IN VAIN
BY
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
Author of
"QUO VADIS," "WITH FIRE AND SWORD," "THE DELUGE,""PAN MICHAEL," "HANIA," ETC.
TRANSLATED FROM THE POLISH
BY
JEREMIAH CURTIN
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1899
Copyright, 1899,
By Jeremiah Curtin.
All rights reserved.
University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.
INTRODUCTORY.
"In Vain," the first literary work of Sienkiewicz,was written before he had passed the eighteenthyear of his life and while he was studyingat Warsaw.
Though not included in his collected worksby the author, this book will be received withmuch favor; of this I feel certain.
The first book of the man who wrote "WithFire and Sword" and "Quo Vadis" will interestthose of his admirers who live in America andthe British Empire. These people are countedat present by millions.
This volume contains pictures of student lifedrawn by a student who saw the life which hedescribes in the following pages. This studentwas a person of exceptional power and exceptionalqualities, hence the value of that whichhe gives us.
JEREMIAH CURTIN.
Jerusalem, Palestine,
March 8, 1899.
IN VAIN
CHAPTER I
"And this is Kieff!"
Thus spoke to himself a young man namedYosef Shvarts, on entering the ancient city,when, roused by toll-gate formalities, he sawhimself unexpectedly among buildings andstreets.
The heart quivered in him joyfully. Hewas young, he was rushing forward to life; andso he drew into his large lungs as much freshair as he could find place for, and repeatedwith a gladsome smile,—
"And this is Kieff!"
The Jew's covered wagon rolled forward, joltingalong on the prominent pavement stones.It was painful to Shvarts to sit under the canvas,so he directed the Jew to turn to the nearestinn, while he himself walked along by the sideof the wagon.
Torrents of people, as is usual in a city, weremoving in various directions; shops were glitteringwith a show of wares; carriages werepassing one after another; merchants, generals,soldiers, beggars, monks pushed along beforethe eyes of the young man.
It was market-day, so the city had takenon the typical complexion of gatherings ofthat sort. There was nothing unconsideredthere; no movement, no word seemed to bewasted. The merchant was going to histraffic, the official to his office, the criminalto deceit,—all were hastening on with somewell-defined object; all pushed life forward,thinking of the morrow, hastening towardsomething. Above that uproar and movementwas a burning atmosphere, and the sunwas reflected in the gleaming panes of greatedifices with just the same intensity as in anylittle cottage window.
"This uproar is life," thought Shvarts, whohad never been in Kieff before, or in any largecity.
And he was thinking how immensely distantwas life in a little town from the broad sc