Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  “We will not, first because the church is sure to be closed, for the priest has gone to Prityk, and second, because he has offended me greatly, and I will hide my hand if he approaches.” Then he added: “I ask you, and thee also, Anulka, not to converse with him in any way.”

  A moment of silence succeeded. Suddenly the tramping of horses was heard behind the carriage, and the sounds made as the beasts pulled their feet out of the mud; these resembled the firing of muskets, — then piercing words were heard on both sides of the carriage.

  “With the forehead! with the forehead!”

  That was from the Bukoyemskis.

  “With the forehead!” answered Pan Gideon.

  “Is your grace for Prityk?”

  “I go every year. I suppose your lordships are going also to the festival?”

  “You may lay a wager on that,” replied Marek. “One must be purified from sin before war comes.”

  “But is it not early yet?”

  “Why should it be too early?” asked Lukash. “All that has been sinned up to the moment will fall from one’s shoulders, since that is the use of absolution; and as to sins incurred later, the priest absolves from those in presence of the enemy, in partikulo mortis.”

  “You wish to say in articulo” corrected Pan Gideon.

  “All the same, if only repentance is real.”

  “How do you understand repentance?” inquired the amused Pan Gideon.

  “How do I understand repentance? Father Vior, the last time, commanded that we give ourselves thirty stripes in discipline, and we gave fifty; for we thought: Well, since this pleases the Heavenly Powers, let them have all they want of it.”

  At this even the serious Pani Vinnitski laughed and Panna Anulka hid her face in her sleeve as if warming her nose there.

  Lukash noticed, as did his brothers, that their answer had roused laughter, hence they were somewhat offended and silent; so for a time were heard only the rattling of chains on the carriage, the snorting of horses, the sound of mud under hoofs, and the croaking of crows. Immense flocks of these birds were sailing away in the sunlight from small places and villages to the pine woods.

  “Ah! they feel this very minute that there will be food even to wade in,” said the youngest Bukoyemski, turning his eyes toward the crows.

  “Yes, war is their harvest,” said Mateush.

  “They do not feel it yet, for war is far off,” said Pan Gideon.

  “Far or near, it is certain!”

  “And how do you know?”

  “We all know what the talk was at the district diets, and what instructions will be given to the general Diet.”

  “True, but it is not known if they were the same everywhere.”

  “Pan Prylubski, who has travelled through a great part of the Commonwealth, says they were the same everywhere.”

  “Who is Pan Prylubski?”

  “He comes from Olkuts, and makes levies for the bishop of Cracow.”

  “But has the bishop commanded to make levies before the assembling of the Diet?”

  “You see, your grace, how it is! This is the best proof that war is certain. The bishop wants a splendid light cavalry regiment — well, Pan Prylubski came to these parts because he has heard of us somewhat.”

  “Ho! ho! Your glory has gone far through the world. Are you going?”

  “Of course!”

  “All of you?”

  “Why should we not all go? It is a good thing during war to have a friend at one’s side, and still better a brother.”

  “Well, and Pan Stanislav?”

  “He and Pan Yatsek will serve in one regiment.”

  Pan Gideon glanced quickly at the young lady sitting in front; a sudden flame rushed over her cheeks, and he inquired further, —

  “Are they so intimate already? Under whom will they serve?”

  “Under Pan Zbierhovski.”

  “Of course in the dragoons?”

  “In God’s name, what are you saying? That is the hussar regiment of Prince Alexander.”

  “Is it possible! Is it possible! That is no common regiment—”

  “Pan Yatsek is no common man.”

  Pan Gideon had it on his lips to say that such a stripling in the hussars would be a soldier, not an officer, but he held back the remark, fearing it might seem that his letter was not so polite, or his help so considerable as he had told Anulka, so he frowned and said, —

  “I have heard of the mortgage of Vyrambki; how much was given on it?”

  “More than you would have given,” answered Marek, dryly.

  Pan Gideon’s eyes glittered for a moment with savage anger, but he restrained himself a second time, for it occurred to him that further conversation might serve his purpose.

