Though the Tartars, and especially those of the Dobrudja, knew how to
stand breast to breast against armed men in the field, their most
cherished warfare was the slaughter of defenceless people, the seizing
of women and peasants captive, and above all, plunder. The road was
very bitter therefore to that chambul which Kmita led, for under his
iron hand these wild warriors had to become lambs, keep their knives in
the sheaths, and the quenched tinder and coiled ropes in their
saddle-bags. They murmured at first.
Near Tarnogrod a few remained behind of purpose to let free the “red
birds” in Hmyelevsk and to frolic with the women. But Kmita, who had
pushed on toward Tomashov, returned at sight of the first gleam of
fire, and commanded the guilty to hang the guilty. And he had gained
such control of Akbah Ulan, that the old Tartar not only did not
resist, but he urged the condemned to hang quickly, or the “bogadyr”
would be angry. Thenceforth “the lambs” marched quietly, crowding more
closely together through the villages and towns, lest suspicion might
fall on them. And the execution, though Kmita carried it out so
severely, did not rouse even ill will or hatred against him; such
fortune had that fighter that his subordinates felt just as much love
for him as they did fear.
It is true that Pan Andrei permitted no one to wrong them. The country
had been terribly ravaged by the recent attack of Hmelnitski and
Sheremetyeff; therefore it was as difficult to find provisions and
pasture as before harvest, and besides, everything had to be in time
and in plenty; in Krinitsi, where the townspeople offered resistance
and would not furnish supplies, Pan Andrei ordered that some of them be
beaten with sticks, and the under-starosta he stretched out with the
blow of a whirlbat.
This delighted the horde immensely, and hearing with pleasure the
uproar of the beaten people, they said among themselves,—
“Ei! our Babinich is a falcon; he lets no man offend his lambs.”
It is enough that not only did they not grow thin, but the men and
horses improved in condition. Old Ulan, whose stomach had expanded,
looked with growing wonder on the young hero and clicked with his
tongue.
“If Allah were to give me a son, I should like such a one. I should not
die of hunger in my old age in the Ulus,” repeated he.
But Kmita from time to time struck him on the stomach and said,—
“Here listen, wild boar! If the Swedes do not open your paunch, you
will hide the contents of all cupboards inside it.”
“Where are the Swedes? Our ropes will rot, our bows will be mildewed,”
answered Ulan, who was homesick for war.
They were advancing indeed through a country to which a Swedish foot
had not been able to come, but farther they would pass through one in
which there had been garrisons afterward driven out by confederates.
They met everywhere smaller and larger bands of armed nobles, marching
in various directions, and not smaller bands of peasants, who more than
once stopped the road to them threateningly, and to whom it was often
difficult to explain that they had to do with friends and servants of
the King of Poland.
They came at last to Zamost. The Tartars were amazed at sight of this
mighty fortress; but what did they think when told that not long before
it had stopped the whole power of Hmelnitski?
Pan Zamoyski, the owner by inheritance, permitted them as a mark of
great affection and favor to enter the town. They were admitted through
a brick gate, while the other two were stone. Kmita himself did not
expect to see anything similar, and he could not recover from
astonishment at sight of the broad streets, built in straight lines,
Italian fashion; at sight of the splendid college, and the academy, the
castle, walls, the great cannon and every kind of provision. As few
among magnates could be compared with the grandson of the great
chancellor, so there were few fortresses that could be compared with
Zamost.
But the greatest ecstasy seized the Tartars, when they saw the Armenian
part of the town. Their nostrils drew in greedily the odor of morocco,
a great manufacture of which was carried on by industrial immigrants
from Kaffa; and their eyes laughed at sight of the dried fruits and
confectionery, Eastern carpets, girdles, inlaid sabres, daggers, bows,
Turkish lamps, and every kind of costly article.
The cup-bearer of the kingdom himself pleased Kmita’s heart greatly, he
was a genuine kinglet in that Zamost of his; a man in the strength of
his years, of fine presence though lacking somewhat robustness, for he
had not restrained sufficiently the ardors of nature in early years. He
had always loved the fair sex, but his health had not been shaken to
that degree that joyousness had vanished from his face. So far he had
not married, and though the most renowned houses in the Commonwealth
had opened wide their doors, he asserted that he could not find in them
a sufficiently beautiful maiden. He found her somewhat later, in the
person of a young French lady, who though in love with another gave him
her hand without hesitation, not foreseeing that the first one,
disregarded, would adorn in the future his own and her head with a
kingly crown.
