Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  Somehow, after a few stealthy glances, his curiosity, which thus far had been deadened by fatigue, hunger, and ill-humor, was awakened. The proximity of a woman, young and, as he observed, stately, began to affect him. It seemed strange to him in the first place that he was conducting over the Rzeslewo highway an Englishwoman, who came, the Lord knew from where; that a short while before he was unacquainted with her and at present felt the warmth of her arm and hand. He observed also that her hand, tightly incased in a glove, though shapely, was not at all small; and he thought that the reasons for this were the English sports — tennis, rowing, archery, and the like. “Our Polish women,” he thought, “look differently.” Under the influence of these reflections upon English sports, it seemed to him that from this quaintly attired form some peculiar power, healthiness, and energy emanated. His companion began to interest him more and more. Leading her on his arm, he could see only her profile, upon which he bestowed increased attention. As a consequence of more exact observation, his curiosity intensified. In the first moments he conceded only that she was a comely and buxom person, but later he soliloquized in this fashion: “How vastly more stately and, sincerely speaking, more beautiful she is than Pani Otocka or that child, whose dresses reach to her ankles and whose soul, as Gronski says, is in the violin!” But this, however, was not the strict truth, for Pani Otocka, a slender brunette with the expression of a blonde, was of a type more exquisite and racial, and the “child” had a countenance simply angelic. But at that particular moment, if a secret ballot had been taken upon this question, Krzycki, owing perhaps to his opposition to his mother’s designs, would have cast his vote for Miss Anney.

  After a certain time, it seemed to him that Miss Anney also was casting stealthy glances at him. He determined to catch her in the act and looked at her more openly. And then he saw something which astonished him in the highest degree. On the cheeks of the young Englishwoman tear after tear coursed. Her lips were compressed as if she desired to stifle her impressions and her hand, supported on his arm, did not cease to tremble.

  “Either this is affected sensibility,” Krzycki thought, “or else her English nerves are jangled. Why the deuce should she weep over a man whom she never saw in her life? Unless it reminded her of her father’s burial or that of some near relative?”

  Miss Anney did not look at all like a person with jangled nerves. Somehow, after a time, her emotion passed. She began to gaze with particular interest and attention upon the throng of people, the neighborhood, the fields, and the distant fringe of the forest as if she desired to retain them all permanently in her memory.

  “She should have taken a kodak with her,” thought Ladislaus.

  They were already not far from the cemetery gates. But in the meanwhile a wind stronger than the former gusts broke loose. It swept suddenly across the field of sprouting grain, raised a cloud of dust on the highway, snuffed out the mendicant candles which were not extinguished before, and entwined Krzycki’s neck with Miss Anney’s long boa.

  She relinquished his arm and, freeing him from his ties, said in Polish with an almost imperceptible foreign accent:

  “I beg your pardon. The wind—”

  “That is nothing,” answered Ladislaus. “Perhaps you would prefer to take a carriage, for the squalls are breaking out more frequently.”

  “No, thank you,” she replied; “I believe we are near the cemetery. I will walk alone, because I must hold my boa and dress.”

  During this conversation they stood opposite each other for a moment and, although that moment was brief, Ladislaus made a new discovery. Not only did he confirm his previous opinion that Miss Anney was, in reality, very beautiful and had an extraordinarily transparent complexion, set off with light hair, but above all else that her blue eyes did not radiate with two separate beams, but rather with a single, gentle, blue, slightly misty, soulful light. He was unable to explain to himself in what lay the distinct and peculiar charm of that look, but he felt it perfectly.

