“No quarrels here, I beg! This is Pan Tachevski,” said he after a while, with more mildness, turning to the cavaliers, “and this is Pan Tsyprianovitch, and each of the other four nobles is a Pan Bukoyemski, to whom I may say we owe our lives, for wolves met us yesterday. These gentlemen came to our aid unexpectedly, and God knows in season.”
“In season,” repeated Panna Anulka, with emphasis, pouting a little, and looking at Pan Stanislav bewitchingly.
Tachevski’s cheeks flushed, but on his face there appeared as it were humiliation, his eyes became mist-covered, and, with immense sadness in his accents, he said, —
“In season, for they were in company, and happy because on good horses, but wolf teeth at that time were cutting old Voloshyn, and my last friend had vanished. But—” even here he looked with greater good-will at the Bukoyemskis— “may your hands be sacred, for ye have done that which with my whole soul I wished to do, but God did not let me.”
Panna Anulka seemed changeable, like all women, perhaps too she was sorry for Tachevski, since her eyes became pleasant and twinkling, her lids opened and closed very quickly, and she asked with a different voice altogether, —
“Old Voloshyn? My God, I loved him so much and he knew me. My God!”
Tachevski looked at her straightway with thankfulness.
“He knew you, gracious lady, he knew you.”
“Grieve not, Pan Yatsek, grieve not so cruelly.”
“I grieved before this, but on horseback. I shall grieve now on foot. God reward you, however, for the kind words.”
“But mount now the mouse-colored horse,” said Pan Gideon. “The page will ride the off leader, or sit behind the carriage. There is an extra burka at the saddle, put it on, for thou hast been freezing all night, and the cold is increasing.”
“No,” said Tachevski, “I am warm. I left my shuba behind, since I felt no need of it.”
“Well, for the road!”
They started. Yatsek Tachevski taking his place near the left carriage window, Stanislav Tsyprianovitch at the right, so the young lady sitting in front might without turning her head look freely at the one and the other.
But the Bukoyemskis were not glad to see Yatsek. They were angry that he had taken a place at the side of the carriage, so, bringing their horses together till their heads almost touched, they talked with one another and counselled, —
“He looked at us insolently,” said Mateush. “As God is in heaven he wants to insult us.”
“Just now he turned his horse’s tail to us. What do ye say to that?”
“Well, he could not turn the horse’s head, for horses do not travel tail forward like crawfish. But that he is making up to that young lady is certain,” put in Marek.
“Thou hast taken in the situation correctly. See how he bends and leans forward. If his stirrup strap breaks he will fall.”
“He will not fall, the son of a such a one, for the saddle straps are strong, and he is a firm rider.”
“Bend thyself, bend till we break thee!”
“Just look how he smiles at her!”
“Well, brothers, are we to permit this? Never, as God lives! The girl is not for us, that may be, but does he remember what we did yesterday?”
“Of course! He must divine that, for he is cunning, and now he is making up to her to spite us.”
“And in contempt for our poverty and orphanhood.”
“Oh! upon my word a great magnate — on another man’s horse.”
“Well, for that matter we are not riding our own beasts.”
“One horse remains to us anyhow, so if three sit at home the fourth man may ride to the war if he wishes; but that fellow has not even a saddle, for the wolves have made bits of it.”
“Besides, he sticks his nose up. What has he against us? Just tell me.”
“Well, ask him.”
“Shall I do it right away?”
“Eight away, but politely, so as not to offend old Pan Gideon. Only after he has answered can we challenge.”
“And then we shall have him!”
“Which of us is to do this?”
“I, of course, for I am the eldest,” said Mateush. “I will rub the icicle from my mustache, and then at him!”
“But remember well what he says to thee.”
“I will repeat every word, like the Lord’s prayer.”
Thereupon the eldest Bukoyemski set to rubbing off with his glove the ice from his mustache, and then urging his horse to the horse of Pan Yatsek he called, —
“My dear Sir?”
