Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  “I do not take this ill of you, for, as you see, there must be a good reason for everything, and God has so arranged that every man prefers a young turnip to an old one. With wine it is different, therefore we agree willingly as to wine with the arrangement of Providence.”

  “Yes, it is true. Except wine, what is young is better always; Pan Kohanovski wrote only humorously, that an old man, like an old oak, is better than a young one. This is the one question for me: if I leave property to her as my wife no one will dare move a finger; but if I leave it to her as a ward, there will be many lawsuits and quarrels, and perhaps armed attacks also. Who could protect her from the latter? Of course not Pani Vinnitski!”

  “That is undoubted.”

  “But since I am neither a giddy nor an empty man, I did not wish to decide this alone, hence I have come to you to confirm me in the conviction that I am acting wisely, and that you will support me with clear counsel.”

  The prelate thought a while, and then added, —

  “You see, that advice in a matter of this kind is difficult, and a man repeats more than once to himself with Bœtius, Si tacuisses, philosophus mansisses (if thou remain silent, thou wilt be a philosopher); or with Job, ‘Even a fool if he remain silent will be considered a wise man.’ Your intention, in so far as it is roused by warm affection, is justified, and in so far also as it flows from care for the good of the girl, is even praiseworthy. But will not some injustice be done her, will there not be need to constrain her, or to lead her with threats to the altar? For I have heard that she and Yatsek Tachevski are in love. And truly, without beating about the bushes, I have more than once seen him a frequent guest at your mansion.”

  “What have you seen?” inquired Pan Gideon, abruptly.

  “Nothing sinful, but signs through which intimacy and love are denoted. I saw more than once how they held each other’s hands longer than was needed, how they followed each other with their eyes. I saw him once in a tree dropping cherries down into her apron, and how they so looked at each other that the cherries fell to the ground past one rim of the apron. I saw her when looking at flying storks lean on him, and then — women are always subtle — scold him for coming too near her. And what more did I see? Various things which prove secret wishes. You will say that this is nothing. Of course, nothing! But that she felt the will of God toward him as much, or more, than he toward her, only a blind man could help seeing, and I wonder that you did not see this. I wonder still more, if you did see it, that you did not stop it in view of your own intentions.”

  Pan Gideon had seen and known this, but still the words of the prelate produced on him a terrible impression. It is one thing when some pain-causing secret is hidden in the heart, and quite another when a strange hand pushes into one’s bosom and shakes up that secret. So now his face became purple, his eyes filled with blood, a great bunch of veins came out on his forehead, and he began to pant on a sudden, and to breathe so quickly that the prelate, in alarm, asked, —

  “What is the matter?”

  Pan Gideon answered, with a motion of the hand, that it was nothing, but he remained silent.

  “Drink some wine,” cried the priest.

  He stretched out his arm and with trembling hand took the glass, raised it to his lips, drank, blew through his lips, and whispered, —

  “It darkened before my eyes just a trifle.”

  “Because of what I told you?”

  “No. That for some time has occurred to me often, but now I am fatigued by the fast, by the journey, and by the spring, which is unexpected and early.”

  “Then perhaps it would be better not to wait for May, but be bled immediately.”

  “I will be bled, but I will rest a while now, and we will return later on to this business.”

  A fairly long time passed before Pan Gideon recovered completely, but at last he recovered. The veins relaxed on his forehead, his heart began to beat evenly, and he continued, —

  “I will not say that strength fails me. Were I to squeeze with my one hand I could crush, as I think, this silver goblet very easily; but though strength and health are both in God’s hand they are not identical.”

  “Man’s life is fragile!”

