“There is some one near by!” said the low, suppressed whisper of Hania.
“No; only leaves moving on the branches,” answered Selim.
I looked at them through the green veil of the leaves. Selim was not kneeling near Hania now; he was sitting at her side on a low bench. She was as pale as linen; her eyes were closed, her head inclined and resting on his shoulder. He had encircled her waist with his arm, and drawn her toward him with love and delight.
“I love, Hania! I love! I love!” repeated he, whispering passionately; and inclining his head he sought her lips with his. She drew back, as if warding off the kiss, but still their lips met and remained joined in that manner long, long; it seemed to me whole ages.
And then I thought that all which they had wished to say to each other they said in that kiss. Some sort of shame stopped their words. They had daring enough for kisses, but not enough for speech. A deathlike silence reigned, and amid that silence there came to me merely their quick and passionate breathing.
I seized the wooden grating of the arbor with my hands, and feared lest I might crush it into bits with that convulsive pressure. It grew dark in my eyes; I felt a turning of the head; the earth flew somewhere from under me into a bottomless pit. But even at the price of my life I wished to hear what they were saying; hence I mastered myself again, and catching the air with parched lips, with forehead pressed to the grating, I listened, counting every breath which they drew.
Silence continued some time yet. At last Hania began in a whisper, —
“Enough, enough! I dare not look you in the eyes. Let us leave this.”
And turning her head aside, she tried to tear herself out of his arms.
“Oh, Hania! what is taking place in me? I am so happy!” cried Selim.
“Let us go from here. Some one will come.”
Selim sprang up with gleaming eyes and distended nostrils.
“Let the whole world come,” said he. “I love, and I will say so in the eyes of all people. I know not how this happened. I struggled with myself; I suffered, for it seemed to me that Henryk loved thee, and thou him. But now I care for nothing. Thou lovest me, and so it is a question of thy happiness. Oh, Hania! Hania!”
And here again was the sound of a kiss; and then Hania began to speak in a soft and, as it were, weakened voice, —
“I believe, I believe, Selim; but I have many things to tell thee. They want to send me abroad to the old lady, I think. Yesterday Pani d’Yves spoke of this to Henryk’s father. Pani d’Yves thinks that I am the cause of Pan Henryk’s strange conduct. She thinks that he is in love with me. I myself do not know but that is the case. There are times when it seems to me that he is. I do not understand him. I fear him. I feel that he will hinder us, that he will separate us; but I—”
And she finished in a barely audible voice, —
“I love, much, much.”
“Listen, Hania. No earthly power shall separate us. Should Henryk forbid me to come here, I shall write to thee. I have some one who will always bring a letter. I shall come myself too. By the side of the pond after dark. Go always to the garden. But thou wilt not go abroad. If they wish to send thee, I will not permit it, as God is in heaven. Do not say such things, Hania, or I shall go mad. Oh, my beloved, my beloved!”
Seizing her hands, he pressed them passionately to his lips. She sprang up quickly from the bench.
“I hear voices: they are coming,” cried she, with fear.
Both went out, though no one was coming and no one came. The evening rays of the sun cast gleams of gold on them, but to me those gleams seemed as red as blood. I too dragged on slowly toward the house. Just at the turning of the alley I met Kazio, who was on the watch.
“They have gone. I saw them,” whispered he. “Tell me what I am to do?”
“Shoot him in the head!” cried I, with an outburst.
Kazio flushed like a rose, and his eyes gave out phosphoric light.
“Very good!” said he.
“Stop! Don’t be a fool! Do nothing. Meddle in nothing, and on thy honor, Kazio, be silent. Leave everything to me. When thou art needed, I will tell thee; but not a word before any one.”
“I’ll not even squeak though they kill me.”
We went on awhile in silence. Kazio, penetrated with the importance of the question and sniffing some kind of terrible event, toward which his heart was rushing, looked at me with sparkling eyes; then he said, —
“Henryk?”
“What?”
We both whispered, though no one was listening.
“Wilt thou fight with Selim?”
“I know not. Perhaps.”
Kazio stopped and suddenly threw his arms around my neck.