The lord of Zamost was not distinguished for quick wit, though he had
enough for his own use. He did not strive for dignities and offices,
though they came to him of themselves; and when his friends reproached
him with a lack of native ambition, he answered,—“It is not true that I
lack it, for I have more than those who bow down. Why should I wear out
the thresholds of the court? In Zamost I am not only Yan Zamoyski, but
Sobiepan Zamoyski,”[4] with which name he was very well pleased. He was
glad to affect simple manners, though he had received a refined
education and had passed his youth in journeys through foreign lands.
He spoke of himself as a common noble, and spoke emphatically of the
moderateness of his station, perhaps so that others might contradict
him, and perhaps so that they might not notice his medium wit. On the
whole he was an honorable man, and a better son of the Commonwealth
than many others.
And as he came near Kmita’s heart, so did Kmita please him; therefore
he invited Pan Andrei to the chambers of the castle and entertained
him, for he loved this also, that men should exalt his hospitality.
Pan Andrei came to know in the castle many noted persons; above all,
Princess Griselda Vishnyevetski, sister of Pan Zamoyski and widow of
the great Yeremi,—a man who in his time was well-nigh the greatest in
the Commonwealth, who nevertheless had lost his whole immense fortune
in the time of the Cossack incursion, so that the princess was now
living at Zamost, on the bounty of her brother Yan.
But that lady was so full of grandeur, of majesty and virtue, that her
brother was the first to blow away the dust from before her; and
moreover he feared her like fire. There was no case in which he did not
gratify her wishes, nor an affair the most important concerning which
he did not advise with her. The people of the castle said that the
princess ruled Zamost, the army, the treasury, and her brother; but she
did not wish to take advantage of her preponderance, being given with
her whole soul to grief for her husband and to the education of her
son.
That son had recently returned for a short time from the court of
Vienna and was living with her. He was a youth in the springtime of
life; but in vain did Kmita seek in him those marks which the son of
the great Yeremi should bear in his features.
The figure of the young prince was graceful; but he had a large, full
face, and protruding eyes with a timid look; he had coarse lips, moist,
as with people inclined to pleasures of the table; an immense growth of
hair, black as a raven’s wing, fell to his shoulders. He inherited from
his father only that raven hair and dark complexion.
Pan Andrei was assured by those who were more intimate with the prince
that he had a noble soul, unusual understanding, and a remarkable
memory, thanks to which he was able to speak almost all languages; and
that a certain heaviness of body and temperament with a native greed
for food were the only defects of that otherwise remarkable young man.
In fact, after he had entered into conversation with him Pan Andrei
became convinced that the prince not only had an understanding mind and
a striking judgment touching everything, but the gift of attracting
people. Kmita loved him after the first conversation with that feeling
in which compassion is the greatest element. He felt that he would give
much to bring back to that orphan the brilliant future which belonged
to him by right of birth.
Pan Andrei convinced himself at the first dinner that what was said of
the gluttony of Michael Vishnyevetski was true. The young prince seemed
to think of nothing save eating. His prominent eyes followed each dish
uneasily, and when they brought him the platter he took an enormous
quantity on his plate and ate ravenously, smacking his lips as only
gluttons do. The marble face of the princess grew clouded with still
greater sorrow at that sight. It became awkward for Kmita, so that he
turned away his eyes and looked at Sobiepan.
But Zamoyski was not looking either at Prince Michael or his own guest.
Kmita followed his glance, and behind the shoulders of Princess
Griselda he saw a wonderful sight indeed, which he had not hitherto
noticed.
It was the small pretty head of a maiden, who was as fair as milk, as
red as a rose, and beautiful as an image. Short wavy locks ornamented
her forehead; her quick eyes were directed to the officers sitting near
Zamoyski, not omitting Sobiepan himself. At last those eyes rested on
Kmita, and looked at him fixedly, as full of coquetry as if they
intended to gaze into the depth of his heart.
But Kmita was not easily confused; therefore he began to look at once
into those eyes with perfect insolence, and then he punched in the side
Pan Shurski, lieutenant of the armored castle squadron at Zamost, who
was sitting near him, and asked in an undertone,—
“But who is that tailed farthing?”
