“We will help you,” said Yuzva.
“In God’s name,” continued Olenka, more and more excited, “let them do what they like, but not here in Lyubich. Let them be as they like, — that is their affair, their necks’ answer; but let them not lead away Pan Kmita to debauchery. Shame and disgrace! I thought they were awkward soldiers, but now I see that they are vile traitors, who stain both themselves and him. That’s the truth! Wickedness was looking out of their eyes; but I, foolish woman, did not recognize it. Well, I thank you, fathers, for opening my eyes on these Judases. I know what it beseems me to do.”
“That’s it!” said old Kassyan. “Virtue speaks through you, and we will help you.”
“Do not blame Pan Kmita, for though he has offended against good conduct he is young; and they tempt him, they lead him away, they urge him to license with example, and bring disgrace to his name. This is the condition; as I live, it will not last long.”
Wrath roused Olenka’s heart more and more, and indignation at the comrades of Pan Kmita increased as pain increases in a wound freshly given; for terribly wounded in her were the love special to woman and that trust with which she had given her whole unmixed feeling to Pan Andrei. She was ashamed, for his sake and for her own, and anger and internal shame sought above all guilty parties.
The nobles were glad when they saw their colonel’s granddaughter so terrible and ready for unyielding war against the disturbers from Orsha.
She spoke on with sparkling eyes: “True, they are to blame; and they must leave not only Lyubich, but the whole country-side.”
“Our heart, we do not blame Pan Kmita,” said old Kassyan. “We know that they tempt him. Not through bitterness nor venom against him have we come, but through regret that he keeps near his person revellers. It is evident, of course, that being young he is foolish. Even Pan Hlebovich the starosta was foolish when he was young, but now he keeps us all in order.”
“And a dog,” said the mild old man from Patsuneli, with a voice of emotion,— “if you go with a young one to the field, won’t the fool instead of running after the game fall about your feet, begin to play, and tug you by the skirts?”
Olenka wanted to say something, but suddenly she burst into tears.
“Do not cry,” said Yuzva Butrym.
“Do not cry, do not cry,” repeated the two old men.
They tried to comfort her, but could not. After they had gone, care, anxiety, and as it were an offended feeling against them and against Pan Andrei remained. It pained the proud lady more and more deeply that she had to defend, justify, and explain him. But the men of that company! The delicate hands of the lady clinched at thought of them. Before her eyes appeared as if present the faces of Pan Kokosinski, Uhlik, Zend, Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus, and the others; and she discovered what she had not seen at first, that they were shameless faces, on which folly, licentiousness, and crime had all fixed their stamps in common. A feeling of hatred foreign to Olenka began to seize her as a rattling fire seizes fuel; but together with this outburst offence against Pan Kmita increased every minute.
“Shame, disgrace,” whispered the maiden, with pallid lips, “that yesterday he went from me to house-wenches!” and she felt herself overborne. A crushing burden stopped the breath in her breast.
It was growing raw out of doors. Panna Aleksandra walked in the room with hurried step, but anger was seething in her soul without ceasing. Hers was not the nature to endure the persecutions of fate without defending herself against them. There was knightly blood in the girl. She wanted straightway to begin a struggle with that band of evil spirits, — straightway. But what remained to her? Nothing, save tears and the prayer that Pan Andrei would send to the four winds those shame-bringing comrades. But if he will not do that — And she did not dare to think more of the question.
The meditations of the lady were interrupted by a youth who brought an armful of juniper sticks to the chimney, and throwing them down at the side of the hearth, began to pull out the coals from under the smouldering ashes. Suddenly a decision came to Olenka’s mind.
“Kostek!” said she, “sit on horseback for me at once, and ride to Lyubich. If the master has returned, ask him to come here; but if he is not there, let the manager, old Znikis, mount with thee and come straight to me, and quickly.”
The youth threw some bits of pitch on the coals and covered them with clumps of dry juniper. Bright flames began to crackle and snap in the chimney. It grew somewhat lighter in Olenka’s mind.
