When the travellers halted in the market-place, Wokulski got out in order to call on the priest, while Starski took command. ‘So we,’ he said, ‘shall go in the brake to those oaks, and eat what God provides and the cooks prepare. Then the brake can come back for Mr Wokulski.’
‘No, thank you,’ replied Wokulski, ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be, and prefer to walk. In any case, I must visit the ruins too.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Izabela exclaimed, ‘I want to see the Duchess’s favourite stone,’ she added in a lower voice, ‘so please let me know how long you’ll be.’
The brake moved off, Wokulski entered the presbytery and finished his business within fifteen minutes. The priest told him that no one in the town would object if an inscription were made on the castle stone, providing it was not indecent or impious … On learning it concerned a memorial for the late captain Wokulski, whom he had known personally, the priest offered to help facilitate the matter. ‘We have here,’ he said, ‘a certain Węgiełek, a lively young scamp, partly a smith and partly a joiner, so perhaps he will be able to engrave on the stone. I’ll send for him.’
Soon Węgiełek appeared, a fellow in his twenties, with a cheerful and intelligent face. On learning from the priest’s servant that he might be able to earn some money, he had put on a grey top-coat with flaps and tails down to the ground, and had rubbed his hair copiously with grease.
As Wokulski was in a hurry, he bade goodbye to the priest and walked towards the ruins with Węgiełek. When they reached the settlement boundary, Wokulski asked the young man: ‘Can you write well, my good man?’
‘Indeed I can, sir. They’ve sometimes given me copying from the magistrate’s court, though I haven’t a light hand. And those verses the agent at Otrocz used to write to the forester’s daughter were all my own work. He only bought the paper, and he still hasn’t paid me forty groszy for my writing. And he also wanted curlicues …’
‘Could you write on stone?’
‘Concave, not convex? Why not? I’d undertake to write on iron, or even glass, and in any kind of letters you like — script, printed, Gothic, Hebrew … For it was I, without boasting, who painted all the shop boards in town.’
‘And that Cracovian, hanging above the inn?’
‘Of course.’
‘And where did you see such a Cracovian?’
‘Mr Zwolski has a carter who’s from those parts, so I took a look at him.’
‘And did you see that he had two left feet?’
‘I beg pardon, sir, it’s not feet people from the provinces take notice of but the bottle. When they see the bottle and the glass, then they’ll reach Szmul’s place and no mistake.’
Wokulski liked the enterprising lad more and more: ‘Aren’t you married yet?’ he asked.
‘No. I won’t marry them that wear kerchiefs, and the ones that wear hats don’t fancy me.’
‘What do you do when there are no shop signs to paint?’
‘Well, sir — a little bit of this, and a little bit of that, and sometimes nothing. Before, I went in for carpentry, and had more work than I could handle. In a few years I’d saved a thousand roubles. Then my place burned down, and I still haven’t got over it. All the wood, the workshop, everything was reduced to ashes, and I can tell you, sir, that the hardest of my files melted just like pitch. When I looked at the heap of ashes, I was really angry, but today I’m sorry about it.’
‘Did you rebuild? Do you have a workshop now?’
‘Ah, sir … I’ve built a shed in the garden, so my mother has a place to cook, but the workshop … For that, sir, I’d need five hundred roubles cash, honest to God I would … Look how many years my late father had to slave before he could set up house and collect tools.’
They approached the ruins. Wokulski was meditating. ‘Listen,’ he said suddenly, ‘I like you, Węgiełek. I’ll be in this neighbourhood,’ he added with a sigh, ‘for another week or so. If you make a good job of the engraving, I’ll take you to Warsaw for a time. There I’ll see how good you are, and maybe something can be done about the workshop.’
The young fellow turned his head to left and right, eyeing Wokulski. Suddenly it occurred to him that this must be a very wealthy gentleman, perhaps even one of those gentlemen God sometimes sends to look after poor people, and he took off his cap.
‘What is it? Put your cap on,’ said Wokulski.