“Worthy sir,” answered Shurski, aloud, “do not speak slightingly when
you do not know of whom you are speaking. That is Panna Anusia
Borzobogati. And you will not call her otherwise unless you wish to
regret your rudeness.”
“You do not know, sir, that a farthing is a kind of bird and very
beautiful, therefore there is no contempt in the name,” answered Kmita,
laughing; “but noticing your anger you must be terribly in love.”
“But who is not in love?” muttered the testy Shurski. “Pan Zamoyski
himself has almost looked his eyes out, and is as if sitting on an
awl.”
“I see that, I see that!”
“What do you see? He, I, Grabovski, Stolangyevich, Konoyadzki, Rubetski
of the dragoons, Pyechynga,—she has sunk us all. And with you it will
be the same, if you stay here. With her twenty-four hours are
sufficient.”
“Lord brother! with me she could do nothing in twenty-four months.”
“How is that?” asked Shurski, with indignation; “are you made of metal,
or what?”
“No! But if some one had stolen the last dollar from your pocket you
would not be afraid of a thief.”
“Is that it?” answered Shurski.
Kmita grew gloomy at once, for his trouble came to his mind, and he
noticed no longer that the black eyes were looking still more
stubbornly at him, as if asking, “What is thy name, whence dost thou
come, youthful knight?”
But Shurski muttered: “Bore, bore away! She bored that way into me till
she bored to my heart. Now she does not even care.”
Kmita shook himself out of his seriousness.
“Why the hangman does not some one of you marry her?”
“Each one prevents every other.”
“The girl will be left in the lurch,” said Kmita, “though in truth
there must be white seeds in that pear yet.”
Shurski opened his eyes, and bending to Kmita’s ear said very
mysteriously,—
“They say that she is twenty-five, as I love God. She was with Princess
Griselda before the incursion of the rabble?”
“Wonder of wonders, I should not give her more than sixteen or eighteen
at the most.”
This time the devil (the girl) guessed apparently that they were
talking of her, for she covered her gleaming eyes with the lids, and
only shot sidelong glances at Kmita, inquiring continually: “Who art
thou, so handsome? Whence dost thou come?” And he began involuntarily
to twirl his mustache.
After dinner Zamoyski, who from respect to the courtly manners of Kmita
treated him as an unusual guest, took him by the arm. “Pan Babinich,”
said he, “you have told me that you are from Lithuania?”
“That is true, Pan Zamoyski.”
“Tell me, did you know the Podbipientas?”
“As to knowing I know them not, for they are no longer in the world, at
least those who had the arms Tear-Cowl. The last one fell at Zbaraj. He
was the greatest knight that Lithuania had. Who of us does not know of
Podbipienta?”
“I have heard also of him; but I ask for this reason: There is in
attendance on my sister a lady of honorable family. She was the
betrothed of this Podbipienta who was killed at Zbaraj. She is an
orphan, without father or mother; and though my sister loves her
greatly, still, being the natural guardian of my sister, I have in this
way the maiden in guardianship.”
“A pleasant guardianship!” put in Kmita.
Zamoyski smiled, winked, and smacked his tongue. “Sweetcakes! isn’t
she?”
But suddenly he saw that he was betraying himself, and assumed a
serious air.
“Oh, you traitor!” said he, half jestingly, half seriously, “you want
to hang me on a hook, and I almost let it out!”
“What?” asked Kmita, looking him quickly in the eyes.
Here Zamoyski saw clearly that in quickness of wit he was not the equal
of his guest, and turned the conversation at once.
“That Podbipienta,” said he, “bequeathed her some estates there in your
region. I don’t remember the names of them, for they are
strange,—Baltupie, Syrutsiani, Myshykishki,—in a word, all that he had.
Would I could remember them! Five or six estates.”
“They are adjoining estates, not separate. Podbipienta was a very
wealthy man, and if that lady should come to his fortune she might have
her own ladies-in-waiting, and seek for a husband among senators.”
“Do you tell me that? Do you know those places?”
“I know only Lyubovich and Sheputy, for they are near my land. The
forest boundary alone is ten miles long, and the fields and meadows are
as much more.”
“Where are they?”
“In Vityebsk.”
“Oh, far away! the affair is not worth the trouble, and the country is
under the enemy.”
