Then tell us, benefactor, who could restrain himself? Pan Zolzik did not restrain himself; he approached and fell to kissing one of these petticoats fervently. Malgoska, the housemaid, seeing this, flew at once to the mansion with her tongue and news that, “The lord secretary was wiping his nose on the young lady’s petticoat.” Happily, however, no one believed this, and the feelings of the lord secretary were revealed to no person.
But had he hope? Do not take it ill, my benefactors, that he had. As often as he went to the mansion, a certain inner voice, weak it is true, but increasing, whispered in his ear, —
“Well now, Panna Yadviga will press thy foot under the table during dinner to-day.” “Hm! never mind the polish,” added he, with that grandeur of soul which is peculiar to persons in love.
The reading of books published by Pan Breslauer gave him faith in the possibility of various pressings. But Panna Yadviga not only did not press his foot — who can understand woman? — she looked on him as she would on a fence, or a cat, or a plate, or any such thing. How much he suffered, poor man, to turn her attention to himself! More than once when tying a cravat of unheard of colors, or while putting on some new trousers with fabulous stripes, he thought, “This time she will notice me!” Srul himself, when bringing him the new suit, said, “Well, in such trousers, one might go with proposals even to a countess!”
Of what use is all that to him? He is at the dinner; Panna Yadviga enters, haughty, spotless, serene as a sovereign; her robe rustles with its folds, big and little; she sits down, takes a spoon in her slender fingers, and does not look at him.
“Does she not understand that this is costly!” thought Zolzik, in despair.
Still he did not lose hope.
“If I could only become sub-inspector!” thought he. “A man need not put a foot out of doors. From sub-inspector to inspector is not far; a man would have then a yellow carriage, a pair of horses, and if even then she would press one’s hand under the table—” Pan Zolzik permitted himself to go still further into immeasurably remote consequences of this pressure of the hand; but we will not betray his thoughts, since they were too secretly heartfelt.
What a rich nature, however, Pan Zolzik’s was is shown by the ease with which, at the side of this ideal feeling for Panna Yadviga, which moreover answered to the aristocratic tendencies of the young man, a place was found in him for the equally important “little appetite,” his feeling for Repa’s wife. True, Repa’s wife was what is called a handsome woman; still it is sure that this Don Juan of Barania-Glova would not have devoted so many steps to her had it not been for the wonderful stubbornness of the woman, which deserved punishment. Stubbornness in a simple woman, and against him, seemed to Pan Zolzik so insolent, so unheard of, that not only did the woman take at once in his eyes the charm of forbidden fruit, but he determined to teach her the lesson which she deserved. The affair with the dog, Kruchek, fixed him still more in his purpose. He knew that the victim would defend herself; hence he invented that voluntary contract of Repa’s with the mayor, which gave, at least in appearance, to his mercy, or his enmity, Repa himself and his entire family.
But Repa’s wife did not give up the affair as lost after the interview at the mayor’s. The next day was Sunday, and she resolved to go as usual to Lipa, and take counsel at once with the priest. There were two priests in Lipa; one the parish priest, Canon Ulanovski, so old that his eyes stared like those of a fish, and his head moved continually, swaying from side to side; not to him did Marysia decide to go, but to the curate, Father Chyzik, who was a very holy man and wise; therefore he could give her good counsel and console her. She wished to go early and talk with him before mass; but she had to do her own work and her husband’s also, for he was confined in the pen. Before she had swept the cottage, fed the horse, the pigs, the cow, cooked the breakfast, and carried it to Repa in the pen, the sun was high, and she saw that she could not talk to the priest before mass.
In fact, when she came services had begun. Women, dressed in green jackets, were sitting in the graveyard, and putting on hastily the shoes which they had brought in their hands. Marysia did the same, and went straight into the church.