“What?” inquired Yatsek, turning his head from the carriage unwillingly.
“What have you against us?”
Yatsek looked at him with astonishment, and answered, —
“Nothing!” then, shrugging his shoulders, he turned again to the carriage.
Mateush rode on some time in silence considering whether to return and report to his brothers or speak further. The second course seemed to him better, so he continued, —
“If thou think to do anything, I say that thou wilt do what thou hast said to me. Nothing!”
On Yatsek’s face was an expression of constraint and annoyance. He understood that they were seeking a quarrel, for which at that moment he had not the least wish whatever. But he found need of some answer, and that of such kind as to end the conversation, so he asked, —
“Well, thy brothers over there, are they also—”
“Of course! but what is ‘also’?”
“Think it out thyself and do not interrupt now my more agreeable occupation.”
Mateush rode along the side of the carriage ten or fifteen steps farther. At last he turned his horse.
“What did he tell thee? Speak out!” said the brothers.
“There was no success.”
“Because thou didst not know how to handle him,” said Lukash. “Thou shouldst have tickled his horse in the belly with thy stirrup, or, since thou knowst his name, have said: ‘Yatsek, here is a platsek (a cake) for thee!’”
“Or said this to him: ‘The wolves ate thy horse, buy a he goat in Prityk.’”
“That is not lost, but what did it mean when he said: ‘Are thy brothers also?’”
“Maybe he wanted to ask if we were fools also.”
“Of course! As God is dear to me!” cried Marek. “He could not think otherwise. But what now?”
“His death, or ours. As God lives, what he says is open heresy. We must tell Stashko.”
“Tell nothing, for since we give up the young lady to Stashko, Stashko must challenge him, and here the great point is that we challenge first.”
“When? At Pan Gideon’s a challenge is not proper. But here is Belchantska.”
In fact Belchantska was not distant. On the edge of the forest stood the cross of Pan Gideon’s establishment, with a tin Saviour hanging between two spears; on the right, where the road turned round a pine wood, broad meadows were visible, with a line of alders on the edge of a river, and beyond the alders on the bank opposite and higher, were the leafless tops of tall trees, and smoke rising from cottages. Soon the retinue was moving past cottages, and when it had gone beyond fences and buildings Pan Gideon’s dwelling was before the eyes of the horsemen, — a broad court surrounded by an old and decayed picket fence which in places was leaning.
From times the most ancient no enemy had appeared in that region, so no one had thought defence needful for the dwelling. In the broad court there were two dovecotes. On one side were the quarters for servants, on the other the storehouse, provision rooms, and a big cheese house made of planks and small timbers. Before the mansion and around the court were pillars with iron rings for the halters of horses; on each pillar a cap of frozen snow was fixed firmly. The mansion was old and broad, with a low roof of straw. In the court hunting dogs were rushing around, and among them a tame stork with a broken wing was walking securely; the bird as it seemed had left its warm room a little earlier to get exercise and air in the
cold courtyard.
At the mansion the people were waiting for the company, since Pan Gideon had sent a man forward with notice. The same man came out now to meet them and, bowing down, said to Pan Gideon, —
“Pan Grothus, the starosta of Raygrod, has come.”
“In God’s name!” cried Pan Gideon. “Has he been waiting long for me?”
“Not an hour. He wished to go, but I told him that you were coming and in sight very nearly.”
“Thou didst speak well.” Then he turned to the guests, —
“I beg you, gentlemen, Pan Grothus is a relative through my wife. He is returning, it is evident, to Warsaw from his brother’s, for he is a deputy to the Diet. Please enter.”
After a time they were all in the dining-room in presence of the starosta of Raygrod, whose head almost grazed the ceiling, for in stature he surpassed the Bukoyemskis, and the rooms were exceedingly low in that mansion. Pan Grothus was a showy noble with an expression of wisdom, and the face and bald head of a statesman. A sword scar on his forehead just over the nose and between his two eyebrows seemed a firm wrinkle, giving his face a stern, and, as it were, angry aspect. But he smiled at Pan Gideon with pleasantness, and opened his arms to him, saying, —
“Well, I, a guest, am now welcoming the host to his own mansion.”
