at the foot of the steep and narrow bednarska—the street running down from the cracow faubourg to the river—there are always many workers. it is here that the bathing-houses and the boat-houses are. here lie the steamers that ply slowly on the shallow river. here, also, is a trade in timber where from time to time one of the smaller rafts that float from the carpathians down to dantzic is moored and broken up. here, also, are loafers, who, like flies, congregate naturally near the water.
a few hundred yards higher up the river, between the bednarska and the spacious jerozolimska alley, many carts and men work all day in the sand which the vistula deposits along her low banks. the jerozolimska starts hopefully from the higher parts of the city—the widest, the newest, the most parisian street in the town, warsaw's only boulevard—down the hill, as if it expected to find a bridge at the bottom. but there is no bridge there, and the fine street dwindles away to sandy ruts and a broken tow-path. here horses struggle vainly to drag heavy sand-carts from the ruts, while their drivers swear at them and the sand-workers lean on their spades and watch. a cleaner sand is dredged from the middle or brought across in deep-laden punts from the many banks that render navigation next to impossible—a clean, hard sand, most excellent for building purposes.
it was the hour of the mid-day dinner—for polish hours are the hours of the early victorian meals. horses and men were alike at rest. the horses nibbled at the thin grass, while the men sat by the water and ate their gray bread, which only tastes of dampness and carraway-seeds. it was late autumn, and the sun shone feebly through a yellow haze. the scene was not exhilarating. the vistula, to put it plainly, is a dismal river. poland is a dismal country. a witty frenchman, who knew it well, once said that it is a country to die for, but not to live in.
it was only natural that the workmen should group together for their uninteresting meal. the sand-bank offered a comfortable seat. their position was in a sense a strategetical one. they were in full view of the bridge and of the high land behind them, but no one could approach within half a mile unperceived.
“yes,” one of the workmen was saying, “those who know say that there will inevitably be a kingdom of poland again. some day. and if some day, why not now? why not this time?”
his hearers continued to eat in silence. some were slightly built, oval-faced men—real poles; others had the narrower look of the lithuanian; while a third type possessed the broad and placid face that comes from posen. some were born to this hard work of the sand-hills; others had that look in the eyes, that carriage of the head, which betokens breeding and suggests an ancestral story.
“the third time, they say, is lucky,” answered a white-haired man, at length. he was a strong man, with the lines of hunger cut deeply in his face. the work was nothing to him. he had labored elsewhere. the others turned and looked at him, but he said no more. he glanced across the river towards the spires of praga pointing above the brown trees. perhaps he was thinking of those other times, which he must have seen fifty and twenty years ago. his father must have seen praga paved with the dead bodies of its people. he must have seen the river run sluggish with the same burden. he may have seen the people shot down in the streets of warsaw only twenty years before. his eyes had the dull look which nearly always betokens some grim vision never forgotten. he seemed a placid old man, and was known as an excellent worker, though cruel to his horses.
he who had first spoken—a boatman known as kosmaroff—was a spare man, with a narrow face and a long, pointed chin, hidden by a neat beard. he was not more than thirty-five years old, and presented no outward appearance of having passed through hardships. his manner was quick and vivacious, and when he laughed, which was not infrequent, his mouth gave an odd twist to the left. the corner went upwards towards the eye. his smile was what the french call a pale smile. at times, but very rarely, a gleam of recklessness passed through his dark eyes. he had been a raftsman, and was reputed to be the most daring of those little-known watermen at flood-times and in the early thaw. he glanced towards the old man as if hoping that more was coming.
“yes, it will be the third time,” he said, when the other had lapsed into a musing silence, “though few of us have seen it with our own eyes. but we have other means of remembering. we have also the experience of our forefathers to guide us—though we cannot say that our forefathers have told us—”
he broke off with a short laugh. his grandfather had died at praga; his father had gone to siberia to perish there.
“we shall time it better,” he said, “than last time. we have men watching the political world for us. the two emperors are marked as an old man is marked by those who are named in his will. if anything happened to bismarck, if austria and russia were to fall out, if the dogs should quarrel among themselves—the three dogs that have torn poland to pieces! anything would do! they knew the crimean war was coming. england and france were so slow. and they threw a hundred thousand men into warsaw before they turned to the english. that showed what they thought of us!”
the others listened, looking patiently at the river. the spirit of some was broken. there is nothing like hunger for breaking the spirit. others looked doubtful, for one reason or another. these men resembled a board of directors—some of them knew too little, others too much. it seemed to be kosmaroff's mission to keep them up to a certain mark by his boundless optimism, his unquestioning faith in a good cause.
“it is all very well for you,” said one, a little fat man with beady eyes. fat men with beady eyes are not usually found in near proximity to danger of any sort—“you, who are an aristocrat, and have nothing to lose!”
kosmaroff ate his bread with an odd smile. he did not look towards the speaker. he knew the voice perhaps, or he knew that the great truth that a man's character is ever bubbling to his lips, and every spoken word is a part of it running over.