  “But just because of that, if something is to be done there is need to act quickly. You speak, my benefactor, of Pan Yatsek and that affection which the young people might feel for each other. I will say sincerely that I was not blind. I too saw what was happening, but only in recent days did I note it; for remember that till recently she was a green berry, which even now has barely ripened. He came every day, it is true, but because, perhaps, he had not much to eat in his own house; besides, I received him, as it were, through compassion. Father Voynovski trained him in Latin and at the sabre, and I gave him nourishment. That’s the whole story. Only a year ago he reached manhood. I looked on them as children who were thinking of various plays and amusements. I considered it an ordinary occurrence. But that such a pauper should dare to think; and, besides, of whom? — of Panna Anulka! That, I confess, never came to my mind, and only in the last hours did I take note of anything.”

  “Nonsense! A pauper is a pauper, but Tachevski—”

  “Of Hungerdeath! No, my benefactor, he who licks a stranger’s saucepan should be asked only into dogs’ company. When I saw what kind of man he was I looked at him more carefully, and know you what I found? This, that not merely was he a pauper and a giddy head, but a venomous reptile, ever ready to sting the hand feeding him. Thank God he is gone; but he has stung, not me alone, but that innocent maiden.”

  “How is that?”

  Pan Gideon began to relate how it was, painting with such blackness the deeds of Tachevski that a hangman might have been called in immediately to take him.

  “Never fear, my benefactor,” said he at last. “During our journey to Prityk the Bukoyemskis poured out in full to Anulka; ah, to the full so completely that it flowed over, and now the situation is such that never will the girl feel such abhorrence for any creature of God as for that whipper-snapper, that roysterer, that abortion.”

  “Be moderate, or your blood will boil again.”

  “True. And I did not wish to speak of him, but of this, that I have not in view any injustice to the girl, or any constraint. Persuasion is another thing, but even that should be used by a stranger, yet by a man who is at the same time her friend and mine, — a man known for wit and dignity, who can use noble phrases, move the heart and convince the reason. Hence my desire is to beg you, my special benefactor, to see to this. You will not refuse me; you will do this, not merely from friendship, you will do it because it is honorable and proper.”

  “It is a question of her good and of yours, hence I will not refuse; but I should like to have time to decide how this may be accomplished most easily.”

  “Then I will go at once to the barber and have myself bled, so as to go home clearer witted, — but do you make your plan. For you that will not be difficult, and on the other side there will be, as I think, no obstacle.”

  “There can be only one obstacle, lord brother.”

  “What is it?”

  “Friendship should tell the truth, hence I speak freely. You are an honorable person, I know that, but rather stubborn. You have this reputation, and you have it because your dependants all fear you tremendously. Not only the peasants, concerning whom you have quarrelled with Father Voynovski, but your servants, attendants, and managers. Tachevski feared you, Pani Vinnitski fears you, the young lady fears you. Two matchmakers will appear according to custom. I will do what I can, but I will not guarantee that the other may not destroy all my labor.”

  During one moment Pan Gideon’s eyes flashed with anger, for he did not like to have the truth told in his presence; but amazement now conquered his anger, so he asked, —

  “Of what are you speaking? What other matchmaker is there?”

  “Fear,” said the prelate.

  CHAPTER XI

  They were unable to go that sam
e day to Belchantska, for Pan Gideon weakened considerably after bleeding, and said that some rest was needed. Next morning, however, he felt brighter; he had grown young, as it were, and he approached his own mansion with good hope, though with a certain disquiet. Occupied with his own thoughts entirely, he spoke little along the way with the prelate, but when they were entering the village he felt his disquiet increasing.

  “This is a wonder to me,” said he. “Ere this time I came home as a man who is master, and all others were concerned about this, with what face would I greet them; while now I am the anxious one, I ask myself how will they greet me.”

  “Virgil has said,” replied the prelate, “‘amor omnia vincit’ (love conquers everything), but he forgot to add, that it changes everything also. This Delilah will not shear your locks, for you are bald, but that I shall see you spinning at her feet, as Hercules spun at the feet of Omphale, is certain.”

  “Ei! my nature is not of that kind. I have known always how to hold in my fists both servants and household.”