“A guest, a dear guest,” cried Pan Gideon. “God give thee health for having come to me, lord brother. What dost thou hear over there now in Warsaw?”
“Good news of private matters, of public also, for war is now coming.”
“War? How is that? Are we making it?”
“Not yet, but in March a treaty will be signed with the Emperor, then war will be certain.”
Though even before the New Year there had been whispers of war with the Sultan, and there were those who considered it inevitable, the confirmation of these rumors from the lips of a person so notable, and intimately acquainted with politics as Pan Grothus, imposed on Pan Gideon and the guests in his mansion very greatly. Barely had the host, therefore, presented them to the starosta, when a conversation followed touching war, touching Tököli and the bloody struggles throughout Hungary, from which, as from an immense conflagration, there was light over all parts of Austria and Poland. That was to be a mighty struggle, before which the Roman Cæsar and all German lands were then trembling. Pan Grothus, skilled much in public matters, declared that the Porte would move half of Asia and all Africa, and appear with such strength as the world had not seen up to that day. But these previsions did not injure good-humor in any one. On the contrary they were listened to with rapture by young men, who were wearied by long peace at home, and to whom war presented fields of glory, service, and even profit.
When Mateush Bukoyemski heard the words of the starosta he so struck his knee with his palm that the sound was heard throughout the mansion.
“Half Asia, and what in addition?” asked he. “O pshaw! Is that something new for us?”
“Nothing new, thou speakest truth!” said the host, whose face, usually gloomy, was lighted up now with sudden gladness. “If that question is settled, the call to arms will be issued immediately, and the levies will begin without loitering.”
“God grant this! God grant it at the earliest! Think now of that old Deviantkievich at Hotsim, blind of both eyes. His sons aimed his lance in the charge, and he struck on the Janissaries as well as any other man. But I have no sons.”
“Well, lord brother, if there be any one who can stay at home rightfully you are that person,” said the starosta. “It is bad not to have a son in the war, worse not to have an eye, but worst of all not to have an arm.”
“I accustomed both hands to the sabre,” said Pan Gideon, “and in my teeth I can hold the bridle. Moreover, I should like to fall fighting on the field against pagans, not because the happiness of my life has been broken — not from revenge — no — but for this reason, speaking sincerely: I am old, I have seen much, I have meditated deeply, I have seen among men so much hatred, so much selfishness, so much disorder in this Commonwealth, I have seen our self-will, our disobedience and breaking of Diets, so much lawlessness of all sorts, that I say this here now to you. Many times in desperation have I asked the Lord God: Why, O Lord, hast thou created our Commonwealth, and created this people? I ask without answer and it is only when the pagan sea swells, when that vile dragon opens its jaws to devour Christianity and mankind, when, as you say, the Roman Cæsar and all German lands are shivering in front of this avalanche, that I learn why God created us and imposed on us this duty. The Turks themselves know this. Other men may tremble, but we will not, as we have not trembled thus far; so let our blood flow to the very last drop, and let mine be mixed with the rest of it. Amen.”
The eyes of Pan Gideon were glittering and he was moved very deeply, but still he let no tears fall from his eyes; it may be because he had cried them out so much earlier, and it may be because he was harsh to himself and to others. But Pan Grothus put his arm around his neck and then he kissed him on both cheeks.
“True, true,” said he. “There is much evil among us, and only with blood may our ransom from evil be effected. That service, that watching which God has given us, was predestined to our people. And the time is approaching in which we shall prove this. That is our real position. There are tidings that the avalanche of pagans will turn on Vienna; when it does we will go there and before the whole world show that we are purely Christ’s warriors, created in defence of the cross, and the faith of the Saviour. Other nations, who till now have lived without care behind our shoulders, will see in the clear day of heaven how our task is accomplished, and with God’s will, while the earth stands, our service and our glory will not leave us.”
