A few days later Zagloba wrote a letter to Pan Yan with the
following conclusion, “If I do not go home before election, be not
astonished. This will not happen through my lack of good wishes for
you; but as the Devil does not sleep, I do not wish that instead of
a bird something useless should remain in my hand. It will come out
badly if when Michael returns, I shall not be able to say to him,
‘That one is engaged, and the haiduk is free.’ Everything is in the
power of God; but this is my thought, that it will not be necessary
then to urge Michael, nor to make long preparations, and that you
will come when the engagement is made. Meanwhile, remembering
Ulysses, I shall be forced to use stratagems and exaggerate more
than once, which for me is not easy, since all my life I have
preferred truth to every delight, and was glad to be nourished by
it. Still, for Michael and the haiduk I will take this on my head,
for they are pure gold. Now I embrace you both with the boys, and
press you to my heart, commending you to the Most High God.”
When he had finished writing, Zagloba sprinkled sand on the paper;
then he struck it with his hand, read it once more, holding it at a
distance from his eyes; then he folded it, took his seal ring from
his finger, moistened it, and prepared to seal the letter, at which
occupation Ketling found him.
“A good-day to your grace!”
“Good-day, good-day!” said Zagloba. “The weather, thanks be to God,
is excellent, and I am just sending a messenger to Pan Yan.”
“Send an obeisance from me.”
“I have done so already. I said at once to myself, ‘It is necessary
to send a greeting from Ketling. Both of them will be glad to
receive good news.’ It is evident that I have sent a greeting from
you, since I have written a whole epistle touching you and the
young ladies.”
“How is that?” inquired Ketling.
Zagloba placed his palms on his knees, which he began to tap with
his fingers; then he bent his head, and looking from under his
brows at Ketling, said, “My Ketling, it is not necessary to be a
prophet to know that where flint and steel are, sparks will flash
sooner or later. You are a beauty above beauties, and even you
would not find fault with the young ladies.”
Ketling was really confused, “I should have to be wall-eyed or be
a wild barbarian altogether,” said he, “if I did not see their
beauty, and do homage to it.”
“But, you see,” continued Zagloba, looking with a smile on the
blushing face of Ketling, “if you are not a barbarian, it is not
right for you to have both in view, for only Turks act like that.”
“How can you suppose--”
“I do not suppose; I only say it to myself. Ha! traitor! you have
so talked to them of love that pallor is on Krysia’s lips this
third day. It is no wonder; you are a beauty. When I was young
myself, I used to stand in the frost under the window of a certain
black brow; she was like Panna Krysia; and I remember how I used to
sing,--
‘You are sleeping there after the day;
And I am here thrumming my lute,
Hōets! Hōets!’
If you wish, I will give you a song, or compose an entirely new
one, for I have no lack of genius. Have you observed that Panna
Krysia reminds one somewhat of Panna Billevich, except that Panna
Billevich had hair like flax and had no down on her lip? But there
are men who find superior beauty in that, and think it a charm. She
looks with great pleasure on you. I have just written so to Pan
Yan. Is it not true that she is like the former Panna Billevich?”
“I have not noticed the likeness, but it may be. In figure and
stature she recalls her.”
“Now listen to what I say. I am telling family secrets directly;
but as you are a friend, you ought to know them. Be on your guard
not to feed Volodyovski with ingratitude, for I and Pani Makovetski
have predestined one of those maidens to him.”
Here Zagloba looked quickly and persistently into Ketling’s eyes,
and he grew pale and inquired, “Which one?”
“Panna Krysia,” answered Zagloba, slowly. And pushing out his lower
lip, he began to blink from under his frowning brow with his one
seeing eye. Ketling was silent, and silent so long that at last
Zagloba inquired, “What do you say to this?”
And Ketling answered with changed voice, but with emphasis, “You
may be sure that I shall not indulge my heart to Michael’s harm.”
“Are you certain?”
“I have suffered much in life; my word of a knight that I will not
indulge it.”
Then Zagloba opened his arms to him: “Ketling, indulge your heart;
indulge it, poor man, as much as you like, for I only wanted to
try you. Not Panna Krysia, but the haiduk, have we predestined to
Michael.”