‘My apologies, sir. Maybe I said something I shouldn’t have said. People say that in the olden days … But now, sir, there are no such gentlemen. My late father said that he himself knew of a gentleman who took an orphan from Zasław, and made a great lady of her, and left so much money to the people that they built a new bell-tower.’
Wokulski smiled as he saw the lad’s embarrassed expression, and he thought with a strange feeling that with his own annual income he might make a hundred more such as he happy: ‘Money really is a great power, only one must know how to use it.’
They were already at the castle hill when Felicja’s voice called; ‘Mr Wokulski, here we are!’
Wokulski looked up and saw a cheerful fire among the oak trees, around which the company from Zasławek were sitting. A footman and chambermaid had set up the samovar a few paces away.
‘Wait, I’ll join you,’ cried Izabela, rising from the carpet. Starski leaped to help: ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.
‘No, thank you, I’ll go down myself,’ replied Izabela, withdrawing. Then she began to descend the steep path with as much grace and ease as though it were an alley in the park.
‘My suspicions are vile,’ Wokulski muttered. At this moment, a mysterious voice seemed to be ordering him to choose between the thousands like Węgiełek, who needed help, and this one woman coming down the hillside: ‘But I’ve already made my choice,’ Wokulski thought.
‘I can’t get up to the castle by myself, you will have to give me your hand,’ said Izabela, stopping beside Wokulski.
‘Perhaps the lady and gentleman will deign to take an easier path?’ Węgiełek exclaimed.
‘Lead the way!’
They encircled the hill and began climbing to its summit up the bed of a dried stream.
‘What a strange colour these stones are,’ cried Izabela, looking at pieces of limestone stained brown.
‘Crude ore,’ Wokulski replied.
‘Oh no,’ Węgiełek put in, ‘that’s not ore — but blood.’
Izabela drew back. ‘Blood?’ she echoed.
They halted on the hill-top, screened from the rest of the company by a broken-down wall. From here, they could see the castle courtyard, overgrown with thorns and barberries. Under one of the towers a huge block of granite was leaning against the wall.
‘That’s the stone,’ said Wokulski.
‘That stone? I wonder how they got it here? My good man, what were you saying about blood?’ Izabela asked Węgiełek.
‘It’s an old story,’ Węgiełek replied, ‘my grandfather told it to me, and everyone around knows it.’
‘Tell it to us,’ Izabela insisted, ‘I like hearing legends told in ruins. The castles of the Rhine are full of them.’
Węgiełek was not in the least put out by this request. Indeed, he smiled and began: ‘In the olden days, when my grandfather used to go bird-catching in the oak-trees, water used to run over those stones we came up by. Now water only comes in the spring, or after heavy rain, but when my grandfather was young, it ran all year round. There was a stream here.
‘And when grandfather was a boy, a big stone lay at the bottom of the stream, as if someone had used it to block a hole. And really there was a hole, which was a window into some vaults, where great treasures are hidden, the likes of which can’t be found anywhere else in the whole world. Among these treasures slept a young lady, maybe a princess, on a bed of pure gold, very pretty and richly dressed. And the reason why she sleeps is that someone drove a gold pin into her head, out of malice or hatred perhaps: goodness knows. So she sleeps and will never
wake up until someone draws the pin out of her head and marries her. But that’s hard to do, and even dangerous, for monsters guard the treasures and the young lady too. I know well what they’re like, because until my house burned down I had a tooth as big as my fist, which my grandfather found in this very spot — that’s the truth, I’m not telling a lie. And if one tooth alone was as big as my fist (I saw it myself, and often held it in my hand), then the head must be big as a stove, and the whole person the size of a barn.
‘People had long known,’ Węgiełek went on, ‘of the young lady and her treasures: because twice a year, at Easter and at St John’s Eve, the stone on the bottom of the stream would move, and if anyone were standing over it, he might see down into the pit, and the wonderful things there.
