panions. Then she considered that Sul- | long way with her, he did me the troublepicio was not really a bad man, and that some honor of intrusting me with the it was only the unfortunate smoky sauce restoration of his domestic peace. that was at fault in the whole matter. When Sulpicio approached her with his pleasantest smile, Concetta also met him with her pleasantest manner; they pressed each other's hands, embraced warmly, and peace was concluded. But in their hearts there remained the consciousness that they had made trial of one another. This trial was followed by others no less stormy; and the fourth story in the Via Bagutta, and sometimes the whole neighborhood, were occasionally witnesses to sudden shrieking sounds. "That is Concetta," the people would say. It was Concetta. After the unfortunate victim had vainly cast at her tyrant's head all the flattering terms she had collected during the last fifty-five years, with out being able to trump his supply, she would finish by giving a terrible scream. At the end of such scenes old Sulpicio generally fled down-stairs, so that Concetta sent her last abusive words after him from one of the steps. Then the good neighbors came to her assistance. They let her talk till the attack of rage was over; then they joined in her lamentation, and pitied her, and declared her fate to be undeserved, and her husband a brute. Suddenly she seemed quieted, and then she contradicted every one most passionately, and defended her Sulpicio with incredible warmth, whom she alone could understand, whose heart only she could read, and who was really better than any one else. When the attack was over, and the landing cleared again, the old woman crept quietly and secretly back into their apartment, and buried her trembling head in a large black-silk hood; thereupon she descended two flights of stairs, and knocked at the door of Madame Nina, who lived with a weak-headed uncle, a friend of Sulpicio's. Concetta knew that her husband thought very highly of the young woman; yet she was so far from being jealous of her, that she even made use of her assistance in re-establishing peace. Almost at the same moment the husband returned secretly to the house, came panting up the stairs, and burst into my room. As he knew that Concetta cherished almost motherly feelings towards me, and that a word from me would go a II. From me this office of peacemaker required no great sacrifice, nor from Nina either, I believe. As soon as Concetta saw me she met me cordially, seized my hand in both hers, and by mutely nodding her head and casting up her eyes, she declared to me all her sorrow for what had occurred, her intention of returning to her conjugal duties, and her gratitude for my successful efforts. It was evident that neither could Concetta live without her Sulpicio, nor Sulpicio without his Concetta. They loved each other, as they had always loved each other; and in spite of being ever ready to quarrel, they loved as much as any two people can love. As I had expected, as soon as Sulpicio appeared at the door after his conversion, hiding his emotion from me by assumed indifference, Concetta would have given him any atonement in her power, and in her confusion she sought through all her pockets for her thimble and needlecase. Meantime I occupied myself with the lock of the door, or looked out of the window, or examined some book or picture. Then the two came a little nearer to one another; my backward glances revealed two trembling hands that pressed one another, two faces sparkling with glad smiles, and two tears rolling down along the furrows of the wrinkles. At last they fell into each other's arms. I then looked elsewhere, or I turned round as if accidentally, and said that it was beautiful weather-unless it happened to be pouring with rain; but I thought to myself that in those tears youth had come back to life, and that these smiles were well worthy the rosy cheeks and foreheads of spring. But one day the storm raged so terribly that the diplomatic transactions lasted many hours, and had to be very skilfully managed before the two ships could be got to run into the calm matrimonial harbor. The word "Separation" was pronounced by both parties with the greatest decision, and neither would give way. In order to avoid any diplomatic transactions, both parties had left the house and gone in opposite directions. The servant, a half-silly little thing, whom the two old people had turned up somewhere and taken in, knew nothing except that her master and mistress had gone out one after another. I seated myself by the grate, stirred the fire, and awaited the events that might come. It was a beautiful winter's day, the sun shone brightly, and the fire crackled merrily on the hearth. My thoughts, too, were cheerful. I tried to guess which of the two would be the first to return to the domestic hearth. Who? Doubtless Concetta. Suddenly I heard a dress rustling! I rose, turned round, and saw before me-Signora Nina, the young widow from the third story. The lady seemed surprised to find me. She was the more embarrassed as she had entered with her usual easy familiarity; and to avoid the appearance of having