ARGUMENT
Warlike preparations for the foray—Protazy’s expedition—Robak and
the Judge consult on public affairs—Continuation of Protazy’s
fruitless expedition—A digression on hemp—Dobrzyn, the hamlet of
gentry—Description of the person and the way of life of Maciek
Dobrzynski.
Imperceptibly there crept forth from the moist darkness a dawn with no red
glow, bringing on a day with no brightness in its eye. It was day long
since, and yet one could hardly see. The mist hung over the earth like a
straw thatch over the poor hut of a Lithuanian; towards the east one could
see from a somewhat whiter circle in the sky that the sun had risen, and
that thence it must once more descend to the earth; but it did not advance
gaily and it slumbered on the road.
Following the example of the sky, everything was late on earth; the cattle
started late to pasture, and caught the hares at a late breakfast. These
usually returned to the groves at dawn: to-day, covered by the thick fog,
some were nibbling duckweed; others, gathered in pairs, were digging holes
in the field, and thought to enjoy themselves in the open air; but the
cattle drove them back to the forest.
Even in the forest there was quiet. The birds on awakening did not sing,
but shook the dew from their feathers, hugged the trees, tucked their
heads under their wings, closed their eyes again, and awaited the sun.
Somewhere on the borders of a swamp a stork clacked with its bill; on the
haycocks sat drenched ravens, which, with open beaks, poured forth
ceaseless chatter—hateful to the farmers as an omen of damp weather. The
farmers had long since gone out to work.
The women, reaping, had already begun their usual song, gloomy,
melancholy, and monotonous as a rainy day, all the sadder since its sound
soaked into the mist without an echo; the sickles clinked in the grain,
and the meadow resounded. A line of mowers cutting the rowen whistled
ceaselessly a jingling tune; at the end of each swath they stopped,
sharpened their scythes, and rhythmically hammered them. The people could
not be seen in the mist; only the sickles, the scythes, and the songs
hummed together like the notes of invisible music.
In the centre, the Steward, seated on a pile of grain, turned his head
gloomily, and did not look at the work; he was gazing on the highway, at
the cross-roads, where something unusual was going on.
On the highway and in the byways since early dawn there had been unusual
animation; from one side a peasant’s waggon creaked, flying like a
post-chaise; from another a gentleman’s gig ratded at full gallop, and met
a second and a third; from the left-hand road a messenger rushed like a
courier, from the right raced a dozen horses; all were hurrying, though
they were headed in different directions. What could this mean? The
Steward arose from the pile. He wished to look into the matter, to make
inquiries; he stood long on the road, and shouted vainly, but could stop
no one, nor even recognise any one in the fog. The riders flashed by like
spirits; there could only be heard from time to time the dull sound of
hoofs, and, what was stranger yet, the clank of sabres; this greatly
rejoiced the Steward and yet it terrified him: for, though at that time
there was peace in Lithuania, dull rumours of war had long been current,
of the French, Dombrowski, and Napoleon. Were these horsemen and these
arms an omen of wars? The Steward ran to tell all to the Judge, hoping
likewise to learn something himself.
At Soplicowo the inmates of the house and the guests, after the brawl of
the day before, had arisen gloomy and discontented with themselves. In
vain the Seneschal’s daughter invited the ladies to tell fortunes with
cards; in vain they suggested a game of marriage to the gentlemen. They
would not amuse themselves or play, but sat silently in the corners; the
men smoked pipes, the women knitted; even the flies were asleep. The
Seneschal, who had thrown aside his flapper, was bored by the silence and
went to join the servants; he preferred to listen in the kitchen to the
cries of the housekeeper, the threats and blows of the cook, the noise of
the serving boys; at last the monotonous motion of the spits that turned
the roast gradually caused him to fall into pleasant musings.
