Let him who has rendered more service, take the power. Let it rest in the hands of the man to whom it belongs more of right. He will resign that burden willingly, and say to God and the Commonwealth, “Let thy servant depart in peace;” for he is wearied, greatly weakened, and besides he is sure that neither the memory of him nor his grave will disappear.
But if there is no such person, he would be doubly and trebly a child and not a man if he should resign that power, that bright path, that brilliant, immense future, in which lies the salvation of the Commonwealth, its power, glory, and happiness. And why should he?
The prince raised his head again proudly, and his flaming glance fell on Christ; but Christ hung his head on his breast, and remained in silence as painful as if they had crucified him the moment before.
Why should he? The hero pressed his heated temples with his hands. Maybe there is an answer. What is the meaning of those voices which amidst the golden rainbow visions of glory, amidst the thunder of coming victories, amidst the forebodings of grandeur, of power, call out so mercilessly to his soul, “Oh, halt, unfortunate one!” What means that unrest which goes through his breast like the shudder of alarm? What means it that when he shows himself most clearly and convincingly that he ought to take the power, something there in the depths of his conscience whispers, “You deceive yourself; pride misleads you; Satan promises you the glories of the kingdom”?
And again a fearful struggle began in the soul of the prince; again he was carried away by a whirlwind of alarms, uncertainty, and doubts.
What are the nobles doing who join him instead of the commanders? Trampling on law. What is the army doing? Violating discipline. And is he, a citizen, is he, a soldier, to stand at the head of lawlessness? Is he to cover it with his own dignity? Is he to give an example of insubordination, arbitrariness, disregard of law, and all merely to receive power two months earlier; for if Prince Karl shall be elected to the throne, power will not pass him by? Is he to give such a fearful example to succeeding ages? For what will happen? To-day Prince Yeremi acts in this way; to-morrow, Konyetspolski, Pototski Firlei, Zamoyski, or Lyubomirski. And if each one, without reference to law and discipline, acts according to his own ambition; if the children follow the example of their fathers and grandfathers, — what future is before that unhappy country? The worms of arbitrariness, disorder, self-seeking have so gnawed the trunk of that Commonwealth, that under the axe of civil war the rotten wood is scattered, the dry limbs fall from the tree. What will happen when those whose duty it is to guard and save it as the apple of the eye put fire under it? What will happen then? Ob, Jesus, Jesus! Hmelnitski too shields himself with the public good, and does nothing else; still he rises up against law and authority.
A shudder passed through the prince from his feet to his head. He wrung his hands. “Am I to be another Hmelnitski, O Christ?”
But Christ hung his head on his breast, and was as painfully silent as if crucified the moment before.
The prince struggled on. If he should assume power, and the chancellor, the Senate, and the commanders should proclaim him a rebel, then what would happen? Another civil war? And then the question. Is Hmelnitski the greatest and most terrible enemy of the Commonwealth? More than once she has been invaded by still greater powers. When two hundred thousand armored Germans marched at Grünwald on the regiments of Yagello, and when at Khotím half Asia appeared in the fight, destruction seemed still nearer. And what had become of these hostile powers? No; the Commonwealth is not in danger from wars, and wars will not be her destruction. But why, in view of such victories, of such reserved power, of such glory, is she, who crushed the knights of the cross and the Turks, so weak and incompetent that she is on her knees before one Cossack, that her neighbors are seizing her boundaries, that nations are ridiculing her, that no one listens to her voice, or regards her anger, and that all are looking forward to her destruction?
Ah! it is specifically the pride and ambition of magnates, each one acting by himself; self-will is the cause of it. The worst enemy is not Hmelnitski, but internal disorder, waywardness of the nobles, weakness and insubordination of the army, uproar of the Diets, brawls, disputes, confusion, weakness, self-seeking, and insubordination, — insubordination, above all. The tree is rotting and weakening from the heart. Soon will men see how the first storm will throw it; but he is a parricide who puts his hand to such work. Cursed be he and his children to the tenth generation!
Go then, O conqueror of Nyemiroff, Pogrébische, Makhnovka, Konstantinoff, — go, prince voevoda, — go, snatch command from leaders, trample upon law and authority, give an example to posterity how to rend the entrails of the mother!
Terror, despair, and fright were reflected in the face of the prince. He screamed terribly, and seizing himself by the hair, fell in the dust before the crucifix. The prince repented, and beat his worthy head on the stone pavement, and from his breast struggled forth the dull voice, —
“O God, be merciful to me a sinner! O God, be merciful to me a sinner! God, be merciful to me a sinner!”
The rosy dawn was already in the sky, and then came the golden sun and lighted the hall. In the cornices the chattering of sparrows and swallows began. The prince rose and went to rouse his attendant Jelenski, who was sleeping on the other side of the door.
