Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  Such, in fact, was the case. Krzycki, however, was neither a dull nor thoughtless person. At the university he, like others, philosophized a little, but afterwards the current of his life carried him in another direction. There existed, indeed, beside Jastrzeb and the daily affairs connected therewith, other matters which deeply interested him. He was sincerely concerned about his native land, her future, the events which might affect her destiny, and finally — women and love. But upon faith he reflected as much as he did upon death, upon which he did not reflect at all, as if he was of the opinion that it was improper to think of them, since they in the proper time will not forget anybody.

  At present, moreover, owing to the guests, he was more than a hundred miles from thinking of such questions. At one time, while yet a student, when during vacation time he drove over with his mother to Rzeslewo to attend high mass, he cherished in the depths of his soul the poetical hope that some Sunday the rattle of a carriage would resound without the church doors and a young and charming princess, journeying from somewhere beyond the Baltic to Kiev, would enter the church; that he would invite her to Jastrzeb and later fall in love with her and marry her. And now here unexpectedly those youthful dreams were in some measure realized, for to Jastrzeb there came not one but three princesses of whom he could dream as much as he pleased, for behold, they were now kneeling before the family altar, absorbed in prayer. He began to gaze — now at Pani Otocka and then at the form of Marynia, which resembled a Tanagra figurine, and repeated to himself: “Mother desires to give one of them to me as a wife.” And he had nothing against the idea, but thought of Pani Otocka, “That is a book which somebody has already read, while the other is a fledgeling who can play a violin.” Ladislaus was of the age which does not take into calculation any woman under twenty years. After a while, as if unwillingly, he directed his eyes towards Miss Anney, — unwillingly because she formed the most luminous object in the room, for the setting sun, falling upon her light hair, saturated it with such lustre that the whole head appeared aflame. Miss Anney from time to time raised her hand and shaded her head with it as if she desired to extinguish the lustre, but as the rays each moment became less warm, she finally discontinued the action. At times she was hidden from view by the figure of some dark-haired girl, whom Ladislaus did not know, but who, he surmised, must be a servant of one of these ladies. Towards the close of the services the girl bowed so low that she no longer obscured the view of the light hair or the young and powerful shoulders.

  “That,” he said to himself, “would be the greatest temptation, but mother would be opposed, as she is a foreigner.”

  But suddenly, as if to rebuke his conscience, there came to his memory the pensive eyes and slender shoulders of Panna Stabrowska. Ah! if only Rzeslewo and the funds had fallen to his lot! But uncle bequeathed Rzeslewo for educational purposes and the funds for trips to Carlsbad by the Mats, as Dolhanski had said, and a few thousand for Hanka Skibianka. At this recollection his brow clouded and he drew his hand across his forehead.

  “I unnecessarily became excited before mother and the ladies,” he said to himself, “but I must explain this matter to Gronski.”

  Accordingly, at the close of the mass, he turned to him:

  “I want to speak with you about various matters, but only in four eyes. Is that satisfactory?”

  “All right,” answered Gronski, “when?”

  “Not to-day, for I must first go to Rzeslewo to question the men, look over the estate, and then attend to the guests. It will be best to-morrow evening or the day after. We will take our rifles with us and go to the woods. Now there is a flight of woodcocks. Dolhanski does not hunt, so we will leave him with the ladies.”

  “All right,” repeated Gronski.

  VIII

  The very next day, towards evening, they strolled with their rifles and a dog in the direction of the mill, and on the way Ladislaus began to narrate all that he had learned the previous day.

  “I was in Rzeslewo,” he said, “but there you hear nothing good. The peasants insist that the will was forged and that the gentry twisted it about so that they could control, for their own benefit, the money and the lands. I am almost certain that Laskowicz is pouring oil upon that fire. But why? I cannot understand; nevertheless, that is the case. The landless, in particular, are wrought up and say that if the fortune is divided among them, they, themselves, will contribute for a school. In reality, they have no conception of the kind of school Zarnowski wanted, nor of the cost of establishing it.”

  “In view of this, what do you intend to do?” asked Gronski.

  “I do not know. I will see. In the meantime I will try to convince them. I also begged the rector to explain the matter to them and spoke with a few of the older husbandmen. I seemed to have persuaded them; but unfortunately with them it is thus: that everyone, taken singly, is intelligent and even sensible, but when you talk to them together, it is like trying to smash a stone wall with your head.”

  “That is nothing strange,” answered Gronski; “take ten thousand doctors of philosophy together and they become a mob which is ruled by gesticulations.”

  “That may be,” said Ladislaus, “but I did not wish to speak of the will only. I also saw the old Rzeslewo overseer and learned a great many, intensely curious things. Figure to yourself that our guesses were wrong and that Hanka Skibianka is not the daughter of Uncle Zarnowski.”

  “And that seemed so certain! But what kind of proof have you of this?”

  “Very simple. Skiba was a native of Galicia and emigrated to Rzeslewo with his wife and daughter when the latter was five years old. As Zarnowski, while well, stayed in the village like a wall, and at that time for at least ten years had not travelled anywhere, it is evident that he could not have been the father of that girl.”