Since early morning the Judge had been writing, locked in his room; since
early morning the Apparitor had been waiting beneath the window, on a
bench of turf. After finishing his summons, the Judge called in Protazy
and read in a loud voice his complaint against the Count, for wounding his
honour and for insulting expressions, and against Gerwazy, for violence
and blows; both of them he cited before the criminal court in the district
town for threats—and to pay the costs of the lawsuit between them. The
summons must be served that very day, by word of mouth, in presence of the
parties, before the sun went down. As soon as he caught sight of the
summons, the Apparitor extended his hand and listened with a solemn air;
he stood there with dignity, but he would have been glad to jump for joy.
At the very thought of the lawsuit he felt himself young again; he
remembered those years long gone by, when he used to serve many a summons,
sure to receive bruises in return, but at the same time generous pay. Thus
a soldier who has passed his life waging war, and in his old age rests
crippled in a hospital, as soon as he hears a trumpet or a distant drum,
starts up from his bed, cries in his sleep, “Smite the Muscovites!” and on
his wooden leg rushes from the hospital so quickly that young men can
hardly catch him.
Protazy hastened to put on his apparitor’s costume; he did not however don
his tunic or his kontusz: those were reserved for the pomp and ceremony of
the court sessions. For the journey he had different clothes: broad riding
trousers, and a coat, of which the skirts could be buttoned up or let fall
over the knees; a cap with ear flaps, tied up with a string—they could be
raised for fine weather and let down in case of rain. Thus clad he took
his cane and set out on foot, for apparitors before a lawsuit, as spies
before battle, must hide under various forms and costumes.
Protazy did well in hastening to depart, for he would have had no long
comfort from his summons. In Soplicowo they changed their plans of
campaign. Robak, thoughtful and perplexed, suddenly broke in upon the
Judge and said:—
“Judge, we shall have trouble with that aunt, with that giddy-pated
coquette, Telimena. When Zosia was left alone, a child and poor, Jacek
gave her to Telimena to be brought up, hearing that she was a good sort of
woman and knew the world; but I notice that she is stirring things up for
us here; she is intriguing and seems to be flirting with Thaddeus. I have
my eye on her. Or perhaps she is aiming at the Count, perhaps at both at
once. So let us think over how to get rid of her, for from her actions may
arise gossip, a bad example, and quarrels among the youngsters, which may
be a hindrance to your legal negotiations.”
“Negotiations?” cried the Judge with unusual warmth, “I’m done with
negotiations; I’ve finished with them, broken them off.”
“What’s this?” interrupted Robak, “where’s your sense, where’s your head?
What nonsense are you telling me? What new row has come up?”
“It is not my fault,” said the Judge; “the trial will make the matter
plain. That pompous, stupid Count was the cause of the squabble, and that
rascal Gerwazy; but this is the business of the court. It is too bad that
you were not in the castle at the supper, Father; you would have borne
witness how fearfully the Count insulted me.”
“My dear sir,” cried Robak, “why did you insist on going to those ruins?
You know that I cannot stand the castle; henceforth I will never set foot
there again. Another brawl! The judgment of God be on us! How did it
happen? Tell me! This matter must be hushed up. I am sick already of
seeing so many acts of folly; I have more important business than to
reconcile litigious squabblers; but I will reconcile you once again.”
“Reconcile? What do you mean! Go to the devil with your reconciliation!”
interrupted the Judge, stamping his foot. “Look at this monk! Because I
receive him courteously, he wants to lead me by the nose. Pray understand
that the Soplicas are not wont to be reconciled; when they summon a man to
court they must win their case. Sometimes a suit has continued in their
name until they won it in the sixth generation. I committed folly enough
by your advice when I convoked for the third time the Chamberlain’s court.
From this day on there shall be no compromise, none, none, none!” (As he
shouted these words he walked up and down and stamped both feet.) “Besides
that, he must beg my pardon for his discourteous act of yesterday, or
fight a duel!”
