Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  “It wouldn’t hurt,” answered the others, in a chorus.

  They dismounted, left their horses at the posts, and entered the drinking-hall, which was enormous and dark. They found there a crowd of people, — nobles sitting on benches or standing in groups before the water-pail, drinking warmed beer, and some of them a punch made of mead, butter, vudka, and spice. Those were the Butryms themselves, stalwart and gloomy; so sparing of speech that in the room scarcely any conversation was heard. All were dressed in gray overcoats of home-made or coarse cloth from Rossyeni, lined with sheepskin; they had leather belts, with sabres in black iron scabbards. By reason of that uniformity of dress they had the appearance of soldiers. But they were old men of sixty or youths under twenty. These had remained at home for the winter threshing; the others, men in the prime of life, had gone to Rossyeni.

  When they saw the cavaliers of Orsha, they drew back from the water-bucket and began to examine them. Their handsome soldierly appearance pleased that warlike nobility; after a while, too, some one dropped the word, —

  “Are they from Lyubich?”

  “Yes, that is Pan Kmita’s company!”

  “Are these they?”

  “Of course.”

  The cavaliers drank gorailka, but the punch had a stronger odor. Kokosinski caught it first, and ordered some. They sat around a table then; and when the steaming kettle was brought they began to drink, looking around the room at the men and blinking, for the place was rather dark. The snow had blocked the windows; and the broad, low opening of the chimney in which the fire was burning was hidden completely by certain figures with their backs to the crowd.

  When the punch had begun to circulate in the veins of the cavaliers, bearing through their bodies an agreeable warmth, their cheerfulness, depressed by the reception at Vodokty, sprang up again; and all at once Zend fell to cawing like a crow, so perfectly that all faces were turned toward him.

  The cavaliers laughed, and the nobles, enlivened, began to approach, especially the young men, — powerful fellows with broad shoulders and plump cheeks. The figures sitting at the chimney turned their faces to the room, and Rekuts was the first to see that they were women.

  Zend closed his eyes and cawed, cawed. Suddenly he stopped, and in a moment those present heard the cry of a hare choked by a dog; the hare cried in the last agony, weaker and lower, then screamed in despair, and was silent for the ages; in place of it was heard the deep bellow of a furious stag as loud as in spring-time.

  The Butryms were astonished. Though Zend had stopped, they expected to hear something again; but they heard only the piping voice of Rekuts, —

  “Those are titmice sitting near the chimney!”

  “That is true!” replied Kokosinski, shading his eyes with his hand.

  “As true as I live!” added Uhlik, “but it is so dark in the room that I could not see them.”

  “I am curious. What are they doing?”

  “Maybe they have come to dance.”

  “But wait; I will ask,” said Kokosinski. And raising his voice, he asked, “My dear women, what are you doing there at the chimney?”

  “We are warming our feet,” answered thin voices.

  Then the cavaliers rose and approached the hearth. There were sitting at it, on a long bench, about ten women, old and young, holding their bare feet on a log lying by the fire. On the other side of the log their shoes wet from the snow were drying.

  “So you are warming your feet?” asked Kokosinski.

  “Yes, for they are cold.”

  “Very pretty feet,” piped Rekuts, inclining toward the log.

  “But keep at a distance,” said one of the women.

  “I prefer to come near. I have a sure method, better than fire, for cold feet; which is, — only dance with a will, and the cold flies away.”

  “If to dance, then dance,” said Uhlik. “We want neither fiddles nor bass-viols. I will play for you on the flageolet.”

  Taking from its leather case which hung near his sabre the ever-present flageolet, he began to play; and the cavaliers, pushing forward with dancing movement to the maidens, sought to draw them from the benches. The maidens appeared to defend themselves, but more with their voices than their hands, for in truth they were not greatly opposed. Maybe the men, too, would have been willing in their turn; for against dancing on Sunday after Mass and during the carnival no one would protest greatly. But the reputation of the “company” was already too well known in Volmontovichi; therefore first the gigantic Yuzva Butrym, he who had but one foot, rose from the bench, and approaching Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus, caught him by the breast, held him, and said with sullen voice, —

  “If your grace wants dancing, then dance with me.”

  Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus blinked, and began to move his mustaches convulsively. “I prefer a girl,” said he; “I can attend to you afterward.”

  Meanwhile Ranitski ran up with face already spotted, for he sniffed a quarrel. “Who are you, road-blocker?” asked he, grasping his sabre.

  Uhlik stopped playing, and Kokosinski shouted, “Hei, comrades! together, together!”

  But the Butryms were already behind Yuzva; sturdy old men and great youths began to assemble, growling like bears.

  “What do you want? Are you looking for bruises?” asked Kokosinski.

  “No talk! Be off out of here!” said Yuzva, stolidly.

  Then Ranitski, whose interest it was that an hour should not pass without a fight, struck Yuzva with the hilt of his sword in the breast, so that it was heard in the whole room, and cried, “Strike!”

  Rapiers glittered; the scream of women was heard, the clatter of sabres, uproar and disturbance. Then the gigantic Yuzva pushed out of the crowd, took a roughly hewn bench from beside a table, and raising it as though it were a light strip of wood, shouted, “Make way! make way!”

  Dust rose from the floor and hid the combatants; but in the confusion groans were soon heard.

  CHAPTER VI.

  In the evening of that same day Pan Kmita came to Vodokty, at the head of a hundred and some tens of men whom he had brought from Upita so as to send them to Kyedani; for he saw himself that there were no quarters in such a small place for a large number of soldiers, and when the townspeople had been brought to hunger the soldiers would resort to violence, especially soldiers who could be held in discipline only by fear of a leader. A glance at Kmita’s volunteers was enough to convince one that it would be difficult to find men of worse character in the whole Commonwealth. Kmita could not have others. After the defeat of the grand hetman, the enemy deluged the whole country. The remnants of the regular troops of the Lithuanian quota withdrew for a certain time to Birji and Kyedani, in order to rally there. The nobility of Smolensk, Vityebsk, Polotsk, Mstislavsk, and Minsk either followed the army or took refuge in the provinces still unoccupied. Men of superior courage among the nobility assembled at Grodno around the under-treasurer, Pan Gosyevski; for the royal proclamation summoning the general militia appointed that as the place of muster. Unfortunately few obeyed the proclamation, and those who followed the voice of duty assembled so negligently that for the time being no one offered real resistance save Kmita, who fought on his own account, animated more by knightly daring than patriotism. It is easy to understand that in the absence of regular troops and nobility he took such men as he could find, consequently men who were not drawn by duty to the hetmans and who had nothing to lose. Therefore there gathered around him vagrants without a roof and without a home, men of low rank, runaway servants from the army, foresters grown wild, serving-men from towns, or scoundrels pursued by the law. These expected to find protection under a flag and win profit from plunder. In the iron hands of Kmita they were turned into daring soldiers, daring even to madness; and if Kmita had been prudent he might have rendered high service to the Commonwealth. But Kmita was insubordinate himself, his spirit was always seething; besides, whence could he take provisions and arms and horses, since being a partisan he did not hold ev
en a commission, and could not look for any aid from the treasury of the Commonwealth? He took therefore with violence, — often from the enemy, often from his own, — could suffer no opposition, and punished severely for the least cause.

  In continual raids, struggles, and attacks he had grown wild, accustomed to bloodshed in such a degree that no common thing could move the heart within him, which however was good by nature. He was in love with people of unbridled temper who were ready for anything. Soon his name had an ominous sound. Smaller divisions of the enemy did not dare to leave the towns and the camps in those regions where the terrible partisan was raging. But the townspeople ruined by war feared his men little less than they did the enemy, especially when the eye of Kmita in person was not resting on them. When command was taken by his officers, Kokosinski, Uhlik, Kulvyets, Zend, and particularly by Ranitski, — the wildest and most cruel of them all, though a man of high lineage, — it might always be asked, Are those defenders or ravagers? Kmita at times punished his own men without mercy when something happened not according to his humor; but more frequently he took their part, regardless of the rights, tears, and lives of people. His companions with the exception of Rekuts, on whom innocent blood was not weighing, persuaded the young leader to give the reins more and more to his turbulent nature. Such was Kmita’s army. Just then he had taken his rabble from Upita to send it to Kyedani.