  “So people say, but for this very reason it lies in the position that some one will take you in hand very thoroughly.”

  “The hand is a dear one!” said Pan Gideon, with a joyousness which for him was unusual.

  They drove very slowly, for the mud in the village was terrible; since they had started from Radom not so soon after midday, night had fallen already. In the cottages at the two sides of the road light came from the windows and stretched in red lines to the cottages opposite. Here and there near the fence appeared some human form, that of a woman, or of a man who, seeing the travellers, bared his head and bowed as low as his girdle. It was clear from these bowings, which seemed excessive, that Pan Gideon held people in his fist, nay more, that he held them too firmly, and that Father Voynovski blamed him, not without reason, for tyranny. But the old noble felt in his bosom a softer heart than had ever been in it till that evening, so looking at those bent figures, and seeing the windows of those cottages leaning earthward, he said, —

  “I will grant some favor to those subjects whose part she takes always.”

  “Oh, see to it that thou do so,” said the prelate.

  And they were silent. Pan Gideon was occupied for a time with his own thoughts, then he added, —

  “I know that you need no advice in this matter; but you must explain to the lady what a benefaction is becoming ready for her, and that I think about her first of all; but in case of resistance, which I do not expect, — well, then even scold her in some degree.”

  “You said that you did not wish to constrain her.”

  “I said so, but it is one thing if I were to threaten, and another if some one else, who, besides, is a spiritual person, exposes her ingratitude.”

  “Leave that task to me. I have undertaken it and will use my best efforts; but I will talk to the girl in the most tender way possible.”

  “Very well, very well! But one word more. She feels great abhorrence for Tachevski, but should there be any mention of him it would be well to say something more against him.”

  “If he has acted as you say, this will not be needed.”

  “We are arriving. Well! In the name of the Father and the Son—”

  “And the Holy Ghost — Amen!”

  They arrived, but no one came out to meet them, for the wheels made no sound because of deep mud, and the dogs did not bark at the horses or at the men, whom they recognized. It was dark in the hall, for the servants were evidently sitting in the kitchen; and it happened that when Pan Gideon first called, “Is any one here?” no one came to him, and at the second call, in sharper tones, the young lady herself appeared.

  She came holding a light in her hand, but since she was in the gleam of it and they in the darkness she, not seeing them at once, remained near the threshold; and they did not speak for a moment since to begin with, it seemed a special sign to them, that she had come out before others, and second, because her beauty astonished them as much as if they had never beheld it till that moment.

  The fingers with which she grasped the candle seemed transparent and rosy; the gleam crept along her bosom, lighted her lips and her small face which looked somewhat drowsy and sad, perhaps because her eyes were in a deep shade while her forehead and the glorious bright hair, which was as a crown just above it, were still in full radiance. And she all in quiet and splendor stood there in the gloom like an angel created from ruddy brightness.

  “Oh, as God is dear to me, a vision!” said the prelate.

  Then Pan Gideon called, —

  “Anulka!”

  Leaving the light on a nitch of the chimney, she ran to them and gave greeting, joyously. Pan Gideon pressed her to his heart with much feeling, commanded her to rejoice at the arrival of a guest so distinguished, a man famous as a giver of counsel, and when after greeting they entered the dining-hall he asked, —

  “Is supper over?”

  “No. The servants were to bring it from the kitchen, and that is why no one was standing at the entrance.”

  The prelate looked at the old noble, and asked, —

  “Then perhaps without waiting?”

  “No, no,” answered Pan Gideon, “Pani Vinnitski will be here directly.”

  Thereupon Pani Vinnitski made herself felt in reality, and fifteen minutes later they sat down to heated wine and fried eggs. The prelate ate and drank well, but at the end of the supper his face became serious, and he said, turning to Panna Anulka, —

  “My gracious young lady, God knows why people call me a counsellor and why they take advice of me, but since your guardian does so, I must speak with you on a certain task of importance which he has given my poor wit to accomplish.”