“But, Judge, what will happen if Jacek learns of this? He will certainly
die of despair! Have not the Soplicas done evil enough in this castle?
Brother, I do not wish to mention that terrible event, but you too know
that the Targowica confederates103 took a part of the estate from the
owner of the castle and gave it to the Soplicas. Jacek, repenting his sin,
had to vow, when absolved, to restore those lands. So he took Zosia, the
poor heiress of the Horeszkos, under his care, and he paid a great price
for her bringing up. He wished to win her for his own son Thaddeus, and
thus unite in brotherly affection two hostile houses, and yield without
shame to the heiress what had been plundered from her.”
“But what have I to do with all this?” cried the Judge. “I have never been
acquainted with Jacek—have not even seen him; I had scarcely heard of his
riotous life, since I was then studying rhetoric in a Jesuit school, and
later served as page with the Wojewoda. They gave me the estate and I took
it; he told me to receive Zosia, and I received her and cared for her, and
am planning for her future. I am weary enough of all this old wives’ tale!
And then why did this Count intrude upon me here? With what right to the
castle? You know, my friend, he’s only some sixteenth cousin to the
Horeszkos, the tenth water on the kisiel.104 And he must insult me? and I
invite him to a reconciliation!”
“Brother,” said the Monk, “there are weighty reasons for this. You
remember that Jacek wanted to send his son to the army, but later let him
remain in Lithuania: what reason was there for that? Why, at home he will
be more useful to his country. You have surely heard the news of which
every one is talking, and of which I have often brought tidings: now is
the time to tell it all, now is the time! An important matter, my brother!
Now the war is upon us! A war for Poland, brother! We shall be Poles once
more! War is inevitable. When I hurried here on a secret mission, the
vanguard of the army was already on the Niemen. Napoleon is already
gathering an immense army, such as man has never seen and history does not
remember; by the side of the French the whole Polish army is advancing,
our Joseph,105 our Dombrowski, our white eagles! They are already on the
march, at the first sign from Napoleon they will cross the Niemen; and,
brother, our Fatherland will be restored!”
The Judge, as he listened, slowly folded his spectacles, and gazed fixedly
at the Monk, but said nothing; he sighed deeply, and tears stood in his
eyes—finally he clasped Robak about the neck with all his might,
exclaiming:—
“My Robak, is this really true? My Robak,” he repeated, “is this really
true? How many times they have deceived us! Do you remember, they said
that Napoleon was already on the road? And we were waiting! They said, he
is already in the Kingdom,106 he has already beaten the Prussians, and is
coming in among us! And what did he do? He made peace at Tilsit.107 Is it
really true? Are you not deceiving yourself?”
“It is the truth,” cried Robak, “as God is in Heaven!”
“Blessed be the lips that bring these tidings!” said the Judge, raising
his hands on high. “You shall not regret your mission, Robak; your
monastery shall not regret it; two hundred choice sheep I give to your
monastery. Monk, yesterday you expressed a desire for my chestnut and
praised my bay; to-day the two shall at once be harnessed to the waggon in
which you gather alms. To-day ask me for what you wish, for whatever
pleases you, and I will not refuse! But as to all that business with the
Count, let me alone; he has wronged me, I have already summoned him to
court—is it fitting that I should propose an accommodation?”
The astonished Monk wrung his hands. Fixing his eyes upon the Judge and
shrugging his shoulders, he said:—
“So, when Napoleon is bringing liberty to Lithuania, when all the world
trembles, then you are thinking of your lawsuit? And after all that I have
told you will you sit calmly, folding your hands, when one must act?”
“Act? How?” asked the Judge.