“When we drive out the enemy we shall come to the property. But the
Podbipientas have property in other places,—in Jmud very considerable,
I know, for I have a piece of land there myself.”
“I see that your substance is not a bag of chopped straw.”
“It brings in nothing now. But I need nothing from others.”
“Advise me how to put that maiden on her feet.”
Kmita laughed.
“I prefer to talk over this matter rather than others. It would be
better for her to go to Pan Sapyeha. If he would take the affair in
hand, he could do a great deal as voevoda of Vityebsk and the most
noted man in Lithuania. He could send notices to the tribunals that the
will was made to Panna Borzobogati, so that Podbipienta’s more distant
relatives should not seize the property.”
“That is true; but now there are no tribunals, and Sapyeha has
something else in his head.”
“The lady might be placed in his hands and under his guardianship.
Having her before his eyes, he would give aid more speedily.”
Kmita looked with astonishment at Zamoyski. “What object has he in
wishing to remove her from this place?” thought he.
Zamoyski continued: “It would be difficult for her to live in camp, in
the tent of the voevoda of Vityebsk; but she might stay with his
daughters.”
“I do not understand this,” thought Kmita; “would he consent to be only
her guardian?”
“But here is the difficulty: how can I send her to those parts in the
present time of disturbance? Several hundred men would be needed, and I
cannot strip Zamost. If I could only find some one to conduct her. Now,
you might take her; you are going to Sapyeha. I would give you letters,
and you would give me your word of honor to take her in safety.”
“I conduct her to Sapyeha?” asked Kmita, in amazement.
“Is the office unpleasant? Even if it should come to love on the road—”
“Ah,” said Kmita, “another one is managing my affections; and though
the tenant pays nothing, still I do not think of making a change.”
“So much the better; with all the greater satisfaction can I confide
her to you.”
A moment of silence followed.
“Well, will you undertake it?” asked the starosta,
“I am marching with Tartars.”
“People tell me that the Tartars fear you worse than fire. Well, what?
Will you undertake it?”
“H’m! why not, if thereby I can oblige your grace? But—”
“Ah, you think that the princess must give permission; she will, as God
is dear to me! For she,—fancy to yourself,—she suspects me.”
Here the starosta whispered in Kmita’s ear; at last he said aloud,—
“She was very angry with me for that, and I put my ears aside; for to
war with women,—behold you! I would rather have the Swedes outside
Zamost. But she will have the best proof that I am planning no evil,
when I wish to send the girl away. She will be terribly amazed, it is
true; but at the first opportunity I’ll talk with her touching this
matter.”
When he had said this, Zamoyski turned and went away. Kmita looked at
him, and muttered,—
“You are setting some snare, Pan Sobiepan; and though I do not
understand the object, I see the snare quickly, for you are a terribly
awkward trapper.”
Zamoyski was pleased with himself, though he understood well that the
work was only half done; and another remained so difficult that at
thought of it despair seized him, and even terror. He had to get
permission of Princess Griselda, whose severity and penetrating mind
Pan Sobiepan feared from his whole soul. But having begun, he wished to
bring the work to completion as early as possible; therefore next
morning, after Mass, and breakfast, and after he had reviewed the hired
German infantry, he went to the chambers of the princess.
He found the lady embroidering a cope for the college. Behind her was
Anusia winding silk hung upon two armchairs; a second skein of rose
color she had placed around her neck, and moving her hands quickly, she
ran around the chairs in pursuit of the unwinding thread.
Zamoyski’s eyes grew bright at sight of her; but he assumed quickly a
serious look, and greeting the princess, began as if unwillingly,—
“That Pan Babinich who has come here with the Tartars is a
Lithuanian,—a man of importance, a very elegant fellow, a born knight
in appearance. Have you noticed him?”
“You brought him to me yourself,” answered the princess, indifferently,
“he has an honest face.”
“I asked him concerning that property left Panna Borzobogati. He says
it is a fortune almost equal to that of the Radzivills.”
“God grant it to Anusia; her orphanhood will be the lighter, and her
old age as well,” said the lady.
“But there is a danger lest distant relatives tear it apart. Babinich
says that Sapyeha might occupy himself with it, if he wished. He is an
honest man, and very friendly to us: I would confide my own daughter to
him. It would be enough for him to send notices to the tribunals, and
proclaim the guardianship. But Babinich says it is needful that Panna
Anusia should go to those places in person.”
