Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  A moment of silence now followed.

  “Then thou wilt tell Johanna and Agneshka to act as thou wishest?”

  “There is no need to say anything to them or to teach them; their nature suffices. Tekla alone is a dove, they are kites, the two others.”

  Martsian had not deceived himself, his sisters had begun, each in her own way to take charge of Anulka. Tekla took her every little while in her arms and wept with her, Agneshka and Johanna solaced her, but in another fashion, —

  “What did not happen, did not happen,” said Agneshka, “but be at rest, thou wilt not be our aunt, because the Lord was not willing, but no one here will harm thee, or grudge thee a morsel.”

  “And no one will drive thee to work,” said the other, “for we know that thou art not used to it; when thou hast recovered, if thou thyself wish, then that is different; in every case wait till thy sorrow is over, for indeed great misfortune has struck thee. Thou wert to be mistress here, thou wert to have thy husband, and now except us thou hast no one. But believe that though we are not relatives we will be to thee as if relatives. Be reconciled to the will of God. The Lord has tried thee, but for that cause he pardons thee other sins. For if thou, perhaps, hast trusted too much in thy beauty, or didst desire wealth and rich clothing (we are all sinful for that matter, therefore I only say this), that will be accounted to thee against other sins.”

  “Amen,” said Agneshka. “Give to the church for the soul of the dead man some ornament, or some little jewel, for thou hast no need of bridal robes now, and we will ask father to permit thee to do this.”

  Then they looked with sharp eyes at the robes on the table, and at the chests in which lay the trousseau. Such a desire at last seized them to see what was hidden that Johanna burst out with these words, —

  “Perhaps we might help thee in selecting?”

  And both rushed at the chests, boxes, and bundles, in which were still lying unpacked the robes brought from Radom, and out with them, to be opened and examined before the light, and under the light, and then the two girls began to try them on their own persons.

  Panna Anulka sat, as if stunned, in the arms of the dear Tekla, seeing nothing, knowing nothing of what they were doing to her and around her.

  CHAPTER XV

  As a betrothed she had felt as if something in her life had grown black, as if something had been quenched, had been cut off and ended; hence that betrothal had not roused in her heart any gladness. She had only consented to the marriage because such was the will of Pan Gideon, and because of her gratitude for care, and still more because, after Yatsek’s departure, there remained in her heart only bitterness and sorrow, with this painful thought, that save her guardian she had no one, and that without him she would be a lost orphan, wandering among enemies and strangers. But all on a sudden a thunderbolt had struck that hearth at which she was to sit with some kind of peace, though a sad one, now the only man in this world who to her was important had vanished. It was not strange, then, that the thunderbolt had stunned her, that all thoughts were confused in her head, while in her heart sorrow for that only near soul had been fused into one with a feeling of amazement and terror.

  So the words of the elder sisters, who had begun straightway to pilfer her dresses, struck her ears just like sounds without meaning. Then Martsian came, bowed, rubbed his hands, jumped around her; but she understood him no more than she did all the others, who, according to custom, approached her with phrases of sympathy, which were more elaborate the less they were heartfelt. It was only when Pan Serafin put his hand on her head in the style of a father and said: “God will be over thee, my orphan,” that something moved in her suddenly, and then tears rushed to her eyelids. Now for the first time the thought came to her that she was as a poor little leaf given over to the will of the whirlwind.

  Meanwhile began ceremonies, which, since Pan Gideon had been a man of position in his neighborhood, lasted ten days, in accordance with custom. At the betrothal, with few exceptions, invited guests only were present, but to the funeral came all near and distant neighbors, hence the mansion was swarming. Receptions, speeches, processions, and returns from the church followed one after the other.

  During the first days exclusive attention was given to the incomplete widow; but later, when people beheld the Krepetskis in possession and saw that they alone appeared in the mansion as masters, they ceased to regard the young lady, and toward the end of the funeral solemnities no one paid more heed to her than to any house visitor.