committed an indiscretion, she acted as though she had not observed my presence, and thus made me understand that in so entering she had only made use of an old privilege. All the more I felt it to be my place to salute and address her; but she anticipated me. "Is Signora Concetta not at home?" she asked. "Neither she nor Signor Sulpicio. I am waiting for both.' "And I wanted to speak to one of them. I will come again.' The information that both husband and wife had left the house seemed to make her anxious; still she remained. "I really meant to wait, but I will come again.' Thank you. for-" Probably you come For the same reason.' With these words I stepped a little aside, as though to invite her to remain. The next minute she was seated at my former place, near the fire, and I-did not go. Signora Nina did not know me, but I knew her well. From my window, which was over hers, I had often examined the color of her hair, and vainly hoped some time to be able to behold that of her eyes. Once I had sent her away by coughing; since then I had never coughed at the window. Now those little white hands, that I had once seen playing the scales, were resting on the mantelpiece, and I might openly look into that face which had hitherto been to me a veiled picture. Yes, Nina was beautiful; at least she seemed so to me. As I was still standing before her, she invited me, by a polite movement of her hand, to seat myself. I did so. One moment of silent expectation followed. No one came. The silence began to become uncomfortable. She broke it by speaking of Sulpicio. I spoke of Concetta. When I told her of the office whose duties I had faithfully fulfilled ever since I had the good fortune to be the neighbor of this couple she smiled. What a beautiful smile! What splendid teeth! "What a misfortune!" said she, after a short pause. "To live with one another fifty-five years without being able to understand each other! "An eternal fight and squabble! I have been a witness to it. But in reality they are fond of one another." The widow's face showed a curious smile, but she did not answer. Such contradictions are like contrary winds," continued I, "which stir up wave after wave, and toss them up to the sky; then, when the storm is over, the sea becomes calm again, and once more shows the smooth surface of its clear waters. I scarcely think that two people could live with one another for any length of time without quarrelling. Still the widow did not answer. She shook her head, and stirred impatiently among the ashes in the grate. I was silent. 66 What time is it?" asked she, as though she thought her silence offended me. "Four o'clock." "It is late. I must go. I will come again.' "By the right time it is still thirteen minutes to four." Nina smiled, and did not go. I did not know why, but in my heart there was a sound as of joy-bells. Suddenly we saw Sulpicio and Concetta coming along hand-in-hand. Is peace restored?" both Nina and I inquired with our eyes. "It is," answered husband and wife, in the same language. "I had come to offer my congratulations on the peace,' said the widow.. Now it is late, and I must go." Concetta was in good spirits; her wrinkles revealed a kindly smile, and her eyes sparkled. "It was not a bad thing that Signor Carlo kept you company," said she to the young widow. Nina blushed, and I felt my heart beat faster. She went, and soon after I took my leave. The whole day long I only thought of Signora Nina, and only dreamt of her all night. All next morning I stood at the window to see her. I was fortunate enough to be observed by her, and to be allowed to bow to her. For a whole month I stood regularly at the window at the same time, and rejoiced in the same good fortune; now I smiled at her, now she at me. Seven months and eight days after I was permitted to press Signora Nina to my heart. She was no longer a widow. III. We were happy. We inhabited a little house far removed from the noisy bustle of the town. Our windows did not open on to the dwellings of troublesome neighbors. We had the sun every day from morning to noon, and our new furniture shone in festive light. She said her old uncle would on no consideration remain alone with his infirmities, and had gone to live with a sister in the town. We were alone with our dreams, our plans, and thoughts; and that was sufficient for us. Any other society would only have been wearisome. Our room was rose-colored, like the happy spirits that presided over it. The future appeared to us as a beautiful dream. Nina was as graceful as she was dignified. She could smile so sweetly; her glance was as bright and as clear as the moon's beam; her voice was gentle and harmonious; and then she had such a bewitching way of approaching me, laying her hands on my shoulders, and, without one spoken word, saying to me, "I love you! that I could have gazed on her for hours, and devoured her with my eyes. She had only one fault: she could not go from one room into another without banging the door behind her. Often, when I was startled from my thoughts and dreams by the slamming of a door, I was on the point of giving expression to the unpleasant sensation; but then I saw her rosy