‘One Easter (my grandfather was not even born yet), a young smith came here from Zasław. He stood by the stream and wondered ‘Why shouldn’t I see the treasures? I’d get at them immediately, through the smallest of holes. I’d load my pockets, and wouldn’t have to puff my bellows any more.’ No sooner had he thought this that all at once the stone moved aside, and the smith saw heaps of money, pure gold dishes and splendid clothing, just like you see at a fair …
‘But when he set eyes on the sleeping lady, who was so beautiful, the smith froze in amazement. She was fast asleep, but tears were streaming from her eyes, and each one that fell, whether on her nightdress or bed or floor changed at once into a jewel. She was asleep and sighing with pain from that pin: whenever she sighed, the leaves on the trees over the stream rustled in sympathy.
‘The smith wanted to go down into the vault: but because the time had passed, the stone closed again, so that the stream flowed over it. From that day on, my smith couldn’t settle down at all. His work flagged. Wherever he looked, he saw nothing but the glassy stream and the young lady within it, shedding tears. Soon he pined away, for something was continually gripping his heart in burning tongs. It bemused him. When at last he could bear his longing no more, he went to a woman who knew about herbs, gave her a silver rouble and asked for help.
“‘Well now,” said the woman, “there’s nothing else for it, but you must wait for St John’s Eve, and when the stone moves again, you must climb into the pit. If you take the pin from her head, she will wake, you will marry her, and you’ll be a great gentleman such as the world has never seen. But don’t forget me then, that I advised you well. And remember this: when the monsters surround you and you take fright, cross yourself at once and in God’s name … It’s all a question of your not taking fright; evil cannot fasten on a man who’s not afraid.”
“‘And tell me,” said the smith, “how does it show that a man is seized with fright? …”
“‘Like that, are you?” said the woman. “Well, off with you to the pit, and when you return, remember me.”
‘The smith went to the stream every day for two months, and didn’t stir from it for a week before St John’s Eve. Then the time came. At midday the stone moved, and my smith jumped into the pit with his axe in hand. My grandfather used to say that what happened to him then would make anyone’s hair stand on end. Monsters surrounded him, and another man would have died just for looking at them. There were bats big as dogs, which flapped their great wings at him. Then a toad big as a rock stood in his path, then a snake caught him by the legs, and when the smith hit it, the snake started weeping like a human being. There were wolves so fierce that when foam dropped from their muzzles, it burst into flames and holes burned in the rocks.
‘All these monsters jumped on him, seized him by the jacket and sleeves, but not one dared harm him. For they saw that the smith was not afraid, and evil disappears like a shadow before a man who isn’t afeard. “Smith, you will perish here!” cried the monsters, but he only gripped his axe and spoke to them — excuse me, but in such a way as would be shameful to repeat to a lady and gentleman.
‘At last my smith reached the golden bed to which the monsters had no access, but only stood all around gnashing their teeth. At once he saw the golden pin in the young lady’s temple, seized it and pulled it half-way out. The blood spurted … And the young lady seized his coat in her hand and cried out: “Why are you hurting me?”
‘Not until now did the smith take fright. He shuddered and let his hands drop. This was just what the monsters wanted. The one with the biggest muzzle jumped at the smith and shook him so that blood spurted out through the opening and stained the rocks, which you saw with your own eyes. But at the same time, the smith broke off a tooth big as a man’s fist, which my grandfather found in the stream, later on.
‘Then the stone closed over the window into the pit, and no one has been able to find it since. The stream dried, and the young lady was left down there, half-awakened. She cries so loudly that sometimes shepherds in the fields hear her, and she will weep for ever and ever.’
Węgiełek ceased. Izabela lowered her head and traced some marks on the gravel with the tip of her parasol. Wokulski dared not look at her. After a long silence he said to Węgiełek: ‘That was an interesting story … But tell me, now — how will you set about engraving the stone?’
‘I don’t know what it is I’m to engrave, sir.’