Ketling’s face grew bright with a sincere and deep joy, and seizing
Zagloba in his embrace, he held him long, then inquired, “Is it
certain already that they are in love?”
“But who would not be in love with my haiduk,--who?” asked Zagloba.
“Then has the betrothal taken place?”
“There has been no betrothal, for Michael has barely freed himself
from mourning; but there will be,--put that on my head. The maiden,
though she evades like a weasel, is very much inclined to him, for
with her the sabre is the main thing.”
“I have noticed that, as God is dear to me!” interrupted Ketling,
radiant.
“Ha! you noticed it? Michael is weeping yet for the other; but if
any one pleases his spirit, it is certainly the haiduk, for she is
most like the dead one, though she cuts less with her eyes, for she
is younger. Everything is arranging itself well. I am the guarantee
that these two weddings will be at election-time.”
Ketling, saying nothing, embraced Zagloba again, and placed his
beautiful face against his red cheeks, so that the old man panted
and asked, “Has Panna Krysia sewed herself into your skin like that
already?”
“I know not,--I know not,” answered Ketling; “but I know this, that
barely had the heavenly vision of her delighted my eyes when I said
at once to myself that she was the one woman whom my suffering
heart might love yet; and that same night I drove sleep away with
sighs, and yielded myself to pleasant yearnings. Thenceforth she
took possession of my being, as a queen does of an obedient and
loyal country. Whether this is love or something else, I know not.”
“But you know that it is neither a cap nor three yards of cloth for
trousers, nor a saddle-girth, nor a crouper, nor sausage and eggs,
nor a decanter of gorailka. If you are certain of this, then ask
Krysia about the rest; or if you wish, I will ask her.”
“Do not do that,” said Ketling, smiling. “If I am to drown, let it
seem to me, even a couple of days yet, that I am swimming.”
“I see that the Scots are fine men in battle; but in love they are
useless. Against women, as against the enemy, impetus is needful.
‘I came, I saw, I conquered!’ that was my maxim.”
“In time, if my most ardent desires are to be accomplished, perhaps
I shall ask you for friendly assistance; though I am naturalized,
and of noble blood, still my name is unknown here, and I am not
sure that Pani Makovetski--”
“Pani Makovetski?” interrupted Zagloba. “Have no fear about her.
Pani Makovetski is a regular music-box. As I wind her, so will she
play. I will go at her immediately; I must forewarn her, you know,
so that she may not look awry at your approaches to the young lady.
To such a degree is your Scottish method one, and ours another, I
will not make a declaration straightway in your name, of course; I
will say only that the maiden has taken your eye, and that it would
be well if from that flour there should be bread. As God is dear
to me, I will go at once; have no fear, for in every case I am at
liberty to say what I like.”
And though Ketling detained him, Zagloba rose and went out. On the
way he met Basia, rushing along as usual, and said to her, “Do you
know that Krysia has captured Ketling completely?”
“He is not the first man!” answered Basia.
“And you are not angry about it?”
“Ketling is a doll!--a pleasant cavalier, but a doll! I have struck
my knee against the wagon-tongue; that is what troubles me.”
Here Basia, bending forward, began to rub her knee, looking
meanwhile at Zagloba, and he said, “For God’s sake, be careful!
Whither are you flying now?”
“To Krysia.”
“But what is she doing?”
“She? For some time past she keeps kissing me, and rubs up to me
like a cat.”
“Do not tell her that she has captured Ketling.”
“Ah! but can I hold out?”
Zagloba knew well that Basia would not hold out, and it was for
that very reason that he forbade her. He went on, therefore,
greatly delighted with his own cunning, and Basia fell like a bomb
into Krysia’s chamber.
“I have smashed my knee; and Ketling is dead in love with you!”
cried she, right on the threshold. “I did not see the pole sticking
out at the carriage-house--and such a blow! There were flashes in
my eyes, but that is nothing. Pan Zagloba begged me to say nothing
to you about Ketling. I did not say that I would not; I have told
you at once. And you were pretending to give him to me! Never fear;
I know you-- My knee pains me a little yet. I was not giving Pan
Adam to you, but Ketling. Oho! He is walking through the whole
house now, holding his head and talking to himself. Well done,
Krysia; well done! Scot, Scot! kot, kot!”[13]
Here Basia began to push her finger toward the eye of her friend.