face, and was silent. None the less did it constantly irritate me, and I tried in vain to endure it more calmly. I must testify to myself that I was an almost perfect husband to Nina. I left her alone as seldom as possible, and then only for a short time. I never contradicted her. I tried to anticipate all her wishes, always spoke kindly to her, and committed a thousand little absurdities to keep her in good humor. But I, too, had one little fault: I was terribly absent. Sometimes, when I was absorbed in some stupid thought, I did not notice that she, herself smiling, demanded a smile from me; and then I would answer some joking fancy by a serious shake of my head. Certainly Fate, when it mated together two such serious faults, could not have intended to produce an image of conjugal peace. One day I was even more absent, and she slammed the doors even more violently than usual; a loud "O!" escaped from me. She had heard it and I repented it. In vain. Next time Nina did not disturb me in my contemplation; she walked softly on tiptoe, and when she closed the door she did it with the greatest care, to avoid making the least sound. The roar of Vulcan's smithy would not have made me spring up faster from my chair. I rushed towards her, embraced and kissed her, and we laughed together in the fulness of our hearts. But the ice was broken; a thought had come to open expression between us: we were not perfect. In spite of all her exertions, Nina did not succeed in curing herself of her fault; only as soon as she had committed it she assumed a half sorry, half teazing manner, which made her seem even more beautiful. As for me, as often as my thoughts carried me away, I continued to shake my head and open my eyes wide; and so everything remained as before. Our honeymoon lasted several months without the faintest shadow of a cloud resting on the brows of the lovers. One day it was one of those sultry July days on which the cruel hot sun mocks us-she swears to this day that she first said to me, "I should like to know in what you are always so deeply absorbed. I really should like to know!" And would you believe it, honored reader, I am said first to have offended her by a slight imprecation, which I did not notice myself until it was more than half out of my lips? Yet, however that may be, one of us replied with a rude speech, the other with a somewhat ruder one, then now and then was added a touch of scorn and bitterness; and at last Nina's eyes were as full of tears as my heart of wounded pride. Another time, the same beginning, the same end; and that was repeated again and again. "This life is becoming unendurable," said she. So I think too," answered I. Indeed! Do you think so too? But I for my part am thoroughly tired of it. And we have borne these chains now for nearly a year!" "Ten months," I answered. "To you it may seem ten years, to me it does not yet seem quite so long. But I suppose our happiness has already lasted too long! O, how unhappy I am! I can see it already; you will come to hate me, if indeed you do not hate me already. But I, too, shall at last hate you. I longed to take her in my arms, and to carry her with her wrath through all the rooms, until at last she should laughingly exclaim, "Now it is enough." Best of all, I should have liked to kneel before her, to confess my conjugal sins, and beg for absolution, or to fall upon her neck and kiss it until it was so red with my embraces that fright would have brought her back to her senses; in short, all the good thoughts that can only occur to the best sort of husband rose up in me. I give her a side-long glance; she sees my look, and shrugs her shoulders. I make a step towards her, she leaves the room, and I-do the same; but in the opposite direction, down the stairs, deeply hurt, yet full of conscience-pricks before even I began to carry out my terrible plans of maker with Nina for me, and besides that I would never intrust such an office to any one, or ever permit it. I said to myself, "It is the first time: but who knows whether it is the last time? You must return to her, shorten her punishment as much as possible; you must speak kindly to her, and say that we will not quarrel any more. But what if she, instead of listening kindly to me, should prove refractory? O, what nonsense! She will certainly answer my first kind word with a hearty kiss. Then we shall no longer talk or complain, but only laugh together." Two or three times these conversations had brought me as far as the threshold of my house, and just as often I had gone away again. At length I ventured to cross the Rubicon, ran quickly through the doorway, sprang up the stairs, three or four steps at a time, and a moment after I stood before her, who had already come weeping to meet me on the landing. She covered her face with her hands, and did not speak a word. I put my arm round her and drew her into the room then I took her on my lap, gently forced her hands away from her eyes, laid my face next hers, and begged her forgiveness. But instead of forgiving me she broke out into fresh sobs, threw her arms round my neck, and laid her head on my shoulder. My heart was beating violently. Nina's behavior