  In the meantime, they reached the cemetery. A short prayer detained all at the gates, after which the funeral cortege moved between the poplars, swung by the winds, and crosses overgrown by luxuriant grass on the mounds, under which slept the Rzeslewo peasantry. The Zarnowski tomb stood in the centre. In its front walls could be seen an opening, knocked out for the reception of a new member of the family. At the side there were two masons, with whitened aprons, having at their feet prepared cement and a pile of new bricks. The coffin was placed upon the sand near the opening and the priests began a long chant over it. Their voices rose and then fell, like waves, in a rolling and dreamy rhythm, which was accompanied by the roar of the poplars, the flapping of the flags in the air, and the hum of prayers uttered, as if mechanically, by the peasants. Then the parish-priest of Rzeslewo began a discourse. As he did not live on good terms with the deceased, he commended his soul to the divine mercy rather than praised him. About could be seen the faces of the Zarnowski relatives, grave and appropriately grouped for the occasion, but no grief, not a tear. They were rather indifferent, with an expression of expectancy, and even tedium. The coffin appeared to be only awaiting the close of the rites, as if it was anxious to enter that vault and darkness, for which it was appropriately designed. In the meantime, after the sermon, songs began to ring. At moments they subsided, and then could be heard only the revelry of wind among the poplars. At last a high voice, as if startled, intoned “requiem aeternam” and fell suddenly like a pillar of dust twirled by the storm; and after a momentary silence “eternal repose,” full of solace, resounded and the ceremony was over.

  On the coffin they threw a few handfulls of sand, and then pushed it into the opening which the masons began to wall up, laying brick upon brick and coating them with mortar. The barrier, which was to forever separate Zarnowski from the world and light, grew with each moment. Groups of peasants slowly left the cemetery. Two female neighbors from Gorek, a Pani Wlocek, an old and pathetic dame, and her daughter, who was not young, approached Pani Krzycki and felt it incumbent upon them to offer a “few words of consolation,” which nobody expected and which were absolutely unnecessary. Gronski began to converse with Ladislaus:

  “Observe,” he quietly said, looking at the work of the masons, “yet a few more bricks and then, as Dante says, ‘Aeterna silenza.’ No sorrow, not a tear; no one will ever come here expressly for him. Something similar awaits me, and you remember that thus they bury old bachelors. Your mother is quite right in wanting to have you married.”

  “To tell the truth,” answered Krzycki, “the deceased was not only an old bachelor, but also was unsocial. But finally, is it not all the same?”

  “After death, certainly. But during life, when you think of it, it is not at all the same. This ‘lust for posthumous grief’ may be illogical and foolish, but nevertheless it exists.”

  “Whence does it come?”

  “From an equally unwise desire to outlive self. Look, the work is finished and Zarnowski is sealed up. Let us go.”

  At the gates the rattle of the approaching carriages was heard. The party moved towards the exit. The ladies now were in the lead; after them the priests and guests walked, with the exception of Dolhanski, who was talking to the Englishwoman.

  Suddenly Ladislaus turned to Gronski and asked:

  “What is Miss Anney’s Christian name?”

  “While we are in the cemetery you might have thought of something else. Her Christian name is Agnes.”

  “A beautiful name.”

  “In England it is quite common.”

  “Is she rich?”

  “And that question you could defer to another time, but if you are in a hurry, ask Dolhanski. He knows those things best.”

  “I ask you because I see him with her and hear him chattering in English.”

  “Oh, that is a play within a play! He is after Pani Otocka.”

  “Ah!”

  “Equally as old as it is fruitless. For it is yet difficult to ascertain
with any exactness how much Miss Anney possesses, while the amount which the late Director Otocki left his wife is perfectly known.”

  “I have a hope that my beautiful cousin will give him the mitten.”

  “Which would increase a beautiful collection. But tell me, what do you think of your cousins?”

  “Certainly — Pani Otocka — certainly — both have what the Galicians call ‘something ennobling.’ But Panna Marynia is still quite a child.”

  Gronski directed his eyes at the slim and slender figure walking before them and said:

  “That is a child who could as well fly in the air as walk on earth.”

  “An aëroplane or what?”

  “I warn you that she is the object of my highest adoration.”

  “So I have heard. It is already known to all men.”

  “Only they do not know that that adoration is not of a red color, but heavenly blue.”

  “I do not understand that very well.”

