Next day, Zagloba, armed with a letter from the primate, and having
a complete plan made with Ketling, rang the bell at the gate of
the monastery on Mons Regius. His heart was beating with violence
at this thought, “How will Michael receive me?” and though he had
prepared in advance what to say, he acknowledged himself that much
depended on the reception. Thinking thus, he pulled the bell a
second time; and when the key squeaked in the lock, and the door
opened a little, he thrust himself into it straightway a trifle
violently, and said to the confused young monk,--
“I know that to enter here a special permission is needed; but I
have a letter from the archbishop, which you, _carissime frater_,
will be pleased to give the reverend prior.”
“It will be done according to the wish of your grace,” said the
doorkeeper, inclining at sight of the primate’s seal.
Then he pulled a strap hanging at the tongue of a bell, and pulled
twice to call some one, for he himself had no right to go from
the door. Another monk appeared at that summons, and taking the
letter, departed in silence. Zagloba placed on a bench a package
which he had with him, then sat down and began to puff wonderfully.
“Brother,” said he, at last, “how long have you been in the
cloister?”
“Five years,” answered the porter.
“Is it possible? so young, and five years already! Then it is
too late to leave, even if you wanted to do so. You must yearn
sometimes for the world; the world smells of war for one man, of
feasts for another, of fair heads for a third.”
“Avaunt!” said the monk, making the sign of the cross with devotion.
“How is that? Has not the temptation to go out of the cloister come
on you?” continued Zagloba.
The monk looked with distrust at the envoy of the archbishop,
speaking in such marvellous fashion, and answered, “When the door
here closes on any man, he never goes out.”
“We’ll see that yet! What is happening to Pan Volodyovski? Is he
well?”
“There is no one here named in that way.”
“Brother Michael?” said Zagloba, on trial. “Former colonel of
dragoons, who came here not long since.”
“We call him Brother Yerzy; but he has not made his vows yet, and
cannot make them till the end of the term.”
“And surely he will not make them; for you will not believe,
brother, what a woman’s man he is! You could not find another man
so hostile to woman’s virtue in all the clois-- I meant to say in
all the cavalry.”
“It is not proper for me to hear this,” said the monk, with
increasing astonishment and confusion.
“Listen, brother; I do not know where you receive visitors, but if
it is in this place, I advise you to withdraw a little when Brother
Yerzy comes,--as far as that gate, for instance,--for we shall talk
here of very worldly matters.”
“I prefer to go away at once,” said the monk.
Meanwhile Pan Michael, or rather Brother Yerzy, appeared; but
Zagloba did not recognize the approaching man, for Pan Michael had
changed greatly. To begin with, he seemed taller in the long white
habit than in the dragoon jacket; secondly, his mustaches, pointing
upward toward his eyes formerly, were hanging down now, and he was
trying to let out his beard, which formed two little yellow tresses
not longer than half a finger; finally, he had grown very thin and
meagre, and his eyes had lost their former glitter. He approached
slowly, with his hands hidden on his bosom under his habit, and
with drooping head.
Zagloba, not recognizing him, thought that perhaps the prior
himself was coming; therefore he rose from the bench and began,
“Laudetur--” Suddenly he looked more closely, opened his arms, and
cried, “Pan Michael! Pan Michael!”
Brother Yerzy let himself be seized in the embrace; something like
a sob shook his breast, but his eyes remained dry. Zagloba pressed
him a long time; at last he began to speak,--
“You have not been alone in weeping over your misfortune. I wept;
Yan and his family wept; the Kmitas wept. It is the will of God! be
resigned to it, Michael. May the Merciful Father comfort and reward
you! You have done well to shut yourself in for a time in these
walls. There is nothing better than prayer and pious meditation in
misfortune. Come, let me embrace you again! I can hardly see you
through my tears.”
And Zagloba wept with sincerity, moved at the sight of Pan Michael.
“Pardon me for disturbing your meditation,” said he, at last; “but
I could not act otherwise, and you will do me justice when I give
you my reasons. Ai, Michael! you and I have gone through a world of
evil and of good. Have you found consolation behind these bars?”
“I have,” replied Pan Michael,--“in those words which I hear in
this place daily, and repeat, and which I desire to repeat till my
death, _memento mori_. In death is consolation for me.”