Father Chyzik was preaching; the canon, wearing his cap, was sitting in an armchair at the side of the altar, his eyes staring and his head shaking as usual. The Gospel had been read. Father Chyzik was preaching, I know not for what reason, of the Albigensian heresy in the Middle Ages, and was explaining to his parishioners in what manner alone they were to consider that heresy, as well as the bull ex stercore which was issued against it. Then very eloquently, and with great impressiveness, he warned his flock, as simple people, lowly, like birds of the air, hence dear to God, not to listen to various false sages, and in general to people blinded with Satanic pride who sow tares instead of wheat, or they would gather tears and sin. Here, in passing, he mentioned Condillac, Voltaire, Rousseau, and Ohorovich, without making any distinction between them; and at last he came to a minute description of the various unpleasantnesses to which the damned would be exposed in the next world. And another spirit entered into Repa’s wife; for though she did not understand what Father Chyzik was saying, she thought, “He must be speaking beautifully, since he shouts so that he is all in a sweat, and the people are sighing, as if the last breath were going out of them.”
The sermon ended and mass continued. Ei! Repa’s wife prayed; she prayed as never before in her life; she felt too that it was easier and lighter at her heart.
Finally the solemn moment came. The canon, white as a dove, brought out the most holy sacrament from the ciborium, then turned to the people and holding in his hand the monstrance, which was like the sun, holding it there, with trembling hands, near his face, he remained for a while with closed eyes and inclined head, as if collecting breath; at last he intoned, “Before so great a sacrament!”
The people in a hundred voices roared in response immediately, —
“We fall on our faces,
Let the old law with the testament
Give place to the new;
Faith will be the supplement
To that which agrees not with the senses.”
The hymn thundered till the window-panes rattled; the organ groaned; the bells great and small rang; before the church a drum thundered; the censers gave out blue smoke; the sun entered in through the window and illuminated in rainbow tints those rolls of smoke. In the midst of this noise, incense, smoke, and sun-rays, the most holy sacrament glittered on high for an instant, then the priest lowered it, and again he raised it, and that white old man with the monstrance seemed like some heavenly vision, half concealed by the mist of incense, and radiant, from whom came grace and consolation which fell upon all hearts and all pious souls. That grace and that great peace took under the wings of God the suffering soul of Repa’s wife also.
“O Jesus, concealed in the most holy sacrament! O Jesus!” cried the unhappy woman, “do not desert me, unfortunate!” And from her eyes flowed tears; they were not such tears as she had shed at the mayor’s, but in some sort pleasant tears, though large as Calcutta pearls, yet sweet and peaceful.
The woman fell before the majesty of God, with her face to the floor, and then she knew not what happened. It seemed to her that angels raised her, like a slender leaf, from the earth and bore her to heaven, to eternal happiness, where she saw neither Pan Zolzik, nor the mayor, nor recruiting lists, nothing but brightness, and in that brightness the throne of God, around which was such glory that she had to close her eyes, and whole clouds of angels were there, like birds with white wings.
Repa’s wife lay so long that when she rose mass was over; the church was deserted; the incense had risen to the roof; the last of the people were at the door; and at the altar an old man was quenching the candles, — so she rose up and went to the priest’s house to speak to the curate.
Father Chyzik was just eating dinner; but he went out at once, when they told him that some weeping woman wished to see him. He was sti
ll a young man; his face was pale and serene; he had a white, lofty forehead, and a pleasant smile.
“What do you wish, my woman?” asked he, in a low, but clear voice.
She seized his feet, and then told him the whole story, crying meanwhile and kissing his hand; at last, raising to him humbly her black eyes, she said, —
“Oh, advice, benefactor! advice! I have come to seek advice of you.”
“And you are not mistaken, my woman,” answered Father Chyzik, mildly. “But I have only one advice, and it is this: Offer to God all your sufferings. God tries His faithful. He tries them as severely as Job, whose wounds were licked by his own dogs, or Azarias, on whom God sent blindness. But God knows what He does, and He will reward those who are faithful. Consider the misfortune which has happened to your husband as a punishment for his grievous sin of drunkenness, and thank God that punishing him during life He may pardon him after death.”
The woman looked at the priest with her dark eyes, rose up and went out in silence, without saying one word. But along the road she felt as though something were choking her. She wanted to cry, but she could not.
CHAPTER VII.
ABOUT five o’clock in the afternoon, on the main road between the cottages, gleamed in the distance a blue parasol, a yellow straw hat with blue ribbons, and an almond-colored dress trimmed with blue; that was Panna Yadviga, who had gone out to walk after dinner; at her side was her cousin, Pan Victor.