“Basia!” exclaimed Panna Krysia.
“Scot, Scot! kot, kot!”
“How unfortunate I am!” cried Krysia, on a sudden, and burst into
tears.
After a while Basia began to console her; but it availed nothing,
and the maiden sobbed as never before in her life. In fact, no one
in all that house knew how unhappy she was. For some days she had
been in a fever; her face had grown pale; her eyes had sunk; her
breast was moving with short, broken breath. Something wonderful
had taken place in her; she had dropped, as it were, into extreme
weakness, and the change had come not gradually, slowly, but on a
sudden. Like a whirlwind, like a storm, it had swept her away; like
a flame, it had heated her blood; like lightning, it had flashed
on her imagination. She could not, even for a moment, resist that
power which was so mercilessly sudden. Calmness had left her. Her
will was like a bird with broken wings.
Krysia herself knew not whether she loved Ketling or hated him;
and a measureless fear seized her in view of that question. But
she felt that her heart beat so quickly only through him; that her
head was thinking thus helplessly only through him; that in her
and above her it was full of him,--and no means of defence. Not to
love him was easier than not to think of him, for her eyes were
delighted with the sight of him, her ears were lost in listening to
his voice, her whole soul was absorbed by him. Sleep did not free
her from that importunate man, for barely had she closed her eyes
when his head bent above her, whispering, “I would rather have thee
than a kingdom, than a sceptre, than fame, than wealth.” And that
head was near, so near that even in the darkness blood-red blushes
covered the face of the maiden. She was a Russian with hot blood;
certain fires rose in her breast,--fires of which she had not known
till that time that they could exist, and from the ardor of which
she was seized with fear and shame, and a great weakness and a
certain faintness at once painful and pleasant. Night brought her
no rest. A weariness continually increasing gained control of her,
as if after great toil.
“Krysia! Krysia! what is happening to thee?” cried she to herself.
But she was as if in a daze and in unceasing distraction. Nothing
had happened yet; nothing had taken place. So far she had not
exchanged two words with Ketling alone; still, the thought of
him had taken hold of her thoroughly; still, a certain instinct
whispered unceasingly, “Guard thyself! Avoid him.” And she avoided
him.
Krysia had not thought yet of her agreement with Pan Michael,
and that was her luck; she had not thought specially, because
so far nothing had taken place, and because she thought of no
one,--thought neither of herself nor of others, but only of
Ketling. She concealed this too in her deepest soul; and the
thought that no one suspected what was taking place in her, that no
one was occupied with her and Ketling at the same time, brought her
no small consolation. All at once the words of Basia convinced her
that it was otherwise,--that people were looking at them already,
connecting them in thought, divining the position. Hence the
disturbance, the shame and pain, taken together, overcame her will,
and she wept like a little child.
But Basia’s words were only the beginning of those various hints,
significant glances, blinking of eyes, shaking of heads, finally,
of those double meaning phrases which Krysia must endure. This
began during dinner. Pan Michael’s sister turned her gaze from
Krysia to Ketling, and from Ketling to Krysia, which she had not
done hitherto. Pan Zagloba coughed significantly. At times the
conversation was interrupted,--it was unknown wherefore; silence
followed, and once during such an interval Basia, with dishevelled
hair, cried out to the whole table,--
“I know something, but I won’t tell!”
Krysia blushed instantly, and then grew pale at once, as if some
terrible danger had passed near her; Ketling too bent his head.
Both felt perfectly that that related to them, and though they
avoided conversation with each other, so that people might not
look at them, still it was clear to both that something was rising
between them; that some undefined community of confusion was in
process of creation; that it would unite them and at the same time
keep them apart, for by it they lost freedom completely, and could
be no longer ordinary friends to each other. Happily for them, no
one gave attention to Basia’s words. Pan Zagloba was preparing to
go to the city and return with a numerous company of knights; all
were intent on that event.
In fact, Ketling’s house was gleaming with light in the evening;
between ten and twenty officers came with music, which the
hospitable host provided for the amusement of the ladies. Dancing
of course there could not be, for it was Lent, and Ketling’s
mourning was in the way; but they listened to the music, and were
entertained with conversation. The ladies were dressed splendidly.
