The Photo-Play Journal (May 1916-Apr 1917)

PAGE 2 h. THE PHOTO-PLAY JOURNAL FOR MAY, 1916 llllllllillllljlllllll ' ill I! ' i i II i II : \ ' i il S i II : ' < J II I I II II: II i ill 101 i ' I II. I mm il I, l II II I! II II I' I ! 'II « Itii l:4l I* ill 1 11 , nil 1. 1' 1. 1: 1' I II I I Illllllll U Ill 1 mil in ! iiiiiiiiifiiiiiHi : iiiiiiiii mil SOLD FOR MARRIAGE "S HE is very pretty," thought Ivan. He clenched his veinous, venomous hands. "She is a great bargain," he said, half aloud, and the hands, wrinkled and evil, seemed to contract, as if covering shimmering gold, as the two ideas were conjoined in his mind. But his face lost its glow as a third thought entered his /.";.■ " I ;; : ^ . C :::: ;" ;' WW ,,.. jM mMv V/.. ^w j IBI^B ^1 Wfli i raj mT ■ m | ^-_ 1 1 i "There was a night when even his mingled cajolery and brutality had not moved her" ponderous mind. It was: "She has temper." It was true that Marfa, the slim, flowerlike niece, was high-spirited, as well as lovely and worth something like her little weight in glimmering goldpieces. She had given evidence long ago, Ivan reflected, of an obstinacy quite out of keeping with her lily-white languorousness. There was the day she had dashed the milk pail to the floor when the acidulous Aunt Anna had let slip a curse ; there was the night when even his mingled cajolery and brutality had not moved her from her resolution not to stir from her room, though (and at the remembrance Ivan's forehead distended ) there had been a strong, handsome lad from the village below stairs, ready to appraise her charms with the cunning eye of a lusty animal. But the time for patience was gone. The girl must be married, and that shortly, for Ivan and Anna stood in quick need of money, and to their starved minds there was but one way : the sacrifice of Marfa. As if prearranged by some magical agency, there sounded a sharp tapping at the door of the cottage, and the next moment Lyof, the wealthiest and the most displeasing single man of the town, trod the threshold. This was more than chance ; it was a Providence sent to him, meditated Ivan, with unusual speed. He lost few seconds in calling the girl from her room, oblivious to the fact that in that dim, unlit sanctuarv, By LEWIN CLEEVE II' dill u ' II. ' II: .Hill ' ill: profaned by a thousand harshnesses, she was seeing with "that inner eye that is the bliss of solitude" the fleeting image of her sweetheart, Jan, now far from her in America, but nevertheless to her poignant gaze far nearer than the crusty Lyof, belowstairs. For Jan and she had sworn months ago, when his uncle had written, bidding the boy to San Francisco, that neither wave nor mountain nor time should limit one minute of their troth, and that in the end they should stand face to face in some little church, and know each other for the other's own. Perhaps it was that memory that caused her to take such careful aim, some time later, at the nearly bald head of Lyof with a bottle. Out of the house the man went and into the arms of another girl, but Marfa neither knew nor cared. Nor did she care when, later, Colonel Gregioff, the commandant of the Cossacks, tried to force her to a love avowal. She struck him with strange, ungirlish strength. He lay there, bloodied, inert. And the eyes of Marfa were filled with fear. But she did not see the worst. For in a thicket close by was Ivan, whose lips formed the word. "Siberia." He rushed into the light and told her what she must expect. "Come with me, Alosha," he murmured," to America, "But the time for patience was gone" "For Jan and she had sworn that neither wave nor mountain nor time shoud limit their troth and you shall not wear a chain on that ankle, unless it be a bracelet." Marfa knew. She knew the truth. So the next day, with her aunt, she fled with Ivan, though she dreaded his yellow smile and the unuttered caresses of his greasy voice. At least she zvas free of that which made the name of death sound pale. The next night, as her venerable grandfather sat alone in the mute room, the Colonel, physically well, but raging spiritually, broke into the house. He hoarsely demanded to know the hiding place of his assailant, and was ready to choke the old man. But that justice so often vainly prayed for from heaven came in living fire, for it was storming with violence outside. When the aged occupant of the residence was able to look for the Colonel, he found him prone a second time, the prey of lightning, and never more to speak nor stir. Meanwhile at sea, Marfa looked on a liquid world unknown to her. In the airy flight of the gulls she saw symbols of liberty and life unbound by avarice and cruelty. Only there was Ivan at her elbow, with his eyes glistening, dollar-wise, at her virginal splendor. On the third day a Godsent surprise flashed before her vision. It was her lover, the longed-for Jan, whose sailing had been delayed, and who, on that account, was a fellow passenger. When they landed in San Francisco, Ivan was met by his brother, Dimitri, who lost "The Commandant of the Cossacks tried to force her to a love avowal " no time in telling him of plans for the disposal of Marfa. "The highest bidder in the" Russian colony at Los Angeles will pay a pretty price for that bright head," he whispered. And Ivan nodded. He was thinking: "She is very pretty ; she is a great bargain; she has temper." So little Marfa stood, like an animal, at auction, and the great bid of one thousand dollars was ringing out over her head. With a strangled sob she felt at her garter for the sharp knife, always carried for such an hour as this, when (could it be?) through the press of sudatory men and women, came Jan, radiant, aureoled with triumph, and in the van of humanity came strange persons in blue uniforms. They beat back with their stout clubs the disappointed Muscovites, and into the white arms of her lover and savior Marfa, the lily-like, fell. "Who are they?" she gasped. And her little Slavic soul did not understand when the enigmatic Jan replied: "The police." But she blessed them silently. "I will never wear anything but blue hereafter," she said quaintly. Drama of Russian life, adapted from the Fine Arts photoplay of W. E. Wing. 'At least she was free of that which made the name of death sound pale"