Translation by Sarka B. Hrbkova
The excursion steamer brought us from Constantinople to the shore
of the island of Prinkipo and we disembarked. The number of passengers
was not large. There was one Polish family, a father, a mother, a
daughter and her bridegroom, and then we two. Oh, yes, I must not
forget that when we were already on the wooden bridge which crosses the
Golden Horn to Constantinople, a Greek, a rather youthful man, joined
us. He was probably an artist, judging by the portfolio he carried
under his arm. Long black locks floated to his shoulders, his face was
pale, and his black eyes were deeply set in their sockets. From the
first moment he interested me, especially for his obligingness and for
his knowledge of local conditions. But he talked too much, and I then
turned away from him.
All the more agreeable was the Polish family. The father and mother
were good-natured, fine people, the lover a handsome young fellow, of
direct and refined manners. They had come to Prinkipo to spend the
summer months for the sake of the daughter, who was slightly ailing.
The beautiful pale girl was either just recovering from a severe
illness or else a serious disease was just fastening its hold upon her.
She leaned upon her lover when she walked and very often sat down to
rest, while a frequent dry little cough interrupted her whispers.
Whenever she coughed, her escort would considerately pause in their
walk. He always cast upon her a glance of sympathetic suffering and she
would look back at him as if she would say: "It is nothing. I am
happy!" They believed in health and happiness.
On the recommendation of the Greek, who departed from us
immediately at the pier, the family secured quarters in the hotel on
the hill. The hotel-keeper was a Frenchman and his entire building was
equipped comfortably and artistically, according to the French style.
We breakfasted together and when the noon heat had abated somewhat
we all betook ourselves to the heights, where in the grove of Siberian
stone-pines we could refresh ourselves with the view. Hardly had we
found a suitable spot and settled ourselves when the Greek appeared
again. He greeted us lightly, looked about and seated himself only a
few steps from us. He opened his portfolio and began to sketch.
"I think he purposely sits with his back to the rocks so that we
can't look at his sketch," I said.
"We don't have to," said the young Pole. "We have enough before us
to look at." After a while he added, "It seems to me he's sketching us
in as a sort of background. Well—let him!"
We truly did have enough to gaze at. There is not a more beautiful
or more happy corner in the world than that very Prinkipo! The
political martyr, Irene, contemporary of Charles the Great, lived there
for a month as an exile. If I could live a month of my life there I
would be happy for the memory of it for the rest of my days! I shall
never forget even that one day spent at Prinkipo.
The air was as clear as a diamond, so soft, so caressing, that
one's whole soul swung out upon it into the distance. At the right
beyond the sea projected the brown Asiatic summits; to the left in the
distance purpled the steep coasts of Europe. The neighboring Chalki,
one of the nine islands of the "Prince's Archipelago," rose with its
cypress forests into the peaceful heights like a sorrowful dream,
crowned by a great structure—an asylum for those whose minds are sick.
The Sea of Marmora was but slightly ruffled and played in all
colors like a sparkling opal. In the distance the sea was as white as
milk, then rosy, between the two islands a glowing orange and below us
it was beautifully greenish blue, like a transparent sapphire. It was
resplendent in its own beauty. Nowhere were there any large ships—only
two small craft flying the English flag sped along the shore. One was a
steamboat as big as a watchman's booth, the second had about twelve
oarsmen, and when their oars rose simultaneously molten silver dripped
from them. Trustful dolphins darted in and out among them and dove with
long, arching flights above the surface of the water. Through the blue
heavens now and then calm eagles winged their way, measuring the space
between two continents.
The entire slope below us was covered with blossoming roses whose
fragrance filled the air. From the coffee-house near the sea music was
carried up to us through the clear air, hushed somewhat by the
The effect was enchanting. We all sat silent and steeped our souls
completely in the picture of paradise. The young Polish girl lay on the
grass with her head supported on the bosom of her lover. The pale oval
of her delicate face was slightly tinged with soft color, and from her
blue eyes tears suddenly gushed forth. The lover understood, bent down
and kissed tear after tear. Her mother also was moved to tears, and
I—even I—felt a strange twinge.
"Here mind and body both must get well," whispered the girl. "How
happy a land this is!"
"God knows I haven't any enemies, but if I had I would forgive them
here!" said the father in a trembling voice.
And again we became silent. We were all in such a wonderful
mood—so unspeakably sweet it all was! Each felt for himself a whole
world of happiness and each one would have shared his happiness with
the whole world. All felt the same—and so no one disturbed another. We
had scarcely even noticed the Greek, after an hour or so, had arisen,
folded his portfolio and with a slight nod had taken his departure. We
Finally after several hours, when the distance was becoming
overspread with a darker violet, so magically beautiful in the south,
the mother reminded us it was time to depart. We arose and walked down
towards the hotel with the easy, elastic steps that characterize
carefree children. We sat down in the hotel under the handsome veranda.
Hardly had we been seated when we heard below the sounds of
quarreling and oaths. Our Greek was wrangling the hotel-keeper, and for
the entertainment of it we listened.
The amusement did not last long. "If I didn't have other guests,"
growled the hotel-keeper, and ascended the steps towards us.
"I beg you to tell me, sir," asked the young Pole of the
approaching hotel-keeper, "who is that gentleman? What's his name?"
"Eh—who knows what the fellow's name is?" grumbled the
hotel-keeper, and he gazed venomously downwards. "We call him the
"Fine trade! He sketches only corpses. Just as soon as someone in
Constantinople or here in the neighborhood dies, that very day he has a
picture of the dead one completed. That fellow paints them
beforehand—and he never makes a mistake—just like a vulture!"
The old Polish woman shrieked affrightedly. In her arms lay her
daughter pale as chalk. She had fainted.
In one bound the lover had leaped down the steps. With one hand he
seized the Greek and with the other reached for the portfolio.
We ran down after him. Both men were rolling in the sand. The
contents of the portfolio were scattered all about. On one sheet,
sketched with a crayon, was the head of the young Polish girl, her eyes
closed and a wreath of myrtle on her brow.