“Have you not yet read it in my eyes?” replied Robak. “Does your heart
still tell you nothing? Ah, brother, if you have one drop of the Soplicas’
blood in your veins, just consider: the French are striking from in
front—what if we stir up a rising of the people from the rear? What do you
think? Let our Warhorse neigh, let the Bear roar in Zmudz!108 Ah, if only
a thousand men, if but five hundred should press from behind upon the
Muscovites, and spread abroad the rising like fire; if we, seizing cannon
and standards from the Muscovites, should go as conquerors to greet the
deliverers of our kinsmen? We advance! Napoleon, seeing our lances, asks,
‘What army is that?’ We shout, ‘The insurgents, Most August Emperor; the
volunteers of Lithuania!’ He asks, ‘Who is their commander?’—‘Judge
Soplica!’ Ah, who then would dare to breathe a word of Targowica? Brother,
while Ponary stands, while the Niemen flows, so long will the name of the
Soplicas be famous in Lithuania; to their grandsons and great-grandsons
the capital of the Jagiellos109 will point, saying, ‘There is a Soplica,
one of those Soplicas who first started the revolt.’ ”
“People’s talk is of small account,” answered the Judge. “I have never
greatly cared for the praises of the world. God is my witness that I am
innocent of my brother’s sins; in politics I have never meddled much, but
have performed the duties of my office and ploughed my patch of ground.
But I am a gentleman by birth, and should be glad to wipe out the blot on
my escutcheon; I am a Pole, and should be glad to do some service for my
country—even to lay down my life. With the sabre I was never over skilled,
and yet some men have received slashes even from me. The world knows that
at the time of the last Polish district assemblies I challenged and
wounded the two brothers Buzwik, who—— But enough of this. What is your
idea, sir? Should we take the field at once? To gather musketeers is easy;
I have plenty of powder, and at the parish house the priest has some small
cannon; I remember that Jankiel has told me that he has some points for
lances, which I may take in case of need. He smuggled these lance-points
in cases of goods, from Königsberg; we will take them, and make shafts at
once. There will be no lack of sabres; the gentry will mount their steeds,
my nephew and I at the head, and——? Somehow we’ll manage it!”
“O Polish blood!” exclaimed the Bernardine with emotion, leaping towards
the Judge with open arms; “true child of the Soplicas! God ordains you to
wipe out the sins of your vagabond brother. I have always respected you,
but from this instant I love you, as though we were own brothers. Let us
prepare everything, but it is not yet time to take the field; I myself
will indicate the place and will inform you of the time. I know that the
Tsar has sent messengers to Napoleon to ask for peace; the war is not yet
proclaimed. But Prince Joseph has heard from Pan Bignon,110 a Frenchman, a
member of the Imperial Council, that all these negotiations will come to
nothing, that there will be war. The Prince sent me as a scout with
instructions that the Lithuanians should be ready to announce to Napoleon
when he came that they wish to unite anew with their sister, the Kingdom,
and desire that Poland be restored. Meanwhile, brother, you must be
reconciled with the Count; he is a crank, a trifle fantastic in his
notions, but he is a good, honest young Pole; we need such; cranks are
very necessary in revolutions, as I know from experience; even stupid
fellows will be of service, so long as they are honest and under the
authority of clever men. The Count is a magnate, and has great influence
among the gentry; the whole district will rise if he joins the revolt;
knowing his estate, every gentleman will say, ‘It must be a sure thing,
since the magnates are in it; I will join directly.’ ”
“Let him make the first move,” said the Judge, “let him come here, let him
beg my pardon. At any rate I am older than he, and hold an office! As for
the lawsuit, we will refer it to arbitration.”
The Bernardine slammed the door.
“Well, a happy journey to you!” said the Judge.
The Monk mounted a vehicle standing by the threshold, lashed the horses
with the whip, tickled their sides with the reins, and the carriage flew
off and vanished in billows of fog; only now and then the grey cowl of the
Monk rose above the mist like a vulture above the clouds.
