that excitement of that sort would do him harm. He sat down again silently and lifting up the pillow, reached deep down beneath the straw mattress. With a trembling hand he drew forth a voluminous pile of paper which was covered with verses. He laid it down upon his lap and slowly turning over the leaves, he continued: “Here you see my life’s work which is now all but completed. I composed the greater part of it here in the Caucasus, but secretly, because my good father would not allow this “everlasting useless writing.” Nobody has yet had a glimpse of these papers, and except you, nobody will see them before my death. I am not concerned about fame during my life time, about appearing in the literary arena, where the feverish bustle of the ambitious, the petty intrigues of rivals, the verdicts of unqualified judges, the applause or abuse of the common rabble tarnish the pure radiance of poetry and poison the soul,—what I am striving after is fame beyond the grave, the wafting of my spirit, as I have embodied it in this poem, above the stream of future ages. But sir, I have an urgent favor to ask of you. I regard you as the one whom fate has sent me as the executor of my will. Are you willing to undertake this task?”

“Oh, you have plenty of time to make your will.” I remarked with a forced smile. “however, if you have a wish and if it is in my power to fulfill it, I shall be glad to be of service to you.”

“Well sir, I want you to take charge of the publication of this work of mine after I am dead. I will give you the names of persons in my country to whom you could apply in this matter. I am certain that you will soon find someone there who would undertake to publish my literary remains. You need only send a copy for their inspection. Perhaps I shall still have time myself—”

“No, you must not write now.” I interrupted him. “I will see to the copy myself. You can rely upon me entirely.”