“Where,—to Pan Sapyeha?”
“Or to his daughters, so as to be there, that the formal installation
might take place.”
The starosta invented at that moment “formal installation,” thinking
justly that the princess would accept this counterfeit money instead of
true coin. She thought a moment, and asked,—
“How could she go now, when Swedes are on the road?”
“I have news that the Swedes have left Lublin. All this side of the
Vistula is free.”
“And who would take Anusia to Pan Sapyeha?”
“Suppose this same Babinich.”
“With Tartars? Lord Brother, fear God; those are wild, chaotic people!”
“I am not afraid,” put in Anusia, curtesying.
But Princess Griselda had noted already that her brother came with some
plan all prepared; therefore she sent Anusia out of the room, and began
to look at Pan Sobiepan with an inquiring gaze. But he said as if to
himself,—
“These Tartars are down in the dust before Babinich; he hangs them for
any insubordination.”
“I cannot permit this journey,” answered the princess. “The girl is
honest but giddy, and rouses enthusiasm quickly. You know that best
yourself. I would never confide her to a young, unknown man.”
“Unknown here he is not, for who has not heard of the Babiniches as men
of high family and steady people? [Zamoyski had never heard of the
Babiniches in his life.] Besides,” continued he, “you might give her
some sedate woman as companion, and then decorum would be observed.
Babinich I guarantee. I tell you this, too, Lady Sister, that he has in
those places a betrothed with whom he is, as he tells me himself, in
love; and whoso is in love has something else in his head. The
foundation of the matter is this, that another such chance may not come
for a long time,—the fortune may be lost to the girl, and in ripe years
she may be without a roof above her.”
The princess ceased embroidering, raised her head, and fixing her
penetrating eyes on her brother, asked,—
“What reason have you to send her from here?”
“What reason have I?” repeated he, dropping his glance; “what can I
have?—none!”
“Yan, you have conspired with Babinich against her virtue!”
“There it is! As God is dear to me, only that was wanting! You will
read the letter which I shall send to Sapyeha, and give your own. I
will merely say this to you, that I shall not leave Zamost. Finally
examine Babinich himself, and ask him whether he will undertake the
office.
“The moment you suspect me I step aside.”
“Why do you insist so that she shall leave Zamost?”
“For I wish her good, and it is the question of an immense fortune.
Besides, I confess it concerns me much that she should leave Zamost.
Your suspicions have grown disagreeable; it is not to my taste that you
should be frowning at me forever and looking stern. I thought that in
consenting to the departure of the young lady I should find the best
argument against suspicions. God knows I have enough of this, for I am
no student who steals under windows at night. I tell you more: my
officers are enraged one against the other, and shaking their sabres at
one another. There is neither harmony, nor order, nor service as there
should be. I have enough of this. But since you are boring me with your
eyes, then do as you wish; but look after Michael yourself, for that is
your affair, not mine.”
“Michael!” exclaimed the astonished princess.
“I say nothing against the girl. She does not disturb him more than
others; but if you do not see his arrowy glances and ardent affection,
then I tell you this, that Cupid has not such power to blind as a
mother’s love.”
Princess Griselda’s brows contracted, and her face grew pale.
Pan Sobiepan, seeing that he had struck home at last, slapped his knees
with his hands and continued,—
“Lady Sister, thus it is, thus it is! What is the affair to me? Let
Michael give her silk to unwind, let his nostrils quiver when he looks
at her, let him blush, let him look at her through keyholes! What is
that to me? Still, I know—she has a good fortune—her family—well, she
is of nobles, and I do not raise myself above nobles. If you want it
yourself, all right. Their years are not the same, but again it is not
my affair.”
Zamoyski rose, and bowing to his sister very politely, started to go
out.
The blood rushed to her face. The proud lady did not see in the whole
Commonwealth a match worthy of Vishnyevetski, and abroad, perhaps among
the archduchesses of Austria; therefore these words of her brother
burned her like iron red hot.
“Yan!” said she, “wait!”
“Lady Sister,” said Zamoyski, “I wished first to give you proof that
you suspect me unjustly; second, that you should watch some one besides
me. Now you will do as you please; I have nothing more to say.”
Then Pan Zamoyski bowed and went out.