“Run,” said he, “to the orderlies, and tell them to summon to me from the castle and the town the colonels of the regular army and of the militia.”
Two hours later the hall began to be filled with the mustached and bearded forms of warriors. Of the prince’s people there came old Zatsvilikhovski, Polyanovski, Pan Yan with Zagloba, Vurtsel, Maknitski, Volodyovski, Vershul, Ponyatovski, almost all the officers to the ensigns, except Kushel, who was in Podolia on a reconnoissance. From the regular army came Osinski and Koritski. Many of the more distinguished nobles were unable to rise from their feather-beds so early; but no small number, even of these, were assembled, — among them personages of various provinces, from castellans to sub-chamberlains. Murmurs and conversation resounded, and there was a noise as in a hive; but all eyes were turned to the door through which the prince was to come.
All grew silent as the prince entered. His face was calm and pleasant; only his eyes reddened by sleeplessness, and his pinched features testified of the recent struggle. But through that calm and even sweetness appeared dignity and unbending will.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “last night I communed with God and my own conscience as to what I should do. I announce therefore to you, and do you announce to all the knightly order, that for the sake of the country and that harmony needful in time of defeat, I put myself under the commanders.”
A dull silence reigned in the assembly.
In the afternoon of that day, in the court of the castle three hundred of Vershul’s Tartars stood ready to journey with Pan Yan; and in the castle the prince was giving to the officers of the army a dinner which at the same time was a farewell feast to our knight. He was seated therefore by the prince as “the bridegroom;” and next to him sat Zagloba, for it was known that his daring and management had saved “the bride” from mortal peril. The prince was in good spirits, for he had cast the burden from his heart. He raised the goblet to the success of the future couple. The walls and windows trembled from the shouts of those present. In the anteroom was a bustle of servants, among whom Jendzian had the lead.
“Gentlemen,” said the prince, “let this third goblet be for posterity. It’s a splendid stock. God grant that the apples may not fall far from the tree! From this falcon may noble falconets spring!”
“Success to them! success to them!”
“In thanks!” cried Pan Yan, emptying an enormous goblet of Malmoisie.
“Success to them! success to them!”
“Crescite et multiplicamini!”
“You ought to furnish half a squadron,” said old Zatsvilikhovski, laughing.
“Oh, he will fill the army entirely! I know him,” said Zagloba.
/> The nobles roared with laughter. Wine rose to their heads. Everywhere were to be seen flushed faces, moving mustaches; and the good feeling was increasing every moment.
Just then at the threshold of the hall appeared a gloomy figure, covered with dust; and in view of the table, the feast, and the gleaming faces, it stopped at the door as if hesitating to enter. The prince saw it first, wrinkled his brows, shaded his eyes, and said, —
“But who is there? Ah, that is Kushel! From the expedition. What news do you bring?”
“Very bad, your Highness!” said the young officer, with a strange voice.
Suddenly silence reigned in the assembly, as if some one had put it under a spell. The goblets raised to the lips remained half-way; all eyes were turned to Kushel, on whose wearied face pain was depicted.
“It would have been better had you not spoken, since I am joyful at the cup,” said the prince; “but since you have begun, speak to the end.”
“Your Highness, I too should prefer not to be an owl, for these tidings halt on my lips.”
“What has happened? Speak!”
“Bar is taken!”
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Ok a certain calm night a band of horsemen, about twenty in number, moved along the right bank of the Valadinka in the direction of the Dniester. They went very slowly, the horses almost dragging one foot after the other. A short distance in front of the others rode two, as it were an advance guard; but evidently there was no cause for guarding or being on the watch, since for a whole hour they had been talking together instead of looking at the country about them. Reining in their horses every little while, they looked at the party behind, and one of them called out at this moment: “Slowly there! slowly!” And the others went still more slowly, scarcely moving.
At last the party, pushing out from behind the eminence which had covered them with its shadow, entered the open country, which was filled with moonlight, and then it was possible to understand the reason of their careful gait. In the centre of the caravan two horses abreast carried a swing tied to their saddles, and in this swing lay the form of some person. The silver rays lighted its pale face and closed eyes.
Behind the swing rode ten armed men. From their lances without bannerets, it was evident that they were Cossacks. Some led pack-horses, others rode by themselves; but while the two riders in front seemed to pay not the least attention to the country about them, those behind glanced around on every side with unquiet and alarm. And still the region seemed to be a perfect desert.
Silence was unbroken save by the noise of the horses’ hoofs and the calling of one of the riders in front, who from time to time repeated his warning: “Slowly! carefully!”
At length he turned to his companion. “Horpyna, is it far yet?” he inquired.
The companion called Horpyna, who in reality was a gigantic young woman disguised as a Cossack, looked at the starry heavens and replied, —
“Not far. We shall be there before midnight. We shall pass the Enemy’s Mound, the Tartar Valley, and right there is the Devil’s Glen. Oh, it would be terrible to pass that place between midnight and cockcrow! It’s possible for me, but for you it would be terrible, terrible!”