  Pan Serafin alone had a thought for her. He was moved by her tears and touched by her misfortune. The servants had begun to whisper that the Krepetski old maids had swept off her whole trousseau, and the old lord had hidden in his box her “little jewels,” and that in the house they were already beginning to browbeat the “young lady.” When these reports went to Pan Serafin they moved his kind heart, and he resolved to see Father Voynovski.

  But that kindly man was prejudiced much against Panna Anulka because of Yatsek, so at the very beginning he answered, —

  “I am sorry for her, the poor lady, for she is in need, but in what can I help her? That, speaking between us, God punished her for Yatsek is certain.”

  “But Yatsek is gone, as is Stanislav, and she is here simply an orphan.”

  “Of course he is gone, but how did he go? You saw him going, but I went with him farther, and I tell you that the poor boy had his teeth set, and the heart in him was bleeding, so that he could not utter a syllable. Oh! he loved that girl as people loved only in the old time; they know not to-day how to love in that manner.”

  “Still he was able to move his hands,” said Pan Serafin, “for I heard that just beyond Radom he had a quarrel and cut up a passing noble, or even two of them.”

  “Ah, because he has a girl’s face every road-blocker thinks that he can get on with him cheaply. Some drunken fellows sought a quarrel. What was he to do? I blame in him that method; I blame it, but remember, your grace, that a man with a heart torn by love is like a lion seeking to devour some one.”

  “True; but as to the girl. Ah, my benefactor, God knows if she is as much to blame as we imagine.”

  “Woman is insidious.”

  “Insidious or not, but when I heard that Pan Gideon wished to marry her it occurred to me straightway that he roused up everything, for it must have been all-important for him to get rid of Yatsek forever.”

  “No,” said the priest, shaking his head. “We remarked immediately from the letter that it was written at her instigation. I remember that perfectly, and I could repeat to your grace every word of it.”

  “I, too, remember, but we could not know what Pan Gideon had told her, and how he described Yatsek’s deeds to the lady. The Bukoyemskis, for example, confessed to me, that meeting her and Pan Gideon while travelling to Prityk they said purposely, that Yatsek went away after great stirrup cups, laughing, gladsome, and uncommonly curious about the daughter of Pan Zbierhovski to whom you had given him a letter.”

  “Here they lied! And what for?”

  “Well, they lied to show the girl and Pan Gideon that Yatsek had no thought for them. But note this, your grace, if the Bukoyemskis spoke thus out of friendship for Yatsek, what must Pan Gideon have said out of hatred.”

  “It is sure that he did not spare Yatsek. Still, even if she were less to blame than we imagine, tell me what of that? Yatsek has gone, and perhaps will never come back to us, for I know that he will spare his life less than Pan Gideon spared his reputation.”

  “Yatsek would have gone in every case,” answered Pan Serafin.

  “And if he does not return I will not tear the soutane on my body. A death in defence of the country and fighting Mohammedan vileness is a worthy end for a Christian knight, and a worthy end for a great family. But I will add one thing: I should have preferred to see him go without that painful dart which is sticking in him.”

  “Neither had my only son special happiness in life; he too went, and perhaps will
not return to me.”

  They grew thoughtful, for their souls were filled with love for those young men.

  Tvorkovski, the prelate, came upon them while thoughtful, and learned that they had been talking of Panna Sieninski.

  “I will tell you, gentlemen,” said he, “but let this be a secret. Pan Gideon left no will, the Krepetskis have a right to the property. I know that he had the wish to provide for his wife and leave all to her, but he was not able. Do not mention this before the Krepetskis.”

  “But have you said nothing?”

  “Why should I? Those are hard people, and with me the question is that they should not be too hard toward the orphan, hence I withheld information, and then told them this: ‘Not only does God sometimes try a man, but one man tries another.’ When they heard this they were disquieted greatly, and fell to inquiring: ‘How is it? Does your grace know anything?’ ‘What has to be shown will be shown,’ remarked I, ‘but remember one thing. Pan Gideon had the right to will what he owned to whatever person pleased him.’”