  “All the better,” said he, “the cavalier must be satisfied.”

  The Bukoyemskis, though slow-witted by nature, began to exaggerate, one more than the other, just to show Pan Gideon how little Tachevski cared for him and all in his mansion.

  “Of course!” called out Lukash, “when he went away he was almost wild from delight. He sang so that the candles at the inn toppled over. It is true, that we had drunk some at parting.”

  Pan Gideon looked again at Panna Sieninski, and saw that her rosy face full of youth and life had become as it were petrified. Her hood had fallen off entirely, her eyes were closed as in sleep; only from the movement of her nostrils and the slight quivering of her chin could it be known that she was not sleeping, but listening, and listening intently. It was painful to look at her, but the merciless noble thought, —

  “If there is a splinter in thy heart yet will I pluck it out of thee!” And he said aloud, —

  “Just as I expected—”

  “What did you expect?”

  “That you gentlemen would be drunk at the parting, and that Pan Tachevski would go away singing. Of course, he who is seeking fortune must hurry, and if it smiles on him, perhaps he may catch it—”

  “Of course!” exclaimed Lukash.

  “Father Voynovski,” added Marek, “gave Tachevski a letter to Pan Zbierhovski, who is his friend, and in Zbierhova the land is such that you can sow onions in any place, — and he has an only daughter, just fifteen years of age. So don’t you bother about Tachevski; he will make his way without you, and without these sands around Radom!”

  “I do not bother myself about him,” said Pan Gideon, dryly. “But perhaps you gentlemen are in a hurry to ride on? My carriage moves in this mud like a tortoise.”

  “Well, here is to you with the forehead!”

  “With the forehead! with the forehead! I am the servant of your lordships!”

  “We are yours in the same way!”

  Having said this the brothers moved forward more speedily, but when they had ridden an arrow-shot from the carriage they reined in again and talked with animation.

  “Did ye see?” asked Lukash, “I said ‘Of course!’ twice, and twice I thrust a sword into his heart as it were; he almost burst out.”

  “I did better,” said Marek, “for I struck both the girl and the old man.”

  “How? Tell us, do not hide!” called the brothers.

  “Did ye not hear?”

  “We heard, but do thou repeat.”

  “I struck with what I said of Panna Zbierhovski. Ye saw how the girl became pale? I looked at her; she had her hand on her knee and she opened and closed it, opened and closed it, just like a cat before scratching. A man could see that anger was diving down into her.”

  But Mateush reined in his horse, and he added, —

  “I was sorry for her — such a dear little flower — and do ye remember what old Pan Serafin said?”

  “What did he say?” inquired, with great curiosity, Lukash, Marek, and Yan, reining in their horses.

  Mateush looked at them a while through his protruding eyes, then said as if in sorrow, —

  “But if I have forgotten?”

  Meanwhile not only Pan Gideon, but Pani Vinni
tski, who generally knew very little of what was happening around her, turned attention to the changed face of the young lady.

  “But what is the matter, Anulka? Art thou cold?”

  “No,” answered the girl, with a sort of sleepy voice which seemed not her own. “Nothing is the matter, only the air affects me strangely — so strangely.”

  Though her voice broke from moment to moment she had no tears in her eyes; on the contrary, in her dry pupils there glittered sparks peculiar, uncommon, and her face had grown older. Seeing this Pan Gideon said to himself, —

  “Would it not be better to strike while the iron is hot?”