Pani Makovetski appeared in Oriental silk. The haiduk was arrayed
in various colors, and attracted the eyes of the military with her
rosy face and bright hair, which dropped at times over her eyes;
she roused laughter with the decision of her speech, and astonished
with her manners, in which Cossack daring was combined with
unaffectedness.
Krysia, whose mourning for her father was at an end, wore a white
robe trimmed with silver. The knights compared her, some to Juno,
others to Diana; but none came too near her; no man twirled his
mustache, struck his heels, or cast glances; no one looked at her
with flashing eyes or began a conversation about love. But soon she
noticed that those who looked at her with admiration and homage
looked afterward at Ketling; that some, on approaching him, pressed
his hand, as if congratulating him and giving him good wishes;
that he shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands, as if in
denial. Krysia, who by nature was watchful and keen, was nearly
certain that they were talking to him of her, that they considered
her as almost his affianced; and since she could not see that Pan
Zagloba whispered in the ear of each man, she was at a loss to know
whence these suppositions came. “Have I something written on my
forehead?” thought she, with alarm. She was ashamed and anxious.
And then even words began to fly to her through the air, as if not
to her, but still aloud. “Fortunate Ketling!” “He was born in a
caul.” “No wonder, for he is a beauty!” and similar words.
Other polite cavaliers, wishing to entertain her and say something
pleasant, spoke of Ketling, praising him beyond measure, exalting
his bravery, his kindness, his elegant manners, and ancient
lineage. Krysia, whether willing or unwilling, had to listen, and
involuntarily her eyes sought him of whom men were talking to
her, and at times they met his eyes. Then the charm seized her
with new force, and without knowing it, she was delighted at the
sight of him; for how different was Ketling from all those rugged
soldier-forms! “A king’s son among his attendants,” thought Krysia,
looking at that noble, aristocratic head and at those ambitious
eyes, full of a certain inborn melancholy, and on that forehead,
shaded by rich golden hair. Her heart began to sink and languish,
as if that head was the dearest on earth to her. Ketling saw this,
and not wishing to increase her confusion, did not approach, as if
another were sitting by her side. If she had been a queen, he could
not have surrounded her with greater honor and higher attention.
In speaking to her, he inclined his head and pushed back one foot,
as if in sign that he was ready to kneel at any moment; he spoke
with dignity, never jestingly, though with Basia, for example,
he was glad to jest. In intercourse with Krysia, besides the
greatest respect there was rather a certain shade of melancholy
full of tenderness. Thanks to that respect, no other man permitted
himself either a word too explicit, or a jest too bold, as if the
conviction had been fixed upon every one that in dignity and birth
she was higher than all others,--a lady with whom there was never
politeness enough.
Krysia was heartily grateful to him for this. In general, the
evening passed anxiously for her, but sweetly. When midnight
approached, the musicians stopped playing, the ladies took farewell
of the company, and among the knights goblets began to make the
round frequently, and there followed a noisier entertainment, in
which Zagloba assumed the dignity of hetman.
Basia went upstairs joyous as a bird, for she had amused herself
greatly. Before she knelt down to pray she began to play tricks and
imitate various guests; at last she said to Krysia, clapping her
hands,--
“It is perfect that your Ketling has come! At least, there will
be no lack of soldiers. Oho! only let Lent pass, and I will dance
to kill. We’ll have fun. And at your betrothal to Ketling, and at
your wedding, well, if I don’t turn the house over, let the Tartars
take me captive! What if they should take us really! To begin with,
there would be-- Ha! Ketling is good! He will bring musicians
for you; but with you I shall enjoy them. He will bring you new
wonders, one after another, until he does this--”
Then Basia threw herself on her knees suddenly before Krysia, and
encircling her waist with her arms, began to speak, imitating the
low voice of Ketling: “Your ladyship! I so love you that I cannot
breathe. I love you on foot and on horseback. I love you fasting
and after breakfast. I love you for the ages and as the Scots love.
Will you be mine?”
“Basia, I shall be angry!” cried Krysia. But instead of growing
angry, she caught Basia in her arras, and while trying, as it were,
to lift her, she began to kiss her eyes.