  When Pan Gideon heard this, the veins swelled on his forehead; the young lady paled somewhat, and rose in disquiet, for, through some unknown reason, it seemed to her that the prelate would talk about Yatsek.

  “I beg you to another room,” said he.

  And they left the dining-hall.

  Pan Gideon sighed deeply once and a second time; then he drummed on the table with his fingers, and feeling the need of talking down his internal emotion by words of some kind, he said to Pani Vinnitski, —

  “Have you noticed how all the relatives of my late wife hate Anulka?”

  “Especially the Krepetskis,” answered Pani Vinnitski.

  “Ha! they almost grit their teeth when they see her; but soon they will grit them still harder.”

  “How is that?”

  “You will learn in good season; but meanwhile we must find a bed for the prelate.”

  After a time Pan Gideon was alone. Two servants came to remove the supper dishes, but he sent them away with a quick burst of anger, and there was silence in the dining-hall, only the great Dantsic clock repeated loudly and with importance: tik-tak! tik-tak! Pan Gideon placed his hand on his bald head and began to walk in the chamber. He approached the door beyond which the prelate was talking with Anulka, but he heard merely sounds in which he distinguished the voice but not the words of the prelate. So in turn he walked and halted. He went to the window, for it seemed to him that there he would breathe with more freedom. He looked for a while at the sky, with eyes from which expression had vanished, — that sky over which the wind was hurrying the torn clouds of spring, with light on their upper edges through which the pale moon seemed to rise higher and higher. As often as he rested an evil foreboding took hold of him. He looked through the window close to which black limbs of trees were wrestling back and forth with the wind, as if in torment; in the same way his thoughts were struggling back and forth, disordered, evil, resembling reproaches of conscience, and painful forebodings that some bad thing would happen, and that near punishment was waiting — but when it grew bright out of doors, again better hope entered him.

  Every one has a right to think of his own happiness — as to Yatsek Tachevski it was of little importance what such people do! What was the question at present? The happiness and calm future of a yo
ung girl; but besides this there smiled on him a little life in his old age — and this belongs to him. This only is real, the rest is wind, wind!

  And he felt again a turning of the head, and black spots danced before his vision, but that lasted very briefly. Then he approached the door behind which his fate was in the balance. Meanwhile the light on the table acquired a long wick and the chamber grew gloomy. At times the voice of the prelate became sharper, so that words would have reached the ear of Pan Gideon had it not been for that loud and continuous “tik-tak.” It was easy to understand that such a conversation could not end quickly, still, Pan Gideon’s alarm grew and grew, turning, as it were, into certain wonderful questions woven into the past, with memories not only of former misfortunes and pain, but also of former unextinguished transgressions, of former grievous sins, and of recent injustices inflicted not only on Tachevski, but on others.

  “Why and wherefore shouldst thou be happy?” asked his conscience.

  And he would have given at that moment he knew not how much if even Pani Vinnitski might return to the chamber, so that he should not be alone with those thoughts of his. But Pani Vinnitski was occupied somewhere with work in another part of the mansion, while in that dining-hall there was nothing but the clock with its “tik-tak!”

  “For what deed should God reward thee?” asked his conscience.

  Pan Gideon felt now that if that girl, who was at once like a flower and an angel, should fail him, there would be a darkness in his life which would last till the night of death should descend on him.

  With that the door opened on a sudden and Panna Sieninski came in from the next chamber. She was pale; there were tears in her eyes; and behind her was the prelate.

  “Art thou weeping?” asked Pan Gideon, with a hoarse, stifled voice.

  “From gratitude, guardian,” cried she, stretching her hands to him.

  And she fell at his knees there.

  CHAPTER XII

  That evening, or late at night, Pani Vinnitski appeared in the room of her relative, and, finding the young lady still dressed, she talked to her.