“Perhaps the Lord God will change this yet,” thought she to herself, “and maybe it is not so bad as the guardians have said.”
After a while she went to the servants’ room to sit, according to the immemorial custom of the Billeviches, with the maidens to oversee the spinning and sing hymns.
In two hours Kostek entered, chilled from cold. “Znikis is in the antechamber,” said he. “The master is not in Lyubich.”
The lady rose quickly. The manager in the antechamber bowed to her feet. “But how is your health, serene heiress? God give you the best.”
They passed into the dining-hall; Znikis halted at the door.
“What is to be heard among you people?” asked the lady.
The peasant waved his hand. “Well, the master is not there.”
“I know that, because he is in Upita. But what is going on in the house?”
“Well!—”
“Listen, Znikis, speak boldly; not a hair will fall from thy head. People say that the master is good, but his companions wild?”
“If they were only wild, serene lady!—”
“Speak candidly.”
“But, lady, if it is not permitted me — I am afraid — they have forbidden me.”
“Who has forbidden?”
“My master.”
“Has he?” asked the lady.
A moment of silence ensued. She walked quickly in the room, with compressed lips and frowning brow. He followed her with his eyes. Suddenly she stopped before him.
“To whom dost thou belong?”
“To the Billeviches. I am from Vodokty, not from Lyubich.”
“Thou wilt return no more to Lyubich; stay here. Now I command thee to tell all thou knowest.”
The peasant cast himself on his knees at the threshold where he was standing. “Serene lady, I do not want to go back; the day of judgment is there. They are bandits and cut-throats; in that place a man is not sure of the day nor the hour.”
Panna Billevich staggered as if stricken by an arrow. She grew very pale, but inquired calmly, “Is it true that they fired in the room, at the portraits?”
“Of course they fired! And they dragged girls into their rooms, and every day the same debauchery. In the village is weeping, at the house Sodom and Gomorrah. Oxen are killed for the table, sheep for the table. The people are oppressed. Yesterday they killed the stable man without cause.”
“Did they kill the stable-man?”
“Of course. And worst of all, they abused the girls. Those at the house are not enough for them; they chase others through the village.”
A second interval of silence followed. Hot blushes came out on the lady’s face, and did not leave it.
“When do they look for the master’s return?”
“They do not know, my lady. But I heard, as they were talking to one another, that they would have to start to-morrow for Upita with their whole company. They gave command to have horses ready. They will come here and beg my lady for attendants and powder, because they need both there.”
“They are to come here? That is well. Go now, Znikis, to the kitchen. Thou wilt return to Lyubich no more.”
“May God give you health and happiness!”
Panna Aleksandra had learned what she wanted, and she knew how it behooved her to act.
The following day was Sunday. In the morning, before the ladies had gone to church, Kokosinski, Uhlik, Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus, Ranitski, Rekuts, and Zend arrived, followed by the servants at Lyubich
, armed and on horseback, for the cavaliers had decided to march to Upita with succor for Kmita.
The lady went out to meet them calmly and haughtily, altogether different from the woman who had greeted them for the first time a few days before. She barely motioned with her head in answer to their humble bows; but they thought that the absence of Pan Kmita made her cautious, and took no note of the real situation.
Kokosinski stepped forward more confidently than the first time, and said, —
“Serene great mighty lady, chief-hunter’s daughter, benefactress; we have come in here on our way to Upita to fall at the feet of our lady benefactress and beg for assistance, such as powder, and that you would permit your servants to mount their horses and go with us. We will take Upita by storm, and let out a little blood for the basswood-barks.”
“It is a wonder to me,” answered Panna Billevich, “that you are going to Upita, when I heard myself how Pan Kmita commanded you to remain quietly in Lyubich, and I think that it beseems him to command and you to obey, as subordinates.”