The Apparitor had long ago arrived at the Count’s house. As an experienced
fox, when the scent of bacon allures it, runs towards it but bears in mind
the secret tricks of hunters; it runs, stops, sits up frequently, raises
its brush, and with it as with a fan waves the breeze to its nostrils, and
asks the breeze whether the hunters have not poisoned the food: so Protazy
left the road and circled over the meadow around the house; he twirled his
stick in his hand and pretended that he had somewhere seen some stray
cattle; thus skilfully manœuvring he arrived close to the garden; he bent
down and ran so that you would have said that he was trailing a land rail;
then he suddenly jumped over the fence and plunged into the hemp.
In that thick, green, fragrant growth around the house there is a sure
refuge for beasts and men. Often a hare, caught among the cabbages, leaps
to find surer hiding in the hemp than in the shrubbery, for among the
close-set stalks no greyhound can catch it, nor foxhound smell it out
because of the strong odour. In the hemp a serving man, fleeing from the
whip or the fist, sits quietly until his master has spent his wrath. And
often even runaway peasant recruits, while the government is tracking them
in the woods, are sitting in the hemp. And hence at the time of battles,
forays, and confiscations, each side uses immense exertions to occupy a
position in the hemp, which commonly extends forward to the walls of the
mansion, and backward until it joins the hop fields, and thus covers their
attack and retreat from the enemy.
Protazy, though a bold fellow, felt some terror, for the very smell of the
leaves called to his mind various of his former adventures as
apparitor—one after another—of which the hemp had been a witness: how once
a gentleman of Telsze, Dzindolet, whom he had summoned to court, had put a
pistol against his breast, and bidden him crawl under the table and from
there bark out a recantation of that summons with a dog’s voice,111 so
that the Apparitor had to run full speed for the hemp; how later
Wolodkowicz,112 a haughty and insolent grandee, who used to break up
district diets and violate courts of justice, receiving his official
summons, had torn it into bits, and stationing footmen with clubs at the
doors, had with his own hand held a bare sword over the Apparitor’s head,
crying: “Either I will cut you down or you will eat your paper.” The
Apparitor, like a cautious man, had pretended to begin to eat it, until,
stealing up to the window, he had plunged into the hemp garden.
To be sure, at this time it was no longer the custom in Lithuania to
defend oneself from a summons with the sabre or the whip, and an apparitor
only got cursed now and then for his pains; but Protazy could not know of
that change of customs, for it was long since he had carried any summons.
Though he was always ready, though he himself had begged the Judge to let
him, up till now the Judge, from a due regard for his advanced age, had
refused his requests; to-day he had accepted his offer because of pressing
need.
The Apparitor gazed and listened—all was quiet—slowly he thrust forward
his hand through the hemp, and, separating the dense mass of stalks, swam
through the greenery as a fisherman dives beneath the water. He raised his
head—all was quiet—he stole up to the windows—all was quiet—through the
windows he surveyed the interior of the mansion—all was empty. He stepped
up on the porch, not without terror, and undid the latch—all was empty as
in an enchanted house; he took out his summons, and read aloud the
notification. But suddenly he heard a clatter, and felt a trembling of the
heart, and wanted to run away; when from the door there came towards him a
person—luckily well known to him! Robak! Both were surprised.
Evidently the Count had departed somewhere with all his train, and in a
great hurry, for he had left the doors open. It was evident that he had
been arming himself; on the floor lay double-barrelled muskets and
carbines, besides ramrods and gunhammers and locksmith’s tools with which
they had been repairing the arms. There were also gunpowder and paper;
they had been making cartridges. Had the Count gone hunting with all his
train? But why should he take hand arms? Here lay a rusty, hiltless sabre,
there a sword with no belt; they must have been selecting weapons from
this rubbish, and have ransacked even the old armouries. Robak surveyed
with care the guns and swords, and then went out to the farmhouse to
explore, looking for servants of whom he might inquire about the Count. In
the deserted farmhouse he at length found two peasant women, from whom he
learned that the master and his whole household had departed in a body,
armed, along the road to Dobrzyn.