  Here the prelate laughed, and, putting his hands behind his violet girdle, continued, —

  “I say, gentlemen, that the legs trembled under old Krepetski when he heard this; he began to contradict. ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘that is impossible! he had not the right. Neither God nor men would agree to that.’

  “I looked at him severely, and said: ‘If you think of God, you do well, for at your age it is proper to have His mercy in mind, and not turn to earthly tribunals, for it may happen very easily that you will not have time to await a decision.’ He was frightened then terribly, and I added: ‘And be kind to the orphan, lest God punish you sooner than you imagine.’”

  Hereupon Father Voynovski, whose compassionate heart was moved at the fate of the maiden, embraced the wise prelate.

  “Benefactor,” cried he, “with such a head you ought to be chancellor. I understand! I understand! You said nothing, you did not miss the truth, and you have frightened the Krepetskis, who think that perhaps there is a will, nay, that it is even in your possession; they must count with this, and be moderate toward the orphan.”

  The prelate, pleased with the praise, rapped his head with his knuckles.

  “Not quite like a nut with holes in it?” asked he.

  “Ho, there is so much reason there that it finds room with difficulty.”

  “If God wish, it will burst, but meanwhile, I think that I have saved the orphan really. I must confess, however, that the Krepetskis spoke of her with greater humanity and with more kindness than I had expected. The women, it is true, have taken some trifles, but the old man declared that he would have them given back to the young lady.”

  “Though the Krepetskis were the worst among men,” said Pan Serafin, “they would not dare to rob an orphan over whom the eyes of such a wise and good priest are so watchful. But, my very reverend benefactor, I wish to mention another thing. I wish to beg you to show me this favor; come now to Yedlinka, let me have the honor of entertaining under my roof such a notable personage, with whom conversation is like the honey of wisdom and politeness. Father Voynovski has promised already to visit me, and we will talk, the three of us, concerning public and private matters.”

  “I know what hospitality yours is,” answered the prelate, with affability, “to refuse would be real suffering, and since Lent, the time of self-subjection is past, I will go for a pleasant day to you, willingly. Let us take farewell of the Krepetskis, but first of the orphan, so that they shall see the esteem in which we hold her.”

  They went, and finding Anulka alone, spoke kind, heartfelt words, which gave her consolation and courage. Pan Serafin stroked her bright head, just as would a mother who desires to comfort a sorrowing child; the prelate did the same, and the honest Father Voynovski was so moved by her thin face and her beauty in its sadness, which reminded him of a flower of the field cut down too early by a scythe-stroke, that he too pressed her temples, and having a mind always thinking of Yatsek, he said half to himself, half to her,— “How can one wonder at Yatsek, since this picture was before him. But those Bukoyemskis lied, when they said that he went away gladly.”

  When Anulka heard these words, she put her lips to his hand on a sudden, and for a long time she could not withdraw them. The sobbing, which came from her heart, shook her bosom; and they left her in an immense, irrepressible onrush of weeping.

  An hour later they were in Yedlinka, where good news was awaiting them. A man had arrived bringing a letter from Stanislav, in which he stated that he and Yatsek had joined the hussars of Prince Alexander; that they were well, and Yatsek, though pensive at all times, had gained a little cheerfulness, and was not so forgetful as during the first days. Besides words of filial love, there was in the letter one bit of news which astonished Pan Serafin: “If thou, my father, my most beloved and great mighty benefactor, see the Bukoyemskis on their return be not astonished, and save them with kindness, for they have been met by most marvellous accidents, and I cannot help them. If they were not to go to the war they would die, I think, from sorrow, which even now has almost killed them.”

  In the course of the following months Pan Serafin visited Belchantska repeatedly, wishing to learn what was happening to Anulka. This was not caused by any personal motive, for Stanislav was not in love with the young lady, and she had broken altogether with Yatsek; he acted mainly from kindness, and a little from curiosity, for he wished to discover in what way, and how far the girl had aided in breaking the bonds of attachment between herself and Yatsek. He met opposition, however. The Krepetskis respected his wealth, hence they received him politely; but theirs was a wonderfully watchful hospitality, so continuous and active that Pan Serafin could not find himself alone with the girl for one instant.