  “When you are better acquainted with her you will understand me.”

  Krzycki, who was more interested in Miss Anney, wanted to turn the conversation to her, but they passed the gates, before which the horses waited. The young man proceeded to assist the ladies to their seats, in which operation he saw directed towards himself for a moment the soulful eyes of the Englishwoman. Preparatory to her departure, his mother asked him whether he had finished his duties connected with the funeral and whether he would return immediately to Jastrzeb.

  “No,” he answered; “I have made an arrangement with the parish-priest that he should permit me to invite the priests to the rectory, and I must entertain them there. But as soon as I greet them and eat something, I will excuse myself to the guests and return as soon as possible.”

  Here he bowed to the ladies, after which he removed his hands from the carriage, cast a glance at the chestnut thill-horse to see if he did not overreach, and shouted:

  “Go ahead!”

  The carriage trundled over the road on which the funeral cortege had passed. Of the participants who were dressed in surtouts, besides Ladislaus, only Dolhanski remained. He felt that, as a relative of the deceased, it was also his duty to entertain the priests who officiated at the obsequies; and besides, he had other reasons which induced him to remain in Ladislaus’ company.

  They had barely settled in the britzska, when he began to look around among the peasants, who still stood here and there in groups, and then asked:

  “Where is the notary Dzwonkowski?”

  Ladislaus smiled and replied:

  “He rode ahead with the priests, but to-night you will see him at Jastrzeb, for he invited himself there.”

  “So; then I regret that I did not return with the ladies. I wanted to wring from him some information regarding the will, and I thought that later that might not be possible.”

  “Patience. The notary told me that the will is to be opened the day after to-morrow in his office and that we will have to drive over there for that purpose.”

  “But I wished to know to-day whether it will be worth while for me to wait until to-morrow or the day after. If this precious uncle of ours has let us drift, as the saying is, upon a swift current of water, then Pani Wlocka was right in offering us words of consolation. I, at least, will need them for a long time.”

  “How can you talk that way?”

  “I am saying aloud what you all secretly think. I am very anxious about that will. I care more for Dzwonkowski at the present moment than for the entire terrestial globe together with the five parts of the world; and more particularly since I have seen that he brought a bundle of papers with him.”

  “As to that you may rest at ease. He is the greatest musico-maniac that I have ever met. He worships Panna Marynia, with whom he became acquainted at Krynica. From Gronski I have learnt that in the moonlight sonata, in the Benois arrangement for the violin, he arranged the notes for the flute and sent them to her in Warsaw. Today he wants to see how they will go. Therefore he invited himself to Jastrzeb, and he brought with him, besides the sonata, a bundle of other notes. I assure you that he will not want to talk or speak of anything else.”

  “In that case, may the devils carry off Dzwonkowski’s flute, Panna Marynia’s violin, your Jastrzeb piano, and music in general.”

  On this Ladislaus looked at him spitefully and said:

  “Be careful about our Jastrzeb piano, because if you hear a trio to-night, you will find Pani Otocka at the piano.”

  “I have a hope that it will be, at least, as much out of tune as I am at present and, in that case, I will not envy either her or the auditors. But I see that Gronski has filled you with idle gossip. Good! Unlike him, I do not have an old bachelor’s hankering after boarding-house misses and I like young teals only on a platter. Let him feast his eyes with his Marynia; let him pray to her, but let him leave me alone. They all have gone crazy on music there, and are ready to infect you in Jastrzeb. Only Miss Anney does not play on anything, and has a little sense.”

  “Ah, Miss Anney does not play on anything?”

  “Yes. But that does not prevent her from playing, in a certain case, upon me or on you, but much more easily upon you than me.”

  “Why more easily upon me?”

  “Because I am that particular kind of instrument that wants to know in advance how much the concert will bring.”

  Ladislaus, accustomed of old to Dolhanski’s cynicism, shrugged his shoulders, but did not have time to reply as they had in the meantime arrived at the rectory.