The hamlet of Dobrzyn has a wide reputation in Lithuania for the bravery
of its gentlemen and the beauty of its gentlewomen. It was once powerful
and populous, for when King Jan III. Sobieski had summoned the general
militia by the “twigs,”113 the ensign of the wojewodeship had led to him
from Dobrzyn alone six hundred armed gentry. The family had now grown
small and poor; formerly at the courts of the magnates or in their troops,
at forays, and at the district assemblies the Dobrzynskis used to find an
easy living. Now they were forced to work for themselves, like mere serfs,
except that they did not wear peasants’ russet doublets, but long white
coats with black stripes, and on Sunday kontuszes. Also the dress of even
the poorest of their women was different from the jackets of the peasants;
they usually wore drilling or percale, herded their cattle in shoes not of
bark but of leather, and reaped and even spun with gloves on.
The Dobrzynskis were distinguished among their Lithuanian brethren by
their language and likewise by their stature and their appearance. They
were of pure Polish blood, and all had black hair, high foreheads, black
eyes, and aquiline noses. From the land of Dobrzyn114 they derived their
ancient family, and, though they had been settled in Lithuania for four
hundred years, they preserved their Masovian speech and customs. Whenever
any one of them gave his son a name at baptism, he always used to choose
as a patron a saint of the Kingdom, either Bartholomew or Matthias
[Matyasz]. Thus the son of Maciej was always called Bardomiej,115 and
again the son of Bartlomiej was called Maciej; the women were all
christened Kachna or Maryna. In order to distinguish themselves amid such
confusion, they took various nicknames, from some merit or defect, both
men and women. Sometimes they would give a man several surnames, as a mark
of the contempt or of the regard of his compatriots; sometimes the same
gentleman was known by one name in Dobrzyn, and by a different title in
the neighbouring hamlets. Imitating the Dobrzynskis, the rest of the
gentry of the vicinity likewise assumed nicknames, or by-names.116 Now
almost every family employs them, but only a few know that they originated
in Dobrzyn, and were necessary there, while in the rest of the country
they became a custom through mere stupid imitation.
So Matyasz Dobrzynski, who was at the head of the whole family, had been
called Cock-on-the-Steeple. Later, after the year seventeen hundred and
ninety-four, he changed his nickname and was christened Hand-on-Hip; the
Dobrzynskis themselves also called him Bunny our King,117 but the
Lithuanians styled him the Maciek of Macieks.
As he over the Dobrzynskis, so his house ruled over the village, standing
between the tavern and the church. To all appearances it was rarely
visited and mere trash lived in it, for at the entrance stood posts
without gates, and the garden was neither fenced nor planted; in the
vegetable beds birches had grown up. Yet this old farmhouse seemed the
capitol of the village, for it was handsomer and more spacious than the
other cottages, and on the right side, where the living-room was placed,
it was of brick. Near by were a storehouse, granary, barn, cow shed, and
stable, all close together, as is usually the case among the gentry. The
whole was uncommonly old and decayed; the house roofs shone as if made of
green tin, because of the moss and grass, which grew as luxuriantly as on
a prairie. The thatches of the barns were like hanging gardens of various
plants, the nettle and the crimson crocus, the yellow mullen and the
bright-coloured tassels of mercury. In them too were nests of various
birds; in the lofts were dove-cotes, nests of swallows in the windows;
white rabbits hopped about at the threshold and burrowed in the untrodden
turf. In a word the place was like a birdcage or a warren.
But of old it had been fortified! Everywhere there were plenty of traces
that it had undergone great and frequent attacks. Near the gateway there
still lay in the grass a relic of the Swedish invasion, an iron cannon
ball, as large as a child’s head; once the open gate had rested on that
ball as on a stone. In the yard, among the weeds and the wormwood, rose
the old stumps of some dozen crosses, on unconsecrated ground, a sign that
here lay buried men who had perished by a sudden and unexpected death.