“H’m! death is more easily found on the battlefield than in the
cloister, where life passes as if some one were unwinding thread
from a ball, slowly.”
“There is no life here, for there are no earthly questions; and
before the soul leaves the body, it lives, as it were, in another
world.”
“If that is true, I will not tell you that the Belgrod horde
are mustering in great force against the Commonwealth; for what
interest can that have for you?”
Pan Michael’s mustaches quivered on a sudden, and he stretched his
right hand unwittingly to his left side; but not finding a sword
there, he put both hands under his habit, dropped his head, and
repeated, “Memento mori!”
“Justly, justly!” answered Zagloba, blinking his sound eye with a
certain impatience. “No longer ago than yesterday Pan Sobieski, the
hetman, said: ‘Only let Volodyovski serve even through this one
storm, and then let him go to whatever cloister he likes. God would
not be angry for the deed; on the contrary, such a monk would have
all the greater merit.’ But there is no reason to wonder that you
put your own peace above the happiness of the country, for _prima
charitas ab ego_ (the first love is of self).”
A long interval of silence followed; only Pan Michael’s mustaches
stood out somewhat and began to move quickly, though lightly.
“You have not taken your vows yet,” asked Zagloba, at last, “and
you can go out at any moment?”
“I am not a monk yet, for I have been waiting for the favor of
God, and waiting till all painful thoughts of earth should leave
my soul. His favor is upon me now; peace is returning to me. I can
go out; but I have no wish to go, since the time is drawing near
in which I can make my vows with a clear conscience and free from
earthly desires.”
“I have no wish to lead you away from this; on the contrary, I
applaud your resolution, though I remember that when Yan in his
time intended to become a monk, he waited till the country was
free from the storm of the enemy. But do as you wish. In truth,
it is not I who will lead you away; for I myself in my own time
felt a vocation for monastic life. Fifty years ago I even began my
novitiate; I am a rogue if I did not. Well, God gave me another
direction. Only I tell you this, Michael, you must go out with me
now even for two days.”
“Why must I go out? Leave me in peace!” said Volodyovski.
Zagloba raised the skirt of his coat to his eyes and began to sob.
“I do not beg rescue for myself,” said he, in a broken voice,
“though Prince Boguslav Radzivill is hunting me with vengeance; he
puts his murderers in ambush against me, and there is no one to
defend and protect me, old man. I was thinking that you-- But never
mind! I will love you all my life, even if you are unwilling to
know me. Only pray for my soul, for I shall not escape Boguslav’s
hands. Let that come upon me which has to come; but another friend
of yours, who shared every morsel of bread with you, is now on his
death-bed, and wishes to see you without fail. He is unwilling to
die without you; for he has some confession to make on which his
soul’s peace depends.”
Pan Michael, who had heard of Zagloba’s danger with great emotion,
sprang forward now, and seizing him by the arms, inquired, “Is it
Pan Yan?”
“No, not Yan, but Ketling!”
“For God’s sake! what has happened to him?”
“He was shot by Prince Boguslav’s ruffians while defending me; I
know not whether he will be alive in twenty-four hours. It is for
you, Michael, that we have both fallen into these straits, for we
came to Warsaw only to think out some consolation for you. Come
for even two days, and console a dying man. You will return later;
you will become a monk. I have brought the recommendation of the
primate to the prior to raise no impediment against you. Only
hasten, for every moment is precious.”
“For God’s sake!” cried Pan Michael; “what do I hear? Impediments
cannot keep me, for so far I am here only on meditation. As God
lives, the prayer of a dying man is sacred! I cannot refuse that.”
“It would be a mortal sin!” cried Zagloba.
“That is true! It is always that traitor, Boguslav--But if I do not
avenge Ketling, may I never come back! I will find those ruffians,
and I will split their skulls! O Great God! sinful thoughts are
already attacking me! _Memento mori!_ Only wait here till I put on
my old clothes, for it is not permitted to go out in the habit.”
“Here are clothes!” cried Zagloba, springing to the bundle, which
was lying there on the bench near them. “I foresaw everything,
prepared everything! Here are boots, a rapier, a good overcoat.”
“Come to the cell,” said the little knight, with haste.