‘To be sure …’
Wokulski brought out notebook and pencil, and when he had written, gave it to the young man: ‘Only four lines, sir?’ Węgiełek said, ‘it will be ready in three days. On that stone the letters could surely be an inch high. Ah, I forgot a string for measuring. I’ll go down to the driver, sir — perhaps he will have one. I’ll be back immediately.’
Węgiełek ran off down the hill-side. Izabela glanced at Wokulski. She was pale and moved. ‘What are the verses?’ she asked, stretching out her hand. Wokulski handed her the page: she began reading in an undertone: ‘In every place, every hour, where I wept with you, played with you — I shall be with you always and everywhere, for I left there part of my soul.’
Her voice dropped to a whisper. Her lips quivered, tears came into her eyes. For a moment she crumpled the sheet, then slowly turned away her head and the page fell to the ground. Wokulski knelt to recover it. Then he touched Izabela’s dress, and no longer aware of what he was doing, he seized her by the hand: ‘You will awaken, my princess …’ he said.
‘I don’t know … Perhaps …’ she replied.
‘Hey there!’ Starski called from below, ‘come along, lunch will get cold.’
Izabela dabbed her eyes, and hastily left the ruin. Wokulski went after her.
‘What were you doing so long?’ Starski asked with a smile, giving his hand to Izabela, who quickly took it.
‘We were listening to an unusual story,’ Izabela replied, ‘really, I never knew that such legends could exist in this country, and that simple people could tell them in such an interesting manner. What are you giving us for lunch, cousin? Ah, that young fellow was inimitable. Ask him to tell you …’
Wokulski was no longer vexed because Izabela was walking with Starski, leaning on his arm and even flirting with him. The emotion he had witnessed, and her one insignificant phrase had dispelled all his fears. He was immersed in a tranquil meditation, where not only Starski but the entire company had disappeared from before his eyes.
Later, he recalled going up the hill to the oak tree, eating hungrily, being merry, talkative and even flirting with Felicja. But what they said, and what he replied — he never knew.
The sun was setting and clouds had appeared in the sky when Starski told the servants to clear away the cutlery, baskets and carpet, and proposed going home. They got into the brake in the same order as before. After wrapping Ewelina in her shawls, the Baron leaned over to Wokulski and murmured with a smile: ‘If you continue in your present mood for one day more, you’ll turn all the ladies’ heads.’
‘Oh, well …’ replied Wokulski, with a shrug.
He sat at the end of the brake, opposite Felicja. Ochocki took his place by the coachman, and they drove off. The sky clouded over, darkness was fal
ling fast. Yet it was very gay inside the brake, thanks to a squabble between Mrs Wąsowska and Ochocki, who forgot his balloons and, dangling his legs over the edge of the box, turned to the company. Suddenly, wishing to light a cigarette, he struck a match and illuminated the entire interior, Starski most of all.
At this moment, Wokulski recoiled violently: something had flashed before his eyes. ‘Nonsense,’ he thought, ‘I’ve drunk too much …’
Mrs Wąsowska burst into a brief laugh, but at once controlled herself and began speaking: ‘What a very original way of sitting, Mr Ochocki … Fie, tomorrow you’ll have to kneel. Ah, unworthy creature, he’ll be putting his feet on someone’s knees next. Turn around at once, sir, or I’ll tell the coachman to leave you by the wayside.’
Cold sweat broke out on Wokulski’s forehead, but he shrugged and thought: ‘Premonitions — premonitions! What nonsense …’
And he dispelled them with a superhuman effort of will … He regained his good humour, and began talking to Mrs Wąsowska very gaily.
But when they returned to Zasławek late at night, he slept like a log, and even had an amusing dream. Next morning, when Wokulski went for a stroll before breakfast, the first person he met in the yard was Izabela’s chambermaid: she was carrying several gowns, and a boy dragging a trunk came after her.
‘What’s this?’ he thought, ‘today is Sunday, surely she isn’t leaving … She can’t leave on a Sunday. Besides, she or the Duchess would have mentioned it to me.’
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