Panna Yadviga was what is called a pretty young lady; she had black hair, blue eyes, a complexion like milk, and besides wore a dress made with wonderful care, neat and exquisite; light came from it and added to her beauty. Her maiden form was outlined charmingly, as if floating along in the air. In one hand she held a parasol, in the other her dress, from under which was visible the edge of her white petticoat and her shapely, small feet, enclosed in Hungarian boots.
Pan Victor, who walked at her side, though he had an immense curling forelock of light color, and a beard which he was just letting out, looked also like a picture.
This couple were radiant with youth, health, gladness, happiness; and besides there was evident in both that higher, holiday life, a life of winged flights, not only in the external world, but in the world of thought, the world of broader desires, as well as broader ideas, and at times in the golden and shining paths of imagination.
Among those cabins, and compared with children of the village peasants, and all that common surrounding, they seemed like beings from another planet. It was even pleasant to think that there was no bond, at least no spiritual bond, between that splendid, that developed and poetical couple, and the prosaic life of the village, full of gray reality, and half animal.
They passed on, side by side, and conversed of poetry and literature as ordinarily a polite cavalier and a polite lady do. Those people in homespun, those peasants, those women, did not understand even their words and their language. It was dear to think of it! — confess that to me, O ye petty nobility!
In the conversation of this splendid couple there was nothing which had not been heard a hundred times before. They flitted from book to book, as butterflies flit from one flower to another. But such a conversation does not seem empty and commonplace when one is speaking with a dear little soul; when the conversation is simply the canvas on which that soul fastens the golden flowers of its own thoughts and feelings, and when, from time to time, its interior is disclosed, like the opening interior of a white rose. And, besides, such a conversation flies up in every case, like a bird in the air, to cerulean spheres, attaches itself to the world of mind, and rises like a climbing plant on a pole. There in the village inn, rude people were drinking and talking in peasant words of peasant things; but that couple were sailing in another region, and on a ship which had, as Gounod’s song says, —
“Masts of ivory
With a banner of satin,
A rudder of pure ruddy gold.”
Moreover, it is proper to add that Panna Yadviga had, for purposes of self-training, turned the head of her cousin. In these conditions poetry is more frequently mentioned.
“Have you read the last edition of Eli?” asked the cavalier.
“You know, Pan Victor, that I am dying about Eli. When I read him, it seems to me that I hear music; and involuntarily I apply to myself that verse of Uyeiski, —
“‘I lie on a cloud,
Melted in calm,
With a dreamy tear in my eye:
I hear no breath.
A sea of violet odor
Surrounds me;
With palm placed in palm,
I sail — I fly—’
“Ah!” exclaimed she, suddenly, “if I knew him, I am sure that I should be in love with him. We should understand each other to a certainty.”
“Happily he is married,” answered Pan Victor, dryly.
Panna Yadviga inclined her head a little, repressed a half smile on her lips, till the dimples appeared in her cheeks, and, looking askance at Pan Victor, she inquired, —
“Why do you say, happily?”
“Happily for all those for whom life would have no attraction in the case you have just mentioned.”
When he said this, Pan Victor was very tragic.
“Oh, you attribute too much to me!”
Pan Victor passed into lyric poetry, “You are an angel —
“Oh, that is all well enough — but let us talk of something else.”
“Then you do not like Eli?”
“A moment ago I began to hate him.”
“Oh, you put on ugly faces! I ask you to become serene, and tell me your favorite poet.”
“Sovinski,” muttered Pan Victor, gloomily.
“But I simply fear him. Irony, blood, fire — wild outbursts.”
“Such things do not terrify me at all,” said Pan Victor; then he looked so valiant, that a dog, which had run out from a cottage, hid its tail under its belly and withdrew in fright.
Now they arrived at the house of four tenements; in the window appeared an upturned nose, a goatee, and a bright-green cravat; they halted before a pretty cottage covered with wild grapevines, and looking with its rear windows on a pond.
“You see what a nice little house this is; it is the only poetical place in Barania-Glova.”
“What house is it?”
“Formerly, it was an asylum. Here village children learned to read, when their parents were in the field. Papa had this house built purposely.”
“And what is in it now?”