They went to the cell; and when they came out again, near Zagloba
walked, not a white monk, but an officer with yellow boots to the
knees, with a rapier at his side, and a white pendant across his
shoulder. Zagloba blinked and smiled under his mustaches at sight
of the brother at the door, who, evidently scandalized, opened the
gate to the two.
Not far from the cloister and lower down, Zagloba’s wagon was
waiting, and with it two attendants. One was sitting on the seat,
holding the reins of four well-attached horses; at these Pan
Michael cast quickly the eye of an expert. The other stood near
the wagon, with a mouldy, big-bellied bottle in one hand, and two
goblets in the other.
“It is a good stretch of road to Mokotov,” said Zagloba; “and
harsh sorrow is waiting for us at the bedside of Ketling. Drink
something, Michael, to gain strength to endure all this, for you
are greatly reduced.”
Saying this, Zagloba took the bottle from the hands of the man and
filled both glasses with Hungarian so old that it was thick from
age.
“This is a goodly drink,” said Zagloba, placing the bottle on the
ground and taking the goblets. “To the health of Ketling!”
“To his health!” repeated Pan Michael. “Let us hurry!”
They emptied the glasses at a draught.
“Let us hurry,” repeated Zagloba. “Pour out, man!” said he, turning
to the servant. “To the health of Pan Yan! Let us hurry!”
They emptied the goblets again at a draught, for there was real
urgency.
“Let us take our seats!” cried Pan Michael.
“But will you not drink my health?” asked Zagloba, with a
complaining voice.
“If quickly!”
And they drank quickly. Zagloba emptied the goblet at a breath,
though there was half a quart in it, then without wiping his
mustaches, he cried, “I should be thankless not to drink your
health. Pour out, man!”
“With thanks!” answered Brother Yerzy.
The bottom appeared in the bottle, which Zagloba seized by the neck
and broke into small pieces, for he never could endure the sight of
empty vessels. Then he took his seat quickly, and they rode on.
The noble drink soon filled their veins with beneficent warmth,
and their hearts with a certain consolation. The cheeks of Brother
Yerzy were covered with a slight scarlet, and his glance regained
its former vivacity. He stretched his hand unwittingly once, twice,
to his mustaches, and turned them upward like awls, till at last
they came near his eyes. He began meanwhile to gaze around with
great curiosity, as if looking at the country for the first time.
All at once Zagloba struck his palms on his knees and cried without
evident reason,--
“Ho! ho! I hope that Ketling will return to health when he sees
you! Ho! ho!”
And clasping Pan Michael around the neck, he began to embrace him
with all his power. Pan Michael did not wish to remain in debt to
Zagloba; he pressed him with the utmost sincerity. They went on
for some time in silence, but in a happy one. Meanwhile the small
houses of the suburbs began to appear on both sides of the road.
Before the houses there was a great movement. On this side and
that, townspeople were strolling, servants in various liveries,
soldiers and nobles, frequently very well-dressed.
“Swarms of nobles have come to the Diet,” said Zagloba; “for though
not one of them is a deputy, they wish to be present, to hear and
to see. The houses and inns are so filled everywhere that it is
hard to find a room, and how many noble women are strolling along
the streets! I tell you that you could not count them on the hairs
of your beard. They are pretty too, the rogues, so that sometimes a
man has the wish to slap his hands on his sides as a cock does his
wings, and crow. But look! look at that brunette behind whom the
haiduk is carrying the green shuba; isn’t she splendid? Eh?”
Here Zagloba nudged Pan Michael in the side with his fist, and Pan
Michael looked, moved his mustaches; his eyes glittered, but in
that moment he grew shamefaced, dropped his head, and said after a
brief silence, “Memento mori!”
But Zagloba clasped him again, and cried, “As you love me, _per
amicitiam nostram_ (by our friendship), as you respect me, get
married. There are so many worthy maidens, get married!”
Brother Yerzy looked with astonishment on his friend. Zagloba
could not be drunk, however, for many a time he had taken thrice
as much wine without visible effect; therefore he spoke only from
tenderness. But all thoughts of marriage were far away then from
the head of Pan Michael, so that in the first instant astonishment
overcame in him indignation; then he looked severely into the eyes
of Zagloba and asked,--
“Are you tipsy?”