  CHAPTER X

  Many nobles appeared at the festival from near and even distant places. There were assembled the Kohanovskis, the Podgaiyetskis, the Silnitskis, the Potvorovskis, the Sulgostovskis, Tsyprianovitch with his son, the Bukoyemskis and many others. But the greatest interest was roused by the arrival of Prince Michael Chartoryski, the voevoda of Sandomir, who stopped at Prityk on his way to the Diet at Warsaw and, in waiting for the festival, had passed some days in devotion. All were glad of his presence, for he added splendor to the occasion, and at the same time it was possible to learn from him no little touching public questions. He spoke of the injustices which the Porte had committed against the Commonwealth in fixing the boundary of Podolia, and the raids which in defiance of treaties had ruined Russian lands recently. He declared war to be certain. He said that a treaty with the Emperor would be concluded beyond question, and that even adherents of France would not show it open opposition, since the French court, though unfriendly in general to the Empire, knew the peril in which the Commonwealth found itself. Whether the Turks would hurl themselves first against Cracow, or Vienna was unknown to Prince Michael, but it was known to him that the enemy were preparing “arms and men” at Adrianople, and in addition to the forces with Tököli at Koshytsi, nay those in all Hungary, thousands were assembling from Rumelia, from Asia, from regions on the Euphrates and the Tigris, from Africa, from the Red Sea to the waves of the measureless ocean.

  The nobles heard this news eagerly; the older men, who knew how gigantic was the power of the pagan, with anxiety in their faces, the younger men with knit brows, and with fire in their glances. But hope and enthusiasm were predominant, for fresh in their minds was the memory of Hotsim, where the king reigning actually, a hetman at that time, leading Polish forces, besieged a Turkish power greater than his own, bore it apart upon sabres, and trampled it with horsehoofs. They were comforted by the thought that the Turks, who rushed with irresistible daring on all troops of other nations, felt their hearts weaken when they had to stand eye to eye in the open field against that terrible “Lehistan” cavalry. Still greater hope and still higher enthusiasm were roused by the preaching of Father Voynovski. Pan Gideon was somewhat afraid lest in that sermon there might be some reference to sins, and certain points of blame which would touch him and his treatment of Yatsek, but there was nothing of that sort. War and the mission of the Commonwealth had swept the priest away heart and soul. “Christ,” said he, “has chosen thee among all the nations, He has placed thee on guard before all the others, He has commanded thee to stand beneath His cross and defend, to thy last drop of blood and the last breath in thee, that faith which is the foundation of living. The field of glory lies open before thee, hence, though blood were to flow around thee on both sides, though arrows and darts were to stick in thee, rise, lion of God, shake thy mane, and thunder so that from that thunder the marrow will melt in the bones of the pagan, and crescents and horse-tails will fall, like a pine wood in front of a tempest.”

  Thus did Father Voynovski speak to the knightly hearers before him, because he was an old soldier who had fought all his life and knew how it was on the battlefield. When he spoke of war it seemed to those present that they were looking on the canvases in the king’s castle at Warsaw, on which various battles and Polish victories were presented as if real.

  “See, now,” said he, “the regiments are starting. Their spears are lowered to a line with the middle of the horse-ears; they have bent forward in the saddle, there is a cry of fear among the pagans, and delight up in heaven. The Most Holy Mother runs to the window with all her might, crying: ‘Oh come, dear Son, and see how the Poles are attacking!’ The Lord Jesus with his holy cross blesses them. ‘By God’s wounds!’ he cries, ‘there they are, my nobles, my warriors. Their pay here is ready for them!’ And the archangel, holy Michael, strikes his palms on his thighs and shouts: ‘Into them, the dog-brothers! Strike!’ That is how they rejoice up in heaven. And those down here cut and cut. Men, standards, horses roll over and over. They rush across the bellies of Janissaries, over captured cannon, and trampled crescents; they advance to glory, to reward, to an accomplished mission, to salvation, to immortality.”

  When at last he finished with the words, “And Christ calls you, too; it is your time now to the field of glory!” there rose a shout in the church, and a clattering of sabres. At Mass, when during the Gospel every blade sounded in its scabbard, and steel glittered in the sunlight, it seemed to tender women that war had already begun; and they fell to sobbing, committing their fathers and husbands and brothers to the Most Holy Lady.

  The Bukoyemskis, whispering among themselves, made a vow to move immediately after the festival, and not to take to their lips, until Easter, water, milk, or even beer, but content themselves with drinks which keep up heat in the blood, and therefore valor.