  III

  Dolhanski, in fact, could not extract from the notary, anything but testy replies. Immediately after his reception at the rectory the old notary became very garrulous, but spoke with Ladislaus only about Marynia, for whom he had an unbounded admiration. At present he feared that Pani Krzycki might not consent to an evening musicale on the day of the funeral of a relative, and that fear did not cease to disturb him. Under this impression he began to demonstrate that music may as well be associated with death as with life; that impressive music always attends funerals, and that as mankind has not devised anything better than music, not even for the worship of God, therefore it may be taken for granted that music facilitates the flight of the soul to heaven, and even salvation. Ladislaus bit his mustache and, without qualification, concurred in this reasoning, knowing that the amiable old gentleman was wont to berate his opponents unmercifully. With this kind of talk, in which, to Dolhanski’s great irritation, there was no mention of the will, they passed their time on the way to Jastrzeb. There they were served with tea. As the wind had subsided entirely before the setting sun and the evening was delightful, the ladies, with Gronski, were in the garden. When Ladislaus and his companions followed them, they found Pani Krzycki and Pani Otocka on the bank of the pond, while Miss Anney and Marynia were in a boat on the pond. A ruddy lustre permeated the whole air; the scent of elders, which grew near the water’s edge, blended with the odor of the turf, duck-weed, and fish. The water was dark green on the border from alders and willows which hemmed it in, but in the centre, on the overflow, it was golden, with reflections of purple and peacock feathers. The boat floated towards the point, whose narrow girdle from the garden side served as a landing-place. Marynia sat in the middle of the boat, but Miss Anney, standing at the stern, manipulated it with a single oar, propelling and at the same time steering with uncommon skill. On the background of water and sky she loomed up from head to foot with strong and graceful form, her rounded bosom moving in unison with the movements of the oar. At moments she ceased to paddle and when the boat, gliding each moment more slowly, at last stood still upon the smooth water, there could be seen in the mirrored pellucidness another boat, another Marynia, and another Miss Anney. In this picture there was great pastoral calm. The lustre in the heavens grew ruddier as if the entire western world had been embraced in a conflagration. High above the pond, under the flaming cupola of heaven, strings of wild ducks appeared as if tied together by black crosses.


  The trees stood motionless and the silence was broken only by the sounds of the windmill, coming from the direction of the dam.

  After a while Miss Anney touched shore. Gronski, who was anxious that his “adoration” should not wet her feet, hastened to assist her out of the boat, while the Englishwoman leaped unassisted upon the sand and, approaching the company, said:

  “How charming it is here in Jastrzeb!”

  “Because the weather is fine,” said Ladislaus, drawing nearer. “Yesterday it was cloudy, but to-night it is beautiful.”

  And having scanned the heavens, he, like a true husbandman, added:

  “If it will continue thus, we will start mowing the hay.”

  And Miss Anney gazed at him, as if she discovered something unusual in the sounds of those words, and began to repeat them in the same fashion that one repeats words which he desires to firmly implant in the memory.

  “The hay — the hay.”

  The party turned towards the house, which was being bleached, or rather rouged, amidst the lime-trees, conversing a little about the funeral and the late Zarnowski, but more about the village, the spring evening, and music. Pani Krzycki assured the newly-arrived ladies that in Jastrzeb before their arrival music was not wanting, as there were so many nightingales in the park that at times they would not let any one sleep. At this Gronski, who was a man of great erudition, began to discourse upon country life; that, in truth, it was, from time immemorial, considered the only real and normal life. He mentioned incidentally the Homeric Kings, “who rejoiced in their hearts, counting sheaves with the sceptre,” and various Roman poets. In conclusion he announced, as his opinion, that socialism will shatter to pieces upon agriculture and the soil, because it considers them only as a value, while they are also an affection, or, in other words, not only is a price placed upon them, but they are also loved. Men know what cares are coupled with country life, but in truth it is the only life they prize, as if in it “even bird’s milk was not lacking.”