When one eyed from close by the storehouse, granary, and cottage, he saw
that the walls were peppered from ground to summit as with a swarm of
black insects; in the centre of each spot sat a bullet, like a bumble-bee
in its earthy burrow.
On the doors of the establishment all the latches, nails, and hooks were
either cut off or bore the marks of sabres; evidently here they had tested
the temper of those swords of the time of the Sigismunds, with which one
might boldly cut off the heads of nails or cleave hooks in two without
making a notch in the blade. Over the doors could be seen coats of arms of
the Dobrzynskis, but shelves of cheeses veiled the bearings, and swallows
had walled them in thickly with their nests.
The interior of the house itself and of the stable and carriage-house you
would find as full of accoutrements as an old armoury. Under the roof hung
four immense helmets, the ornaments of martial brows; to-day the birds of
Venus, the doves, cooing, fed their young in them. In the stable a great
cuirass extended over the manger and a corselet of ring mail served as a
chute through which the boy threw down clover to the colts. In the kitchen
the godless cook had spoiled the temper of several swords by sticking them
into the oven instead of spits; with a Turkish horsetail, captured at
Vienna, she dusted her handmill. In a word, housewifely Ceres had banished
Mars and ruled along with Pomona, Flora, and Vertumnus over Dobrzynski’s
house, stable, and barn. But to-day the goddesses must yield anew; Mars
returns.
At daybreak there had appeared in Dobrzyn a mounted messenger; he galloped
from cottage to cottage and awoke them as if to work for the manor: the
gentry arose and filled with a crowd the streets of the hamlet; cries were
heard in the tavern, candles seen in the priest’s house. All were running
about, each asked the other what this meant; the old men took counsel
together, the young men saddled their horses while the women held them;
the boys scuffled about, in a hurry to run and fight, but did not know
with whom or about what! Willy-nilly, they had to stay behind. In the
priest’s dwelling there was in progress a long, tumultuous, frightfully
confused debate; at last, not being able to agree, they finally decided to
lay the whole matter before Father Maciej.
Seventy-two years of age was Maciej, a hale old man, of low stature, a
former Confederate of Bar.118 Both his friends and his enemies remembered
his curved damascened sabre, with which he was wont to chop spears and
bayonets like fodder, and to which in jest he had given the modest name of
_switch_. From a Confederate he became a partisan of the King, and
supported Tyzenhaus,119 the Under-Treasurer of Lithuania; but when the
King joined the men of Targowica, Maciej once more deserted the royal
side. And hence, since he had passed through so many parties, he had long
been called Cock-on-the-Steeple, because like a cock he turned his
standard with the wind. You would in vain search for the cause of such
frequent changes; perhaps Maciej was too fond of war, and, when conquered
on one side, sought battle anew on the other; perhaps the shrewd
politician judged well the spirit of the times, and turned whither he
thought the good of his country called him.120 Who knows! This much is
sure, that never was he seduced either by desire for personal fame, or by
base greed, and that never had he supported the Muscovite party; for at
the very sight of a Muscovite he frothed and grimaced. In order not to
meet a Muscovite, after the partition of the country, he sat at home like
a bear that sucks its paw in the woods.
His last experience in war was when he went with Oginski121 to Wilno,
where they both served under Jasinski, and there with his switch he
performed prodigies of valour. Everybody knew how he had jumped down alone
from the ramparts of Praga to defend Pan Pociej,122 who had been deserted
on the field of battle and had received twenty-three wounds. In Lithuania
they long thought that both had been killed; but both returned, each as
full of holes as a sieve. Pan Pociej, an honourable man, immediately after
the war had wished to reward generously his defender Dobrzynski; he had
offered him for life a farm of five houses, and assigned him yearly a
thousand ducats in gold. But Dobrzynski wrote back: “Let Pociej remain in
debt to Maciej, and not Maciej to Pociej.” So he refused the farm and
would not take the money; returning home alone, he lived by the work of
his own hands, making hives for bees and medicine for cattle, sending to
market partridges which he caught in snares, and hunting wild beasts.