  “That decides the matter. I cannot understand why he bequeathed to her ten thousand roubles.”

  “There is an interesting history connected with that,” replied Ladislaus. “You must know that the deceased, though now it appears that he loved the peasants, always kept them under very strict control. He managed them according to the old system; that is, he abused them from morning till night. They say that when he cursed in the corridor you could hear him over half the village. A certain day he went into the blacksmith’s shop and, finding something out of order, began to berate the blacksmith unmercifully. The smith bowed and listened in humility. It happened that little Hanka at that time was in front of the smithy and, seeing what was taking place, seized a little stick and started to belabor Zarnowski with it all over the legs. ‘You will scold Tata, will you?’ It is said that the deceased at first was dumbfounded, but afterwards burst into such laughter that his anger against the blacksmith passed away.”

  “That Hanka pleases me.”

  “So did she please Uncle. The very same day he sent a rouble to the smith’s wife and ordered her to bring the child to the manor-house. From that time he became attached to her. He commanded the old housekeeper to teach her to read, and attended to it himself. The child likewise became devoted to him, and this continued for a number of years. In the end people began to say that the master wanted to keep the smith’s daughter entirely at his residence and have her educated as a lady, but this, it seems, was untrue. He wanted to bring her up as a stout village lass and give her a dowry. The Skibas, whose only child she was, declared that they would not surrender her for anything in the world. Of course, I know only what the overseer told me, for our relations with the deceased were broken on account of the mill from which he drained the water for his ponds.”

  “And later the Skibas emigrated.”

  “Yes, but before that time Zarnowski began to fail in health and moved to Warsaw, and subsequently resided abroad; so that their relations relaxed. When the Skibas emigrated, the girl was seventeen. Uncle, on his return to Rzeslewo to die, longed for her and waited for some news of her. But as he had previously removed even his furniture from Rzeslewo to the city, she evide
ntly assumed that he never would return and did not know where to write.”

  “The bequest proves best that he did not forget her,” said Gronski, “and from the whole will it appears that he was a man of better heart than people thought.”

  “Surely,” answered Ladislaus.

  For an interval they walked in silence; then Krzycki resumed the conversation.

  “As for myself, I prefer that she is not the daughter of the deceased.”

  “Why? Has that any bearing on the bequest?”

  “No. Under no circumstances will I accept that bequest. Never!”

  “That is all very well, but tell me, why did you renounce it with such vehemence that everybody was astonished?”

  “There is one circumstance which neither Mother nor anybody else even suspects, but which I will sincerely confess to you. In the proper time I seduced that girl.”

  Gronski stood still, gazed at Ladislaus, and ejaculated:

  “What’s that?”

  As he was not prone to treat such matters with levity and, besides, the previous narrative of Krzycki had awakened within him a sympathy for Hanka, he frowned and asked:

  “For the fear of God! You seduced a child? And you say it was done in the proper time?”

  But Ladislaus replied quite calmly:

  “Let us not stop, for the dog has gone too far ahead of us,” and here he pointed at the white spaniel running before them. “I did not seduce a child, for at that time she was sixteen. It happened more than seven years ago, while I was still a student and came to Jastrzeb on a vacation.”

  “Were there any consequences?”

  “As far as I know there were none. You will understand that having returned the following vacation and not finding either her or the Skibas, I did not ask about them, for on the thief’s head the cap burns. But to-day I casually asked the overseer whether the Skibas had not probably emigrated because some mishap had befallen their daughter. He answered, ‘No.’”

  “Then it is better for her and for you.”

  “Certainly it is much better; for otherwise the matter would have been brought to light and would reach Mother’s ears.”

  “And in such case you would suffer much unpleasantness.”

  There was irony in Gronski’s voice, but Ladislaus, absorbed in his own thoughts, did not notice it and said:

  “In such case, I would have unpleasantness because Mother in such matters is exceedingly severe. So, to-day, after mature deliberation, I am like a wolf, who will commit no injury in the neighborhood where he keeps his nest, but at that time I was more headstrong and less careful.”

  “May the deuce take you!” exclaimed Gronski.

  “For what?”

  “Nothing; speak on.”

  “I have not much more to say. Recurring to the will, you now understand why I could not accept it.”

  “Perhaps I do, but tell me ‘thy exquisite reason,’ as Shakespeare says.”

  “Well, as to the seduction of a girl, that does happen in villages, but to seduce a girl and appropriate to one’s own use that which had been provided for her, — why, that would be too much. And perhaps she may be suffering, in want, somewhere in America.”

  “Everything is possible,” answered Gronski.

  “So that if the advertisements, which I will make, do not reach her notice, in such case, I would be using her money, while she would die of starvation. No. Everything has its limits. I am not extraordinarily scrupulous, but there are some things which I plainly cannot do.”

  “Tell me, but sincerely, do you entertain towards her any sentiment?”

  “I will tell you candidly that I completely forgot her. Now I have recalled her and, in truth, I cannot have any ill-will towards her. On the contrary, that kind of recollection cannot, of course, be disagreeable, unless it is linked with remorse. But we were mere children — and a pure accident brought us together.”