“Henryk! my golden brother! My heart! My only one! if thou wish to fight, let me do it. I will manage him. Let me try. Let me, Henryk; let me!”
Kazio was simply dreaming of deeds of knighthood, but I felt the brother in him as never before; therefore I gathered him to my breast with all my strength and said, —
“No, Kazio! I know nothing yet, and, besides, he would not accept thee. I know nothing yet of what will happen. Meanwhile give directions to saddle the horse in good season. I will go in advance, meet him on the road, and speak to him. Meanwhile watch both; but don’t let them suspect that thou knowest anything. Have the horse saddled.”
“Wilt thou take arms?”
“Phe! Kazio; he has none. No; I only wish to speak with him. Be calm, and go at once to the stable.”
Kazio sprang away that moment according to my request. I returned slowly to the house. I was like a man struck on the head with the back of an axe. I have the right to say that I knew not what to do; I knew not how to act. I simply wished to shout.
Until I was perfectly certain that I had lost Hania’s heart, I was anxious to be certain. I judged that in every case a stone would then fall from my heart: now misfortune had raised its visor. I was looking at its cold, icy face and stony eyes; but a new uncertainty was born in my heart, — not uncertainty as to my misfortune, but one a hundred times worse, the feeling of my own helplessness, the uncertainty as to how I was to struggle with that feeling.
My heart was filled with gall, bitterness, and rage. Voices of self-denial, voices of devotion, which at other times often spoke in my soul, saying, “Renounce Hania for the sake of her happiness; it is thy duty to think of that first of all; sacrifice thyself!” Those voices were perfectly dumb now. The angel of silent sadness, the angel of devotion and tears, had flown far away from me. I felt like a worm which had been trampled, but of which people had forgotten that it possessed a sting. I had let myself so far be hunted by misfortune as a wolf by a dog; but, too much despised and pressed upon, I had begun like a wolf to show my teeth. A new active power named revenge rose in my heart. I began to feel a species of hatred for Selim and Hania. “I will lose life,” thought I; “I will lose everything that may be lost in this world; but I will not permit those two to be happy.” Penetrated by this thought, I grasped it as a sentenced man grasps a crucifix. I had found a reason for life; the horizon became bright before me. I drew in a full breath, broadly and freely, as never before. My thoughts, which had been scattered and stormed away, arranged themselves in order and were turned with all force in one direction ominous for Selim and Hania. When I reached the house, I was almost calm, and cool. In the hall were sitting Pani d’Yves, Father Ludvik, Hania, Selim, and Kazio, who had just returned from the stable and did not move one step from the two.
“Is there a horse for me?” asked I of Kazio.
“Yes.”
“Wilt thou go a part of the way with me?” put in Selim.
“Yes; I can. I will go to the stacks to see if any damage is done. Kazio, let me have thy place.”
Kazio yielded the place, and I sat down near Selim and Hania, on a sofa under the window. Involuntarily I remembered how we had sat there immediately after Mikolai’s death, when Selim told the Crimean tale about Sultan Harun an
d the soothsaying Lala. But at that time Hania, still small and with eyes red from weeping, had rested her golden head on my breast and fallen asleep; now that same Hania, taking advantage of the darkness descending into the room, was pressing Selim’s hand secretly. In that time the sweet feeling of friendship had joined us all three; now love and hatred were soon to enter into combat. But all was calm apparently: the lovers were smiling at each other; I was more gladsome than usual. No one suspected what kind of gladsomeness that was.
Soon Pani d’Yves begged Selim to play something. He rose, sat at the piano, and began to play Chopin’s mazurka. I remained alone for a time on the sofa with Hania. I noticed that she was gazing at Selim as at a rainbow, that she was flying away into the region of fancies on the wings of music, and I determined to bring her back to the earth.
“How many gifts that Selim has, has he not, Hania? He plays and sings.”
“Oh, it is true!” said she.
“And, besides, what a beautiful face! Just look at him now.”
Hania followed the direction of my eyes. Selim was sitting in the shade; but his head was illuminated by the last light of the evening, and in those gleams he seemed inspired, with his uplifted eyes, — and he was at that moment inspired.