In Dobrzyn there were numbers of sagacious old men—men versed in Latin,
who from their youth up had practised at the bar; there were numbers of
richer men: but of all the family the poor and simple Maciek was the most
highly honoured, not only as a swordsman made famous by his _switch_, but
as a man of wise and sure judgment, who knew the history of the country
and the traditions of the family, and was equally well versed in law and
farming. He knew likewise the secrets of hunting and of medicine; they
even ascribed to him (though this the priest denied) a knowledge of
higher, superhuman things. This much is sure, that he knew with precision
the changes of the weather, and could guess them oftener than the farmer’s
almanac. It is no marvel then that, whether it was a question of beginning
the sowing, or of sending out the river barges, or of reaping the grain;
whether it was a matter of going to law, or of concluding a compromise,
nothing was done in Dobrzyn without the advice of Maciek. Such influence
the old man did not in the least seek for; on the contrary, he wished to
be rid of it, scolded his clients, and usually pushed them out of the door
of his house without opening his lips; he rarely gave advice, and never to
common men; only in extremely important disputes or agreements, when
asked, would he utter an opinion—and then in few words. It was thought
that he would undertake to-day’s affair and put himself in person at the
head of the expedition; for in his youth he had loved a combat beyond
measure, and he was an enemy of the Muscovite race.
The aged man was walking about in his solitary yard, humming a song, “When
the early dawn ariseth,”123 and was happy because the weather was
clearing; the mist was not rising up as it usually does when clouds are
gathering, but kept falling: the wind spread forth its palms and stroked
the mist, smoothed it, and spread it on the meadow; meanwhile the sun from
on high with a thousand beams pierced the web, silvered it, gilded it,
made it rosy. As when a pair of workmen at Sluck are making a Polish
girdle; a girl at the base of the loom smooths and presses the web with
her hands, while the weaver throws her from above threads of silver, gold
and purple, forming colours and flowers: thus to-day the wind spread all
the earth with mist and the sun embroidered it.
Maciej was warming himself in the sun after finishing his prayers, and was
already setting about his household work. He brought out grass and leaves;
he sat down in front of his house and whistled: at this whistle a
multitude of rabbits bobbed up from beneath the ground. Like narcissuses
suddenly blooming above the grass, their long ears shine white; beneath
them their bright eyes glitter like bloody rubies thickly sown in the
velvet of the greensward. Now the rabbits sit up, and each listens and
gazes around; finally the whole white, furry herd run to the old man,
allured by leaves of cabbage; they jump to his feet, on his knees, on his
shoulders: himself white as a rabbit, he loves to gather them around him
and stroke their warm fur with his hand; but with his other hand he throws
millet on the grass for the sparrows, and the noisy rabble drop from the
roofs.
While the aged man was amusing himself with the sight of this gathering,
suddenly the rabbits vanished into the earth, and the flocks of sparrows
fled to the roof before new guests, who were coming into the yard with
quick steps. These were the envoys whom the assembly of gentry at the
priest’s house had sent to consult Maciek. Greeting the old man from afar
with low bows, they said: “Praised be Jesus Christ.”—“For ever and ever,
amen,”124 answered the old man; and, when he had learned of the importance
of the embassy, he asked them into his cottage. They entered and sat down
upon a bench. The first of the envoys took his stand in the centre and
began to render an account of his mission.
Meanwhile more and more of the gentry were arriving; almost all the
Dobrzynskis, and no few of the neighbours from the hamlets near by, armed
and unarmed, in carts and in carriages, on foot and on horseback. They
halted their vehicles, tied their nags to the birches, and, curious as to
the outcome of the deliberations, they formed a circle about the house:
they soon filled the room and thronged the vestibule; others listened with
their heads crowded into the windows.