  “Then permit me to ask one more question. If the deceased bequeathed to her the whole of Rzeslewo, and the funds, and if she did not within two years appear to claim them, would you renounce such a bequest?”

  “I cannot answer a question to which I have not given any consideration. I would not want to represent myself to you any better or any worse than I am. But this much is certain: I would publish the advertisements, and would publish them for the two years. But after all, of what importance to you can my answer be?”

  And here he abruptly paused, for from the direction of the adjacent birch grove some strange sound reached them, resembling a snort, and at the same time, above the tops of the birch and the lime-trees, there appeared upon the background of the twilight a gray bird, flying in a straight line to the underwood on the opposite side of the meadow.

  “Woodcock!” cried Krzycki, and he bounded forward.

  Gronski, following him, thought:

  “He certainly never read Nietzsche, and yet in his veins, together with the blood, there courses some noble super-humanity. If anybody betrayed his sister, he would have shot him in the head like a dog, but as a village girl is concerned, he does not feel the slightest uneasiness.”

  Later they stopped at the edge of the birch grove. For a time intense silence prevailed; after which a strange voice resounded again above their heads and another woodcock appeared. Gronski fired and missed; Krzycki bettered — and they saw how, with descending flight, the fowl fell in the underwood farther off. The white dog for a while lingered in the dusk of the thicket and returned carrying the dead bird in his mouth.

  “She was already wounded when I fired,” said Ladislaus. “It is your bird.”

  “You are a gracious host,” answered Gronski.

  And again silence ensued, which even the rustle of leaves did not disturb, as there was not a breath of air. But after a time two woodcocks snorted above their heads, one following the other, at which Gronski could not shoot, but Ladislaus winged both cleanly. Finally a more reckless one took pity on Gronski for she flew accommodatingly over him, as if she desired to save him any inconvenience. He himself felt ashamed at the thrill of pleasure he experienced when, after firing, he saw the bird hit the ground; and agreeable to his incorrigible habit of meditation upon every phenomenon, he came to the conclusion that his strange sensation could be attributed to the aboriginal times, when man and his family were dependent for subsistence upon skill in hunting. Thanks to this reasoning, he did not shoot at another bird that flew nearer the edge of the underwood and with which the flight evidently ended, as they waited for others in vain. In the meanwhile it grew dark, and after an interval the white spaniel emerged from the nightfall, and after him came Ladislaus.

  “We had a bootless chase,” he said, “but that is nothing. In any case, there are four morsels for the ladies. Tomorrow we will try for more.”

  “This was but a slight interruption in your confessions,” answered Gronski, slinging his rifle over his shoulder.

  “My confessions?” said Ladislaus. “Aha! — yes.”

  “You said that a mere accident brought you together.”

  “That actually was the case. But we must now go ahead and you will kindly follow in my footsteps, as it is damp here in some places. This way we will reach the bridge and at the bridge we will have the road.”

  Not until they were on the road did he commence his narrative:

  “It all began and ended in the mill, which even at that time served as a storage place for hay; and it did not continue more than a fortnight. It occurred thus: I once went out with a rifle to hunt for roebucks, for here roebucks come out in the evening at the clearing on the stream. It was very cloudy that day, but as it appeared to be clear in the west, I thought that the clouds would pass away. I took a position of a few hundred — and even more — steps from the mill, for nearer there was lying on the meadow, linen, which might scare the bucks; and about a half hour later I actually killed a buck. But in the meanwhile it began to rain, and in a short while there was such a downpour as I had never seen in Jastrzeb.
I seized my buck by the hind legs and began to scamper off with all my might for the mill. On the way I noticed that some one had carried away the linen. I rushed into the mill and buried myself up to the ears in the hay, when I heard somebody breathing close by me. I asked: ‘Who is that?’ A thin voice answered me, ‘I.’ ‘What kind of an I?’ ‘Hanka.’ ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘I came for the linen.’ Then it began to thunder so much that I thought the mill would fall to pieces; — and not until it had subsided somewhat did I learn by the aid of continuous questions that my female companion was from Rzeslewo; that her family name was Skibianka, and that she finished her sixteenth year on St. Anne’s Day. Then, and I give you my word, without any sinister will or intent, but only as a jest and because it is customary to talk that way with village maids, I said to her: ‘Will you give me a kiss?’ She did not answer, but as at that moment a thunder clap pealed, she nestled closer to me — perhaps from fright. And I kissed her on the very lips and, as I live, I had the same impression as if I had kissed a fragrant flower. So I repeated it twice, three times, and so on, and she returned the tenth or twentieth. When the storm passed away and it became necessary for us to part, I had her arms about my neck and at the same time my cheeks were wet with her tears, — for she cried, but I do not know whether from the loss of innocence or because I was leaving.”

  Here, in spite of himself, the song of Ophelia, when insane, flitted through Krzycki’s memory.

  Ladislaus continued:

  “On our departure she said that she knew I was the young lord of Jastrzeb; that she saw me every Sunday in Rzeslewo and gazed upon me as upon some miracle-working painting.”