wronged it, neither for the sake of fame nor money, nor for praise nor
for criticism. He always wrote as he felt. Were I not like Ruth of
the Bible, doomed to pick the ears of corn instead of being myself a
sower--if God had not made me critic and worshipper but artist and
creator--I could not wish for another necrology than those words of
Sienkiewicz regarding the statuary Kamionka.

Quite another thing is the story "At the Source." None of the stories
except "Let Us Follow Him" possess for me so many transcendent
beauties, although we are right to be angry with the author for having
wished, during the reading of several pages, to make us believe an
impossible thing--that he was deceiving us. It is true that he has
done it in a masterly manner--it is true that he could not have done
otherwise, but at the same time there is a fault in the conception,
and although Sienkiewicz has covered the precipice with flowers,
nevertheless the precipice exists.

On the other hand, it is true that one reading the novel will forget
the trick of the author and will see in it only the picture of an
immense happiness and a hymn in the worship of love. Perhaps the poor
student is right when he says: "Among all the sources of happiness,
that from which I drank during the fever is the clearest and best." "A
life which love has not visited, even in a dream, is still worse."

Love and faith in woman and art are two constantly recurring themes
in "Lux in Tenebris," "At the Source," "Be Blessed," and "Organist of
Ponikila."

When Sienkiewicz wrote "Let Us Follow Him," some critics cried angrily
that he lessens his talent and moral worth of the literature; they