“From my whole heart I say to you, get married!”
Pan Michael looked still more severely. “Memento mori.”
But Zagloba was not easily disconcerted. “Michael, if you love me,
do this for me, and kiss a dog on the snout with your ‘memento.’
I repeat, you will do as you please, but I think in this way: Let
each man serve God with that for which he was created; and God
created you for the sword: in this His will is evident, since He
has permitted you to attain such perfection in the use of it. In
case He wished you to be a priest, He would have adorned you with a
wit altogether different, and inclined your heart more to books and
to Latin. Consider, too, that soldier saints enjoy no less respect
in heaven than saints with vows, and they go campaigning against
the legions of hell, and receive rewards from God’s hands when they
return with captured banners. All this is true; you will not deny
it?”
“I do not deny it, and I know that it is hard to skirmish against
your reasoning; but you also will not deny that for grief life is
better in the cloister than in the world.”
“If it is better, bah! then all the more should cloisters be
shunned. Dull is the man who feeds mourning instead of keeping it
hungry, so that the beast may die of famine as quickly as possible.”
Pan Michael found no ready argument; therefore he was silent, and
only after a while answered with a sad voice, “Do not mention
marriage, for such mention only rouses fresh grief in me. My old
desire will not revive, for it has passed away with tears; and my
years are not suitable. My hair is beginning to whiten. Forty-two
years, and twenty-five of them spent in military toil, are no jest,
no jest!”
“O God, do not punish him for blasphemy! Forty-two years! Tfu! I
have more than twice as many on my shoulders, and still at times I
must discipline myself to shake the heat out of my blood, as dust
is shaken from clothing. Respect the memory of that dear dead one.
You were good enough for her, I suppose? But for others are you too
cheap, too old?”
“Give me peace! give me peace!” said Pan Michael, with a voice of
pain; and the tears began to flow to his mustaches.
“I will not say another syllable,” added Zagloba; “only give me the
word of a cavalier that no matter what happens to Ketling you will
stay a month with us. You must see Yan. If you wish afterward to
return to the cloister, no one will raise an impediment.”
“I give my word,” said Pan Michael.
And they fell to talking of something else. Zagloba began to tell
of the Diet, and how he had raised the question of excluding Prince
Boguslav, and of the adventure with Ketling. Occasionally, however,
he interrupted the narrative and buried himself in thoughts; they
must have been cheerful, for from time to time he struck his knees
with his palms, and repeated,--
“Ho! ho!”
But as he approached Mokotov, a certain disquiet appeared on his
face. He turned suddenly to Pan Michael and said, “Your word is
given, you remember, that no matter what happens to Ketling, you
will stay a month with us.”
“I gave it, and I will stay,” said Pan Michael.
“Here is Ketling’s house,” cried Zagloba,--“a respectable place.”
Then he shouted to the driver, “Fire out of your whip! There will
be a festival in this house to-day.”
Loud cracks were heard from the whip. But the wagon had not entered
the gate when a number of officers rushed from the ante-room,
acquaintances of Pan Michael; among them also were old comrades
from the days of Hmelnitski and young officers of recent times.
Of the latter were Pan Vasilevski and Pan Novoveski,--youths
yet, but fiery cavaliers who in years of boyhood had broken away
from school and had been working at war for some years under Pan
Michael. These the little knight loved beyond measure. Among the
oldest was Pan Orlik of the shield Novin, with a skull stopped with
gold, for a Swedish grenade had taken a piece of it on a time; and
Pan Rushchyts, a half-wild knight of the steppes, an incomparable
partisan, second in fame to Pan Michael alone; and a number of
others. All, seeing the two men in the wagon, began to shout,--
“He is there! he is there! Zagloba has conquered! He is there!”
And rushing to the wagon, they seized the little knight in their
arms and bore him to the entrance, repeating, “Welcome! dearest
comrade, live for us! We have you; we won’t let you go! Vivat
Volodyovski, the first cavalier, the ornament of the whole army!
To the steppe with us, brother! To the wild fields! There the wind
will blow your grief away.”
They let him out of their arms only at the entrance. He greeted
them all, for he was greatly touched by that reception, and then he
inquired at once, “How is Ketling? Is he alive yet?”