  General enthusiasm was so great that even the cold, stern Pan Gideon did not resist it. He thought for a while that, though his left arm was missing, he might hold the reins in his teeth, and with his right hand take vengeance once more for the wrongs which he had suffered from cursed pagans, and besides gild anew his former services to the Commonwealth. But he made no vow, and left the whole matter for further meditation.

  Meanwhile the service was concluded in splendor. From the cemetery were fired cannon given by the Kohanovskis for important occasions. In the tower the swinging bells thundered. The tame bear in the choir pumped the organ with such vigor that the tin pipes almost flew from their settings. The church was filled with smoke from censers, and trembled from the voices of people. Mass was celebrated by the prelate Tvorkovski, from Radom, — a learned man, full of sentences, quotations, examples, and proverbs; at the same time he was gladsome, and knew the world thoroughly. For these reasons, men went to him for counsel in every question; and so did Pan Gideon, who went the more readily, as the prelate was a friend of his. On the eve of the festival, Pan Gideon was with him at confession; but when, besides the confession, he began to acknowledge his intentions, the object of which was Panna Anulka, the prelate deferred that to a later and special meeting, saying that he had barely time to hear the sins of common people. “On the way back from the festival,” said he to Pan Gideon, “you can send home the women and stay with me at Radom, where, procul negotiis (far from business), I can listen to you in freedom.”

  And thus did they manage. Hence, a day later they sat down before a decanter of worthy Hungarian and a plate of roast almonds, which the prelate took with wine very willingly.

  “I am silent,” said he; “and attentive — speak on!”

  Pan Gideon took a draught from the glass and looked from his iron eyes with some discontent at the prelate, because the latter had not eased his conversation by a proper beginning.

  “Hm! somehow it is not easy; I see that it is more difficult than I imagined.”

  “Then I will help you. Did you wish to speak of some holy thing?”

  “Of a holy thing?”

  “Yes; which has two heads and four feet.”

  “What sort of holy thing is that?” asked Pan Gideon, astonished.

  “I mention a riddle. Guess it.”

  “My dear prelate, whoso has important affairs in his head has no time for riddles.”

  “Pshaw! Think a while!”

  “Some holy thing with two heads and four feet?”
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  “Yes.”

  “As God lives, I know not.”

  “It is holy matrimony. Is that not so?”

  “True, as God is dear to me! Yes, yes, precisely on that subject do I wish to talk with you.”

  “Then it is a question of Anulka Sieninski?”

  “Of her exactly. Do you see, my benefactor, she, of course, is not my relative, or if she is, the relationship is so distant that no one could prove it. But I have become attached to her, for I reared her, and I am bound in gratitude to her family, for what the Pangovskis had in Russia, just as the Jolkievskis, Danilovitches, and Sobieskis, they had from the Sieninskis, or through them. I should like to leave the orphan what I have, but in fact the fortune of the Pangovskis has vanished through Tartar attacks; there remains only the estate of my late wife. It is mine; she left it by will to me; but this place is full of her relatives. First of all is Pan Grothus, the starosta of Raigrod. I do not fear him, for he is rich beyond need, and a good man. For that matter it was he who gave me this idea, which before that had occurred, it is true, more than once to me; for the desire was at the bottom of my heart in a slumber, but he roused it. In addition to Pan Grothus are the Sulgostovskis, the Krepetskis, the Zabierzovskis. These look even to-day with ill-will at the young lady; but how would they look after my death? If I make a will and leave what I own to her they will go to the courts; there will be lawsuits dragging on from tribunal to tribunal. How could she, poor thing, help herself? I cannot leave her in such a condition. Attachment, compassion, and gratitude are strong links. I ask with a clear conscience if I am not bound to secure her even in such a way?”

  The prelate bit a nut in two and showed the second half to Pan Gideon.

  “Do you know why this nut pleases me? Because it is good! If it were decayed I would not eat it.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then that Anulka pleases your taste, for she is an almond. Hai! and what an almond! If she were fifty years old it is certain that your conscience would not be so troubled concerning her future.”

  Pan Gideon was confused at this, but the prelate continued, —