  He understood that they did not wish him to ask her how she was treated, and that set him to thinking, though he did not find that she was either ill treated, or made to serve greatly. He saw her, it is true, once and a second time cleaning with a crust of bread white satin shoes of such size that they could not be for her own feet, and darning stockings in the evening, but the Krepetski girls did the same, hence there could not be in this any plan to humiliate the orphan by labor. The old maids were at times as biting and stinging as nettles, but Pan Serafin remarked soon that such was their nature, and that they could not restrain themselves always from gnawing even at Martsian, whom still they feared so much that when either one had thrust out her sting half its length a look from him made her draw it back quickly. Martsian himself was polite and agreeable to Anulka, though without forwardness, and after the departure of old Krepetski and Tekla he became still more agreeable.

  This departure was not pleasing to Pan Serafin, though it was simple enough that they could not leave an old man, who was somewhat disabled in walking, without the care of a woman, and since they had two houses they had divided the family. Pan Serafin would have preferred that Tekla remain with the orphan, but when on an occasion he hinted remotely that the ages of the two maidens made them company for each other, the elder sister met his words in the worst manner possible, —

  “Anulka has shown the world,” said Johanna, “that age does not trouble her. Our late uncle and Pani Vinnitski have proved this — so we are not too old for her.”

  “We are as much older than she, as Tekla is younger, and I do not know as we are that much,” added the second sister; “besides our heads must manage this household.”

  But Martsian broke into the conversation, —

  “Tekla’s service,” said he, “is dearest to father. He loves her beyond any one, at which we cannot wonder. We thought to send Panna Anulka with them, but she is accustomed to this house, so I think she will feel more at home in it. As to our care, I will do what I can to make it not too disagreeable.”

  Then, with feet clattering, he approached the young lady, and tried to kiss her hand, which she drew away quickly, as if frightened. Pan Serafin thought that it was not proper to remove Pani Vinnitski, bu
t he kept to himself that idea, not wishing to interfere in questions beyond his authority. He noted more than once that on Anulka’s face fear as well as sadness was evident, but at this he was not greatly astonished, for her fate was in fact very grievous. An orphan, without a kindred soul near her, without her own roof above her head, she was forced to live on the favor of people who to her were repulsive, and who had an evil fame generally, she was forced to suffer pain over the vanished and brighter past, and to be in dread of the present. And though a person may be in suffering to the utmost, that person will have some solace if he, or she, may cherish hope of a better future. But she had no chance for hope, and she had none. To-morrow must be for her as to-day and the endless years to come, with the same drag of orphanhood, loneliness, and living on the bread of a stranger’s favor.

  Pan Serafin spoke of this often with Father Voynovski, whom he saw almost daily, since it was pleasant for them to talk about their young heroes. Father Voynovski, however, shrugged his shoulders with sympathy and magnified the keenness of the prelate who, by hanging the threat of a will like a Damocles sword above the Krepetskis, had protected the orphan, at least from evil treatment.

  “Such a keen man!” said he. “Now you have him, and now he has slipped from you. Sometimes I think that perhaps he has not told the whole truth to us, and that there is a will in his hands, and that he will bring it out unexpectedly.”

  “That has occurred to me also, but why should he hide it?”

  “I know not; perhaps to test human nature. I think only of this: Pan Gideon was a clear-sighted man, and it cannot find place in my head that he should not have made long ago some provision.”

  But after a time the ideas of both men were turned in a different direction, for the Bukoyemskis arrived, or rather walked in from Radom.

  They appeared at Yedlinka one evening, with sabres, it is true, but with not very sound boots, and with torn coats on their bodies. They had such woe-be-gone faces that, if Pan Serafin had not for some time been expecting them, he would have been terribly frightened, and would have thought that news of his son’s death had come with them.