The first rider shrugged his shoulders and said: “I know the devil is a brother to you, but there are weapons against the devil.”
“Devil or not, there are no weapons,” answered Horpyna. “If you, my falcon, had looked for a hiding-place through the whole world for your princess, you could not have found a better. No one will pass here after midnight unless with me, and in the glen no living man has yet put foot. If any one wants soothsaying, he waits in front of the glen till I come out. Never fear! Neither Pole nor Tartar will get there, nor any one, any one. The Devil’s Glen is terrible, you will see for yourself.”
“Let it be terrible, but I say that I shall come as often as I like.”
“If you come in the daytime.”
“Whenever I please. And if the devil stands in my road, I’ll seize him by the horns.”
“Oh, Bogun, Bogun!”
“Oh, Dontsovna, Dontsovna, don’t trouble yourself about me! Whether the devil takes me or not is no concern of yours; but I tell you this, — take council with your devils when you please, if only no harm comes to the princess; but if anything happens to her, then neither devils nor vampires will tear you from my grasp.”
“Oh, they tried to drown me once when I lived with my brother on the Don, another time the executioner was going to cut my head off in Yampol, — I didn’t care for that. But this is another thing. I will guard her out of friendship for you, so that no spirit will make a hair of her head fall, and in my hands she is safe from men. She won’t escape you.”
“And, you owl, if you talk this way, why do you prophesy evil? Why do you hoot in my ear, ‘Pole at her side! Pole at her side!’”
“It was not I that spoke, but the spirits. But now perhaps there is a change. I will prophesy for you to-morrow on the water of the mill-wheel. On the water everything is clearly visible, but it is necessary to look a long time, you will see yourself. But you are a furious dog; if the truth is told, you are angry and wish to kill one.”
Conversation was interrupted, and only the striking of the horses’ feet against the stones was heard, and certain sounds from the direction of the river, like the chirping of crickets.
Bogun paid not the least attention to these sounds, though they might astonish one in the night. He raised his face to the moon and fell into deep thought.
“Horpyna!” said he, after a while.
“What?”
“You are a witch; you must know whether or not it is true that there is an herb of some kind that whoever drinks of it must fall in love, — lubystka, is it?”
“Yes, lubystka. But unfortunately for you, lubystka will not help. If the princess hadn’t fallen in love with some one else, then you might give it to her; but if she is in love, do you know what will happen?”
“What?”
“She will love the other man still more.”
“Oh, perish with your lubystka! You know how to prophesy evil, but you don’t know how to help.”
“Listen to me! I know other herbs which grow from the earth; whoever drinks them will be like a stump two days and two nights, knowing nothing of the world. I will give her those herbs, and then—”
The Cossack shuddered in his saddle, and fixed on the witch his eyes gleaming in the darkness. “What are you croaking about?” he asked.
“Then you can—” said the witch, and burst into loud laughter like the neighing of a mare. This laughter resounded with ill-omened echo through the windings of the glen.
“Wretch!” said Bogun.
Then the light of his eyes went out gradually; he dropped again into meditation, and at length began to speak as if to himself, —
“No, no! When we captured Bar, I rushed first to the monastery, so as to defend her from the drunken crowd and smash the head of any man who should come near her; but she stabbed herself with a knife, and now has no consciousness of God’s world. If I lay a finger on her, she will stab herself again, or jump into the river if you are not careful, — ill-fated that I am!”
“You are at heart a Pole, not a Cossack, if you will not constrain the girl in Cossack fashion—”
“That I were a Pole, that I were a Pole!” cried Bogun, grasping the cap on his head with both hands, for pain had seized him.
“The Polish woman must have bewitched you,” muttered Horpyna.
“Ai! if she has not,” answered he, sadly, “may the first bullet not pass me; may I finish my wretched life on the empaling stake! I love one in the world, and that one does not love me!”
“Fool!” cried Horpyna, with anger; “but you have got her!”
“Hold your tongue!” cried he, with rage. “If she lays hands on herself, then what? I’ll tear you apart and then myself. I’ll break my head against a rock, I’ll gnaw people like a dog. I would have given my soul for her,
Cossack fame. I would have fled beyond the Yagorlik from the regiments to the end of the earth, to live with her, to die at her side. That’s what I would have done. But she stabbed herself with a knife, and through whom? Through me! She stabbed herself with a knife! Do you hear?”
“That’s nothing. She will not die.”
“If she dies, I will nail you to the door.”
“You have no power over her.”
“I have none, I have none. Would she had stabbed me, — it would have been better had she killed me!”
“Silly little Pole! She should have been kind to you. Where will she find your superior?”
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 49