  When they stopped in front of the house at Vodokty, Panna Aleksandra was frightened as she saw them through the window, they were so much like robbers. Each one had a different outfit: some were in helmets taken from the enemy; others in Cossack caps, in hoods and Polish caps; some in faded overcoats, others in sheep-skin coats; their arms were guns, spears, bows, battle-axes; their horses, poor and worn, were covered with trappings, Polish, Russian, or Turkish.

  Olenka was set at rest only when Pan Andrei, gladsome and lively as ever, entered the room and rushed straight to her hands with incredible quickness.

  And she, though resolved in advance to receive him with dignity and coldness, was still unable to master the joy which his coming had caused her. Feminine cunning too may have played a certain part, for it was necessary to tell Pan Andrei about turning his comrades out of doors; therefore the clever girl wished to incline him first to her side. And in addition he greeted her so sincerely, so lovingly that the remnant of her offended feeling melted like snow before a blaze.

  “He loves me! there is no doubt about that,” thought she.

  And he said: “I so longed for you that I was ready to burn all Upita if I could only fly to you the sooner. May the frost pinch them, the basswood barks!”

  “I too was uneasy lest it might come to a battle there. Praise be to God that you have returned!”

  “And such a battle! The soldiers had begun to pull around the basswood barks a little—”

  “But you quieted them?”

  “This minute I will tell you how it all happened, my jewel; only let me rest a little, for I am wearied. Ei! it is warm here. It is delightful in this Vodokty, just as in paradise. A man would be glad to sit here all his life, look in those beautiful eyes, and never go away — But it would do no harm, either, to drink something warm, for there is terrible frost outside.”

  “Right away I will have wine heated, with eggs, and bring it myself.”

  “And give my gallows’ birds some little keg of gorailka, and give command to let them into the stable, so that they may warm themselves a little even from the breath of the cattle. They have coats lined with wind, and are terribly chilled.”

  “I will spare nothing on them, for they are your soldiers.”

  While speaking she smiled, so that it grew bright in Kmita’s eyes, and she slipped out as quietly as a cat to have everything prepared in the servants’ hall.

  Kmita walked up and down in the room, rubbing the top of his head, then twirling his young mustache, thinking how to tell her of what had been done in Upita.

  “The pure truth must be told,” muttered he; “there is no help for it, though the company may laugh because I am here in leading-strings.” And again he walked, and again he pushed the foretop on his forehead; at last he grew impatient that the maiden was so long in returning.

  Meanwhile a boy brought in a light, bowed to the girdle, and went out. Directly after the charming lady of the house entered, bringing with both hands a shining tin tray, and on it a small pot, from which rose the fragrant steam of heated Hungarian, and a goblet of cut glass with the escutcheon of the Kmitas. Old Billevich got this goblet in his time from Andrei’s father, when at his house as a guest.

  Pan Andrei when he saw the lady sprang toward her. “Hei!” cried he, “both hands are full, you will not escape me.”

  He bent over the tray, and she drew back her head, which was defended only by the steam which rose from the pot. “Traitor! desist, or I will drop the drink.”

  But he feared not the threat; afterward he cried, “As God is in heaven, from such delight a man might lose his wits!”

  “Then you lost your wit long ago. Sit down.”

  He sat down obediently; she poured the drink into the goblet.

  “Tell me how you sentenced the guilty in Upita.”

  “In Upita? Like Solomon!”

  “Praise to God for that! It is on my heart that all in this region should esteem you as a steady and just man. How was it then?”