“Now, kegs of brandy are in it—”
But they did not finish their thoughts, for they came to a great puddle in which lay a number of pigs, “justly so-called for their filth.” To pass around that puddle, they had to go near Repa’s cottage; so they turned in that direction.
Repa’s wife was sitting on a log before the gate, with her elbows on her knees, and her chin on one hand. Her face was pale, and, as it were, turned to stone; her eyes were red; her look dull, and fixed on the distance without thought. She had not even heard the passers-by; but the young woman saw her, and said, —
“Good-evening!”
Marysia stood up, and, approaching, seized the feet of Panna Yadviga and Pan Victor, and began to weep in silence.
“What is the matter?” asked the young lady.
“Oh, thou my golden berry, my dawn! perhaps God has sent thee to me! Take thou my part, our consolation!”
Here the woman narrated the whole affair, interrupting the story with kissing the young lady’s hands, or rather her gloves, which she stained with tears; the young lady became greatly confused; anxiety was clearly evident on her pretty, important little face, and she knew not what to say; but at last she said, with hesitation, —
“What can I advise you, my woman? I am very sorry for you. Indeed — what can I advise? — go to papa — maybe papa — But farewell.”
Then Panna Yadviga raised her almond-colored robe till the stripes of her blue-and-white stockings were visible above
her boots; and she and Pan Victor passed on.
“May God bless thee, most beautiful flower!” called Repa’s wife, after her.
Panna Yadviga grew sad; and it seemed to Pan Victor that he saw tears in her eyes; so, to drive away sadness, he began to talk of Krashevski and other smaller fish in the literary sea; and in that conversation, which became gradually more lively, both of them soon forgot that “disagreeable incident.”
“To the mansion!” said Repa’s wife, meanwhile. “And that is where I ought to have gone first. Ei! I am a stupid woman!”
CHAPTER VIII.
THE mansion had a porch covered with grapevines, and a view on the yard as well as on a road lined with poplars. In summer Pan and Pani Skorabevski drank coffee on this porch after dinner. They were sitting there now, and with them Father Ulanovski, Father Chyzik, and Stolbitski, the inspector of mines. Pan Skorabevski was a man of rather full habit, and ruddy, with large mustaches. He sat in an armchair, smoking a pipe; Pani Skorabevski was pouring tea; the inspector, who was a sceptic, was jesting with the old canon.
“Now, reverend benefactor, just tell us of that famous battle,” said he.
The canon put his hand to his ear, and inquired, —
“Hei?”
“Of the battle!” repeated the inspector, more distinctly.
“Ah! of the battle?” said the canon; and, as it were, meditating, he began to whisper to himself, and to gaze upward as though recalling something. The inspector arranged his face ready for laughter; all awaited the narrative, though they had heard it a hundred times; for they always enticed the old man to repeat it.
“Well,” began the canon, “I was still a curate, and the parish priest was Father Gladysh — I am right, Father Gladysh. It was he who built over the vestry. But, eternal light to him! — well, once after mass, I say, ‘Father Gladysh?’ and he asks, ‘What?’ ‘It seems to me that something will come of this,’ I say. And he says, ‘It seems to me, too, that something will come of it.’ We look; from behind the wind-mill come out some men on horses, some on foot, and next banners and cannon. Then at once I think to myself, Oh! from the opposite side I think, sheep are coming? but they are not sheep, only cavalry. The moment these saw those: Stop! and the other side too: Stop! The minute the cavalry rushed out of the woods, these to the right, those to the left, these to the left, those after them. Then they see: Difficult! then on to them. When they began to fire beyond the mountain, something flashed again. ‘Do you see, Father Gladysh?’ I say, and he says, ‘I see.’ And there they were, just thundering from cannon and guns; those to the river, these won’t let them cross; this that one, that the other one! Then these for a while have the best, again the others have. Roar! smoke! And then to the bayonets! All at once, I think, these are weakening. ‘Father Gladysh,’ I say, ‘those are winning!’ And he says, ‘It seems to me, too, that they are winning.’ The words were hardly out of my mouth when these to their legs! those after them. Then drown, kill, take captive, and I think, ‘It is finishing—’ But what finish! that — I say, just, but!—”
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 706