“there are many who can be aristocrats some day—with a little good-fortune,” he said, and the beady eyes brightened.
“i lost five at praga,” muttered an elderly man, who had the subdued manner of the toiler. “that is enough for me.”
“it is well to remember praga,” returned kosmaroff, in a hard monotone. “it is well to remember that the muscovites have never kept their word! there is much to remember!”
and a murmur of unforgetfulness came from the listeners. kosmaroff glanced sideways at two men who sat shoulder to shoulder staring sullenly across the river.
“i may be an aristocrat by descent,” he said, “but what does that come to? i am a raftsman. i work with my hands, like any other. to be a polish aristocrat is to have a little more to give. they have always done it. they are ready to do it again. look at the bukatys and a hundred others, who could go to france and live there peaceably in the sunshine. i could do it myself. but i am here. the bukatys are here. they will finish by losing everything—the little they have left—or else they will win everything. and i know which they will do. they will win! the prince is wise. prince martin is brave; we all know that!”
“and when they have won will they remember?” asked one of the two smaller men, throwing a brown and leathery crust into the river.
“if they are given anything worth remembering they will not forget it. you may rely on that. they know what each gives—whether freely or with a niggard hand—and each shall be paid back in his own coin. they give freely enough themselves. it is always so with the aristocrats; but they expect an equal generosity in others, which is only right!”
the men sat in a row facing the slow river. they were toil-worn and stained; their clothing was in rags. but beneath their sandy hair more than one pair of eyes gleamed from time to time with a sudden anger, with an intelligence made for higher things than spade and oar. as they sat there they were like the notes of a piano, and kosmaroff played the instrument with a sure touch that brought the fullest vibration out of each chord. he was a born leader; an organizer not untouched perchance by that light of genius which enables some to organize the souls of men.
nor was he only a man of words, as so many patriots are. he was that dangerous product, a pole born in siberia. he had served in a cossack regiment. the son of convict no. 2704, he was the mere offspring of a number—a thing not worth accounting. in his regiment no one noticed him much, and none cared when he disappeared from it. and now here he was back in poland, with a russian name for daily use and another name hidden in his heart that had blazed all over poland once. here he was, a raftsman plying between cracow and warsaw, those two hot-beds of polish patriotism—a mere piece of human driftwood on the river. he had made the usual grand tour of russia's deadliest enemies. he had been to siberia and paris and london. he might have lived abroad, as he said, in the sunshine; but he preferred poland and its gray skies, manual labor, and the bread that tastes of dampness. for he believed that a kingdom which stood in the forefront for eight centuries cannot die. there are others who cherish the same belief.
“this time,” he went on, after a pause, “i have news for you. we are a little nearer. it is our object to be ready, and then to wait patiently until some event in europe gives us our opportunity. last time they acted at the wrong moment. this time we shall not do that, but we shall nevertheless act with decision when the moment arrives. we are a step nearer to readiness, and we owe it to prince martin bukaty again. he is never slow to put his head in the noose, and laughs with the rope around his neck. and he has succeeded again, for he has the luck. we have five thousand rifles in poland—”
he paused and looked down the line of grimy faces, noting that some lighted up and others drooped. the fat little man with the beady eyes blinked as he stared resolutely across the river.
“in warsaw!” he added, significantly. “so, if there are any who think that the cause is a dead one, they had better say so now—and take the consequences.” he concluded rather grimly, with his one-sided smile.
no one seemed disposed to avail himself of this invitation.
“and there is ammunition enough,” continued kosmaroff, “to close the account of every muscovite in warsaw!”
his voice vibrated as he spoke, with the cold and steady hatred of the conquered; but on his face there only rested the twisted smile.
“i tell you this,” he went on, “because i am likely to go to cracow before long, and so that you may know what is expected of you. certain events may be taken beforehand as a sure signal for assembly—such as the death of either emperor, of the king of prussia, or of bismarck, the declaration of war by any of the great powers. there is always something seething on the indian frontier, and one day the english will awake. the warsaw papers will not have the news; but the czas and the other cracow journals will tell you soon enough, and you can all see the galician papers when you want to, despite their censors and their police!”
a contemptuous laugh from the fat man confirmed this statement. this was his department. in many men cunning takes the place of courage.
at this moment the steam-whistle of the iron-works farther up the river boomed out across the plain. the bells of the city churches broke out into a clanging unanimity as to the time of day, and all the workers stirred reluctantly. the dinner-hour was over.
kosmaroff rose to his feet and stretched himself—a long, lithe, wiry figure.
“come,” he said. “we must go back to work.”
he glanced from face to face, and any looking with understanding at his narrow countenance, his steady, dark eyes, and clean-cut nose must have realized that they stood in the presence of that rare and indefinable creation—a strong man.