“Alive! alive!” answered they, in a chorus, and the mustaches of
the old soldiers began to move with a strange smile. “Go to him,
for he cannot stay lying down; he is waiting for you impatiently.”
“I see that he is not so near death as Pan Zagloba said,” answered
the little knight.
Meanwhile they entered the ante-room and passed thence to a large
chamber, in the middle of which stood a table with a feast on it;
in one corner was a plank bed covered with white horse-skin, on
which Ketling was lying.
“Oh, my friend!” said Pan Michael, hastening toward him.
“Michael!” cried Ketling, and springing to his feet as if in the
fulness of strength, he seized the little knight in his embrace.
They pressed each other then so eagerly that Ketling raised
Volodyovski, and Volodyovski Ketling.
“They commanded me to simulate sickness,” said the Scot, “to feign
death: but when I saw you, I could not hold out. I am as well as
a fish, and no misfortune has met me. But it was a question of
getting you out of the cloister. Forgive, Michael. We invented this
ambush out of love for you.”
“To the wild fields with us!” cried the knights, again; and they
struck with their firm palms on their sabres till a terrible
clatter was raised in the room.
But Pan Michael was astounded. For a time he was silent, then
he began to look at all, especially at Zagloba. “Oh, traitors!”
exclaimed he, at last, “I thought that Ketling was wounded unto
death.”
“How is that, Michael?” cried Zagloba. “You are angry because
Ketling is well? You grudge him his health, and wish death to
him? Has your heart become stone in such fashion that you would
gladly see all of us ghosts, and Ketling, and Pan Orlik, and Pan
Rushchyts, and these youths,--nay, even Pan Yan, even me, who
love you as a son?” Here Zagloba closed his eyes and cried still
more piteously, “We have nothing to live for, gracious gentlemen;
there is no thankfulness left in this world; there is nothing but
callousness.”
“For God’s sake!” answered Pan Michael, “I do not wish you ill, but
you have not respected my grief.”
“Have pity on our lives!” repeated Zagloba.
“Give me peace!”
“He says that we show no respect to his grief; but what fountains
we have poured out over him, gracious gentlemen! We have, Michael.
I take God to witness that we should be glad to bear apart your
grief on our sabres, for comrades should always act thus. But since
you have given your word to stay with us a month, then love us at
least for that month.”
“I will love you till death,” said Pan Michael.
Further conversation was interrupted by the coming of a new guest.
The soldiers, occupied with Volodyovski, had not heard the arrival
of that guest, and saw him only when he was standing in the door.
He was a man enormous in stature, of majestic form and bearing.
He had the face of a Roman emperor; in it was power, and at the
same time the true kindness and courtesy of a monarch. He differed
entirely from all those soldiers around him; he grew notably
greater in face of them, as if the eagle, king of birds, had
appeared among hawks, falcons, and merlins.
“The grand hetman!” cried Ketling, and sprang up, as the host, to
greet him.
“Pan Sobieski!” cried others.
All heads were inclined in an obeisance of deep homage. All
save Pan Michael knew that the hetman would come, for he had
promised Ketling; still, his arrival had produced so profound an
impression that for a time no one dared to speak first. That too
was homage extraordinary. But Sobieski loved soldiers beyond all
men, especially those with whom he had galloped over the necks of
Tartar chambuls so often; he looked on them as his own family, and
for this reason specially he had determined to greet Volodyovski,
to comfort him, and finally, by showing such unusual favor and
attention, to retain him in the ranks of the army. Therefore when
he had greeted Ketling, he stretched out his hands at once to the
little knight; and when the latter approached and seized him by the
knees, Sobieski pressed the head of Pan Michael with his palms.
“Old soldier,” said he, “the hand of God has bent thee to the
earth, but it will raise thee, and give comfort. God aid thee! Thou
wilt stay with us now.”
Sobbing shook the breast of Pan Michael. “I will stay!” said he,
with tears.
“That is well; give me of such men as many as possible. And now,
old comrade, let us recall those times which we passed in the
Russian steppes, when we sat down to feast under tents. I am happy
among you. Now, our host, now!”
“Vivat Joannes dux!” shouted every voice.
The feast began and lasted long. Next day the hetman sent a
cream-colored steed of great price to Pan Michael.