At these words enthusiasm seized the young men. The Bukoyemskis sprang up from their chairs, and called in loud voices, —
“God grant it! When will the levies be? God grant it!”
“The souls are tearing out of us,” said Stanislav. “We are ready this minute.”
Yatsek was the only man silent, and his face did not brighten. That news which filled all hearts with pleasure was for him a source of keen suffering and bitterness. His thoughts and his eyes ran to Panna Anulka who was passing along near the dining-room joyously, and with measureless complaint and reproach they spoke thus to her, —
“Had it not been for thee I should have gone to some magnate, and though I might not have found fortune, I should have a horse and good arms in every case, and should go now with a regiment to find death, or else glory. Thy beauty, thy glances, those pleasant words, which at times thou didst throw like small alms at me, have brought about this, that I am here on those last little fields of mine, well-nigh expiring from hunger. Because of thee I have not seen the great world. I have not gained any polish. In what have I offended that thou hast enslaved me, as it were, soul and body? And in truth I would rather perish than be without seeing thee for a twelvemonth. I have lost my last horse in hurrying to save thee, and now, in return for this, thou art laughing with another, and glancing at him most bewitchingly. But what shall I do? War is coming. Am I to be a serving man, or be disgraced among foot soldiers? What have I done that toward me thou art merciless?”
In this fashion did Yatsek Tachevski complain, he a man who felt his misery all the more keenly that he was a noble of great knightly family, though terribly impoverished. And though it was not true that Panna Anulka had never had mercy on him, it was true that for her sake he had never gone out to the great world, but had remained with only two serfs on poor pasture land where the first wants of life were beyond him. He was seventeen years of age, and she thirteen, when he fell in love with her beyond memory, and for five years he had loved the girl each year increasingly, and each year with more gloominess, for hopelessly. Pan Gideon had received him with welcome at first, as the scion of a great knightly family to which in former days had belonged in those regions whole countrysides; but afterward, when he noted how matters were tending, he began to be ha
rsh to him, and at times even cruel. He did not close the house against the man, it is true, but he kept him away from the young lady, since he had for her views and hopes of another kind altogether. Panna Anulka noting her power over Yatsek amused herself with him just as a young girl does with flowers in a meadow. At times she bends over one, at times she plucks one, at times she weaves one into her tresses, later she throws it away, and later thinks nothing of flowers, whatever, and still later on she searches out new ones.
Yatsek had never mentioned his love to the young lady, but she knew of it perfectly, though she feigned not to know, and in general not to wish to know of anything which happened within him. She wondered at him, wondered how he pleased her. Once, when they were chasing some bees, she fell under his cloak and fondled up to his heart for a moment, but for two days she would not forgive him because of this. At times she treated him almost contemptuously, and when it seemed to him that all had been ended forever, she, with one sweet look, one hearty word filled him with endless delight, and with hope beyond limit. If at times, because of a wedding, or a name’s day, or a hunt in the neighborhood, he did not come for some days she was lonely, but when he did come she took revenge on him for her loneliness, and tormented him long for it. He passed his worst moments when there were guests at the mansion, and there happened among them some young man who was clever and good-looking. Then Yatsek thought that in her heart there was not even the simplest compassion. Such were his thoughts now because of Pan Stanislav and all that Pan Grothus had told of the coming war added bitterness to his cup, which was then overflowing.
Self-control in Pan Gideon’s mansion was habitual with Yatsek, still, he could hardly sit to the end of the supper as he heard the words of the lady and Pan Stanislav. He saw, unhappy victim, that the other man pleased her, for he was in fact an adroit and agreeable young fellow, and far from being stupid. The talk at table turned always on the levies. Stanislav, learning from Pan Grothus that perhaps the levies would be made under him in those regions, turned to the lady on a sudden, and asked, —
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 555