“How beautiful he is, Hania, is he not?” repeated I.
“Are you very fond of him?”
“He cares nothing for my feelings, but women love him. Ah, how that Yozia loved him!”
Alarm was depicted on Hania’s smooth forehead.
“And he?” inquired she.
“Ei! he loves one to-day, another to-morrow. He can never love any one long. Such is his nature. If he should ever say that he loves thee do not believe him” (here I began to speak with emphasis); “for him it will be a question of thy kiss, not thy heart, dost understand?”
“Pan Henryk!”
“True! but what do I say? This does not concern thee. And, moreover, thou art so modest, wouldst thou give thy kiss to a stranger, Hania? I beg pardon, for it seems to me that I have offended thee even with the supposition. Thou wouldst never permit that, wouldst thou, Hania, never?”
Hania sprang up to go away, but I seized her by the hand and detained her by force. I tried to be calm, but rage was throttling me, as if with pincers. I felt that I was losing self-control.
“Answer,” said I, with repressed excitement, “or I shall not let thee go.”
“Pan Henryk! what do you want? What do you say?”
“I say — I say,” whispered I, with set teeth, “that thou hast no shame in thy eyes. Hei?”
Hania sat down again on the sofa, helpless. I looked at her; she was pale as linen. But pity for the poor girl had fled from me. I grasped her hand, and squeezing its small fingers, continued, —
“Hear me! I was at thy feet. I loved thee more than the whole world—”
“Pan Henryk!”
“Be silent. I saw and heard everything. Thou art shameless, — thou and he.”
“My God! my God!”
“Thou art shameless. I would not have dared to kiss the hem of thy garment, and he kissed thee on the lips. Thou thyself didst draw him to thy kisses. Hania, I despise thee! I hate thee! I hate thee!”
The voice died in my breast. I began to breathe quickly and catch for air, which was lacking in my breast.
“Thou hast felt,” said I, after a while, “that I will separate you. If I had to lose my life, I will separate you, even if I had to kill him, thee, and myself. What I said a moment ago is not true. He loves thee, he would not leave thee; but I will separate you.”
“Of what are you talking with so much earnestness?” asked Pani d’Yves, who was sitting at the other end of the room.
There was a moment when I wanted to spring up and tell everything; but I remembered myself, and said in an apparently calm though somewhat broken voice, —
“We were disputing as to which arbor in the garden is the more beautiful, the rose or the hop arbor.”
Selim stopped playing suddenly, and looked at us with attention, then he said with the greatest calmness, —
“I would give all others for the hop arbor.”
“Thy taste is not bad,” answered I. “Hania is of the opposite opinion.”
“Is that true, Panna Hania?” asked he.
“Yes,” said she, in a low voice.
Again I felt that I could not hold out longer in that conversation. Red circles began to flash before my eyes. I sprang up, and running through several chambers to the dining-room, seized a decanter of water standing on the table, and poured the water on my head. Then, without knowing what I did, I dashed the decanter to the floor, where it broke into a thousand bits, and ran to the entrance.
My horse and Selim’s were standing before the porch, saddled. I ran to my room for a moment to wipe the water from my face in some fashion; that done, I returned to the hall. In the hall I found the priest and Selim in the greatest terror.
“What has happened?” asked I.
“Hania has grown weak and fainted.”
“What? how?” cried I, grasping the priest by the arm.
“Immediately after thy going she burst into loud weeping, and fainted. Pani d’Yves has taken her to her room.”
I flew to Pani d’Yves’ chamber without saying a word. Hania had really burst into loud weeping and fainted, but the paroxysm had passed. When I saw her I forgot everything, fell on my knees before her bed like a madman, and, without noticing the presence of Pani d’Yves, cried, —
“Hania, my golden, my love! what is the matter with thee?”
“Nothing, nothing now,” answered she, in a weak voice, and she tried to smile. “Nothing now. Really nothing.”
I sat a quarter of an hour with her, then I kissed her hand and returned to the hall. It was not true that I hated her; I loved her as never before. But to make up for that, when I saw Selim in the hall I wanted to choke him. Oh, him, him, I hated at that moment from the bottom of my soul. He and the priest ran up to me together.