The cavaliers hearing these words looked at one another in astonishment. Zend pursed out his lips as if about to whistle in bird fashion. Kokosinski began to draw his broad palm over his head.
“As true as life,” said he, “a man would think that you were speaking to Pan Kmita’s baggage-boys. It is true that we were to sit at home; but since the fourth day is passing and Yendrus has not come, we have reached the conviction that some serious tumult may have risen, in which our sabres, too, would be of service.”
“Pan Kmita did not go to a battle, but to punish turbulent soldiers, and punishment may meet you also if you go against orders. Besides, a tumult and slashing might come to pass more quickly if you were there.”
“It is hard to deliberate with your ladyship. We ask only for powder and men.”
“Men and powder I will not give. Do you hear me, sirs!”
“Do I hear correctly?” asked Kokosinski. “How is this? You will not give? You will spare in the rescue of Kmita, of Yendrus? Do you prefer that some evil should meet him?”
“The greatest evil that can meet him is your company.”
Here the maiden’s eyes began to flash lightning, and raising her head she advanced some steps toward the cutthroats, and they pushed back before her in astonishment.
“Traitors!” said she, “you, like evil spirits, tempt him to sin; you persuade him on. But I know you, — your profligacy, your lawless deeds. Justice is hunting you; people turn away from you, and on whom does the shame fall? On him, through you who are outlaws, and infamous.”
“Hei, by God’s wounds, comrades, do you hear?” cried Kokosinski. “Hei, what is this? Are we not sleeping, comrades?”
Panna Billevich advanced another step, and pointing with her hand to the door, said, “Be off out of here!”
The ruffians grew as pale as corpses, and no one of them found a word in answer. But their teeth began to gnash, their hands to quiver toward their sword-hilts, and their eyes to shoot forth malign gleams. After a moment, however, their spirits fell through alarm. That house too was under the protection of the powerful Kmita; that insolent lady was his betrothed. In view of this they gnawed their rage in silence, and she stood unflinchingly with flashing eyes pointing to the door with her finger.
At last Kokosinski spoke in a voice broken with rage: “Since we are received here so courteously, nothing remains to us but to bow to the polished lady and go — with thanks for the entertainment.”
Then he bowed, touching the floor with his cap in purposed humility; after him all the others bowed, and went out in order. When the door closed after the last man, Olenka fell exhausted into the armchair, panting heavily, for she had not so much strength as daring.
They assembled in counsel in front of the entrance near their horses, but no man wanted to speak first. At last Kokosinski said, “Well, dear lambs, what’s that?”
“Do you feel well?”
“Do you?”
“Ei! but for Kmita,” said Ranitski, rubbing his hands convulsively, “we would revel with this lady here in our own fashion.”
“Go meet Kmita,” piped Rekuts.
Ranitski’s face was covered completely with spots, like the skin of a leopard. “I’ll meet him and you too, you reveller, wherever it may please you!”
“That’s well!” cried Rekuts.
Both rushed to their sabres, but the gigantic Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus thrust himself between. “See this fist!” said he, shaking as it were a loaf of bread; “see this fist!” repeated he. “I’ll smash the head of the first man who draws his sabre.” And he looked now at one and now at the other, as if asking in silence who wished to try first; but they, addressed in such fashion, were quiet at once.
“Kulvyets is right,” said Kokosinski. “My dear lambs, we need agreement now more than ever. I would advise to go with all speed to Kmita, so that she may not see him first, for she would describe us as devils. It is well that none of us snarled at her, though my own hands and tongue were itching. If she is going to rouse him against us, it is better for us to rouse him first. God keep him from leaving us! Straightway the people here would surround us, hunt us down like wolves.”
“Nonsense!” said Ranitski. “They will do nothing to us. There is war now; are there few men straggling through the world without a roof, without bread? Let us collect a party for ourselves, dear comrades, and let all the tribunals pursue us. Give your hand, Rekuts, I forgive you.”
“I should have cut off your ears,” piped Rekuts; “but let us be friends, a common insult has met us.”