  Kmita took a good draught of the drink, drew breath, and began, —

  “I must tell from the beginning. It was thus: The townspeople with the mayor spoke of an order for provisions from the grand hetman or the under-treasurer. ‘You gentlemen,’ said they to the soldiers, ‘are volunteers, and you cannot levy contributions. We will give you quarters for nothing, and provisions we will give when it is shown that we shall be paid.’”

  “Were they right, or were they not?”

  “They were right according to law; but the soldiers had sabres, and in old fashion whoever has a sabre has the best argument. They said then to the basswood barks, ‘We will write orders on your skins immediately.’ And straightway there rose a tumult. The mayor and the people barricaded themselves in the street, and my men attacked them; it did not pass without firing. The soldiers, poor fellows, burned a couple of barns to frighten the people, and quieted a few of them also.”

  “How did they quiet them?”

  “Whoso gets a sabre on his skull is as quiet as a coward.”

  “As God lives, that is murder!”

  “That is just why I went there. The soldiers ran to me at once with complaints and outcries against the oppression in which they were living, being persecuted without cause. ‘Our stomachs are empty,’ said they, ‘what are we to do?’ I commanded the mayor to appear. He hesitated long, but at last came with three other men. They began: ‘Even if the soldiers had not orders, why did they beat us, why burn the place? We should have given them to eat and to drink for a kind word; but they wanted ham, mead, dainties, and we are poor people, we have not these things for ourselves. We will seek defence at law, and you will answer before a court for your soldiers.’”

  “God will bless you,” cried Olenka, “if you have rendered justice as was proper.”

  “If I have.” Here Pan Andrei wriggled like a student who has to confess his fault, and began to collect the forelock on his forehead with his hand. “My queen!” cried he at last, in an imploring voice, “my jewel, be not angry with me!”

  “What did you do then?” asked Olenka, uneasily.

  “I commanded to give one hundred blows apiece to the mayor and the councillors,” said Kmita, at one breath.

  Olenka made no answer; she merely rested her hands on her knees, dropped her head on her bosom, and sank into silence.

  “Cut off my head!” cried Kmita, “but do not be angry! I have not told all yet!”

  “Is there more?” groaned the lady.

  “There is, for they sent then to Ponyevyej for aid. One hundred stupid fellows came with officers. These men
I frightened away, but the officers — for God’s sake be not angry! — I ordered to be chased and flogged with braided whips, naked over the snow, as I once did to Pan Tumgrat in Orsha.”

  Panna Billevich raised her head; her stern eyes were flashing with indignation, and purple came out on her cheeks. “You have neither shame nor conscience!” said she.

  Kmita looked at her in astonishment, he was silent for a moment, then asked with changed voice, “Are you speaking seriously or pretending?”

  “I speak seriously; that deed is becoming a bandit and not a cavalier. I speak seriously, since your reputation is near my heart; for it is a shame to me that you have barely come here, when all the people look on you as a man of violence and point at you with their fingers.”

  “What care I for the people? One dog watches ten of their cabins, and then has not much to do.”

  “There is no infamy on those modest people, there is no disgrace on the name of one of them. Justice will pursue no man here except you.”

  “Oh, let not your head ache for that. Every man is lord for himself in our Commonwealth, if he has only a sabre in his hand and can gather any kind of party. What can they do to me? Whom fear I here?”

  “If you fear not man, then know that I fear God’s anger, and the tears of people; I fear wrongs also. And moreover I am not willing to share disgrace with any one; though I am a weak woman, still the honor of my name is dearer to me than it is to a certain one who calls himself a cavalier.”

  “In God’s name, do not threaten me with refusal, for you do not know me yet.”

  “I think that my grandfather too did not know you.”

  Kmita’s eyes shot sparks; but the Billevich blood began to play in her.

  “Oh, gesticulate and grit your teeth,” continued she, boldly; “but I fear not, though I am alone and you have a whole party of robbers, — my innocence defends me. You think that I know not how you fired at the portraits in Lyubich and dragged in the girls for debauchery. You do not know me if you suppose that I shall humbly be silent. I want honesty from you, and no will can prevent me from exacting it. Nay, it was the will of my grandfather that I should be the wife of only an honest man.”