seemed to me to tell of some misfortune. What could have happened during my absence? New caresses in kiss and word. When at length I ventured to address her with an anxious inquiry, she burst out afresh into more violent sobs. "She is dead!" "Who?" 66 Concetta, poor, Concetta!" I was silent. To tell the truth, the matter did not affect me very deeply; the worthy lady was a good deal past seventy, and her place in heaven had long been reserved for her. Still I felt it my duty to pay some regard to Nina's sincere distress. When she had finished crying she said, in a voice of deep emotion, 66 Now they are separated! And who brought you the news?" "A friend who visited me. Poor Concetta died quite suddenly the day before yesterday.' "And Sulpicio?" "Is in despair. He does not speak a | betimes." The little boy grew up sturdy word, and seems quite stunned." "I must go and see him. Yes, do, my friend; go at once." I went. When I arrived-Alas, the poor old heart had not been able to endure the grief of desolation! In that same night, a few hours after they had carried out his life's companion, he lay down in his widowed bed in the certain conviction that he should not see the next morning. The dead man's smiling face seemed to say to me, "Even death has not been able to separate us." With my heart full of sadness, but of mild beneficent sadness, I returned home. We were alone. I said not a word to Nina. She fell sadly round my neck and pressed me to her heart. She cast up her eyes, as though she wished to read my thoughts in mine; then she whispered: "We too! Is it not true?" THEOPHILUS PISARENKO THE NEW JOB. and strong, and did honor to his stern initiation. Winter and summer he ran about bareheaded and barefooted; when he was six he already drove the cow and horse out to grass, imbibed such knowledge as his mother could impart to him from the Bible, refused staunchly to believe in superstitions and fairy tales, and pricked up his ears with interest whenever the name of General Bonaparte was mentioned. For rumors of Napoleon and his wars had reached even this remote village; and it was told how he had subdued kings, and said that there should be no more noblemen. The boy learnt full soon to regard aristocrats as the embodiment of all that was evil, the cause of all suffering; for did he not see his father forced to do menial services for their village lord, or worse still, for his bailiff, who was a far more cruel despot than even his master dared to be? When Pisarenko was only ten he was forced to join in one of the abortive attempts made by the nobles to reconstitute the kingdom of Poland; for even distant Galicia suffered from the after-waves of the French revolution that OR, shook all Europe. The attempt ended in hardship, hunger, and thirst for the peasants, in disappointment for the nobles. At the age of twenty, Theophilus was impressed as a soldier. He bore his hard lot, which carried him away from his native land, its woods, and vast steppes, into barrack, with the resignation of a true the close imprisonment of a Viennese Slav. It was the time of the Great Congress, and the city on the Danube wore a festive dress. Pisarenko kept his eyes and ears well open; he drank in all he heard, he tried to comprehend all he saw; he learnt to understand the benefits of education, though such as was accorded to him was flogged into him in the most barbarous mode. But at last the fierce, devouring nostalgia of the Slav took hold of him; he could bear it no longer, and fled away to his home in the vast, endless, monotonous plains. He did not know he was doing wrong; he meant to come back, only he must breathe native air again, hear native sounds. Day and night he walked, till, exhausted and spent, he sank down upon his father's threshold, too weary even to open the door he had so longed to pass again. All too soon he was put into irons as a deserter, and con [Von Sacher-Masoch was born in Lemberg, Galicia, January 27th, 1836; now living in Gratz. Author of Galician Tales, Count Donski, The Emissary, The Legacy of Cain, and other striking books. The Emissary deals with the abortive revolution of 1848, and intro duces us into the midst of the Polish nobles. We thus learn how conspiracies are for them merely diversions, undertaken upon the smallest provocation to break the monotony of their daily lives, justifying the proverb of the peasants concerning them-"The Fatherland upon their tongues, and deceit in their hearts." Not the least remarkable is the author's latest work, which well merits the honor of translation into English. It is called The New Job (Der Neue Hiob), and is the life-story of a Galician peasant, thus nicknamed because, like his biblical prototype, he patiently endured much misfortune until his latter end, when he was blessed beyond the beginning.] Theophilus Pisarenko was born in 1794, in a winter even harder than is common in Galicia. Yet, nevertheless, his father baptized him a few hours after his birth in the brook that ran beside the house, after having first hacked open a hole in the ice. "He has been born to suffer," said the man, in answer to his wife's pleading for the infant; "and he must be hardened |