“Well, how is it there?”
“All is well.” And turning to Selim I said in his ear, “Go home. To-morrow we will meet at the Pits near the edge of the forest. I want to speak to thee. I do not wish thee to come here. Our relations must cease.”
The blood rushed to his face. “What does this mean?”
“I will tell thee to-morrow. I do not wish to do so to-day. Dost understand? I do not wish. To-morrow morning at six.”
When I had said this I went back to Pani d’Yves’ chamber. Selim ran some steps after me, but stopped at the door. A few minutes later I looked through the window and saw him ride away.
I sat about an hour in the chamber adjoining that one where Hania was resting. I could not go in, for, weakened by crying, she had fallen asleep. Pani d’Yves and the priest went to hold some consultation with my father. I sat alone till the hour for tea.
During tea I saw that my father, the priest, and Pani d’Yves had faces half mysterious, half severe. I confess that a kind of disquiet seized me. Could they have divined something? That was probable; for in every case between us young people things had happened that day which were quite unnatural.
“To-day,” said my father, “I have received a letter from thy mother.”
“How is mother’s health?”
“Perfectly good. But she is troubled about what is happening here. She wants to return soon, but I will not permit her; she must stay two months longer.”
“What is mother alarmed about?”
“It is known to thee that small-pox is in the village; I was so incautious as to inform her.”
To tell the truth, I did not know that small-pox was prevalent. It may be that I had heard of it, but of course the information had dropped from my ears, as from a wall.
“Will father go to her?” I asked.
“I shall see. We will talk of that.”
“It is now nearly a year that the dear woman has been abroad,” said the priest.
; “Her health requires it. She will be able to spend the coming winter at home. She writes that she feels much better, but is yearning for us, and is disquieted,” said my father. Then, turning to me, he added, “Come to my room after tea. I wish to speak with thee.”
“I will, father.”
I rose and with all the others went to Hania. She was perfectly well now; she wished even to rise, but my father would not give permission. About ten in the evening a brichka rattled up before the porch, and in it Doctor Stanislav, who had been in peasant cottages since midday. After he had examined Hania carefully, he declared that she was not sick in the least, but needed rest and recreation. He forbade study and prescribed amusement and cheerfulness.
My father asked his advice about taking my little sisters away till the epidemic should pass. The doctor set him at rest by saying that there was no danger, and wrote himself to my mother to be at rest. Then he went to bed, for he was ready to drop from fatigue. I lighted him to the other building, where he was to pass the night with me. I was about to lie down, for I was wearied beyond description by the impressions of the day, when Franek entered and said, —
“The old lord begs the Panich to come.”
I went at once. My father was sitting in his room near a desk on which was the letter from my mother. Father Ludvik and Pani d’Yves were present also. My heart fluttered like that of an accused who has to appear before a judgment seat. I felt almost certain that they wished to ask me about Hania. In fact, my father began to speak touching things of great importance. To set my mother at rest, he had determined to send my little sisters with Pani d’Yves to his brother at Kopchan. In that case Hania would be alone with us. This my father did not wish. He knew, he said, that among us young people things were happening which he did not wish to investigate, but for which he had no word of praise; he hoped, however, that the departure of Hania would put an end to them.
Here all looked at me inquiringly, but they were not a little astonished when, instead of opposing Hania’s departure desperately, I approved of it gladly. I had calculated simply in this way, that the departure would be equivalent to breaking all relations with Selim. And, besides, a certain hope, like a will o’ the wisp, gleamed in my heart, that it was I, and no one else, who would take Hania to my mother. I knew that my father could not leave home, since the harvest was at hand. I knew that Father Ludvik had never been abroad; so I only remained. But this was a faint hope, and soon it was quenched like a will o’ the wisp, when my father said that Pani Ustrytski would go abroad for sea baths in a couple of days, and that she had consented to take Hania and accompany her to my mother. The day following the morrow, Hania was to set out in the evening. This saddened me no little, but I preferred that she should go without me rather than stay. Besides, I confess that immense delight rose in my mind when I said to myself, “How will Selim receive this, and what will he do, when I tell him about it to-morrow?”
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 688