“To order out cavaliers like us!” said Kokosinski.
“And me, in whom is senatorial blood!” added Ranitski.
“Honorable people, men of good birth!”
“Soldiers of merit!”
“And exiles!”
“Innocent orphans!”
“I have boots lined with wool, but my feet are freezing,” said Kulvyets. “Shall we stand like minstrels in front of this house? They will not bring us out heated beer. We are of no use here; let us mount and ride away. Better send the servants home, for what good are they without guns and weapons? We will go on alone.”
“To Upita!”
“To Yendrus, our worthy friend! We will make complaint before him.”
“If only we do not miss him.”
“To horse, comrades, to horse!”
They mounted, and moved on at a walk, chewing their anger and shame. Outside the gate Ranitski, whom rage still held as it were by the throat, turned and threatened the house with his fist. “Ei! I want blood! I want blood!”
“If we can only raise a quarrel between her and Kmita,” said Kokosinski, “we shall go through this place yet with fire.”
“That may happen.”
“God aid us!” added Uhlik.
“Oh, pagan’s daughter, mad heath-hen!”
Railing thus, and enraged at the lady, snarling sometimes too at themselves, they reached the forest. They had barely passed the first trees when an enormous flock of crows whirled above their heads. Zend began at once to croak in a shrill voice; thousands of voices answered him from above. The flock came down so low that the horses began to be frightened at the sound of their wings.
“Shut your mouth!” cried Ranitski to Zend. “You’ll croak out misfortune on us yet. Those crows are circling over us as over carrion.”
The others laughed. Zend croaked continually. The crows came down more and more, and the party rode as if in the midst of a storm. Fools! they could not see the ill omen.
Beyond the forest appeared Volmontovichi, toward which the cavaliers moved at a trot, for the frost was severe; they were very cold, and it was still a long way to Upita, but they had to lessen their speed in the village itself. In the broad road of the village the space was full of people, as is usual on Sundays. The Butryms, men and women, were returning on foot and in sleighs from Mitruny after receiving indulgence. The nobles looked on th
ese unknown horsemen, half guessing who they were. The young women, who had heard of their license in Lyubich and of the notorious public sinners whom Pan Kmita had brought, looked at them with still greater curiosity. But they rode proudly in imposing military posture, with velvet coats which they had captured, in panther-skin caps, and on sturdy horses. It was to be seen that they were soldiers by profession, — their gestures frequent and haughty, their right hands resting on their hips, their heads erect. They gave the way to no man, advancing in a line and shouting from time to time, “Out of the road!” One or another of the Butryms looked at them with a frown, but yielded; the party chatted among themselves about the village.
“See, gentlemen,” said Kokosinski, “what sturdy fellows there are here; one after another like an aurochs, and each with the look of a wolf.”
“If it were not for their stature and swords, they might be taken for common trash.”
“Just look at those sabres, — regular tearers, as God is dear to me!” remarked Ranitski. “I would like to make a trial with some of those fellows.” Here he began to fence with his hand: “He thus, I thus! He thus, I thus — and check!”
“You can easily have that delight for yourself,” said Rekuts. “Not much is needed with them for a quarrel.”
“I would rather engage with those girls over there,” said Zend, all at once.
“They are candles, not girls!” cried Rekuts, with enthusiasm.
“What do you say, — candles? Pine-trees! And each one has a face as if painted with crocus.”
“It is hard to sit on a horse at such a sight.”
Talking in this style, they rode out of the village and moved on again at a trot. After half an hour’s ride they came to a public house called Dola, which was half-way between Volmontovichi and Mitruny. The Butryms, men and women, generally stopped there going to and returning from church, in order to rest and warm themselves in frosty weather. So the cavaliers saw before the door a number of sleighs with pea-straw spread in them, and about the same number of saddle-horses.
“Let us drink some gorailka, for it is cold,” said Kokosinski.
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 101