After much discussion, Father Constantine decided to seek relief for his
rheumatism at Ciechocinek, a place which lies nearer the Prussian
frontier than Ruvno, on the main line between Warsaw and Berlin. He
felt too old to take a long journey abroad, and hated the idea of some
fashionable place in Austria or Germany. Ciechocinek was quiet, if
primitive, and near at hand. He started off in state a couple of days
after Ian's flying visit to Warsaw, in one of Ian's motors, the family
at the front door to wish him a pleasant journey. There was as much
bustle when the old chaplain went away--which rarely happened--as though
the whole household were leaving. Everybody carried something to the
car for him; everybody heard over and over again what the two
canvas-covered portmanteaux held and knew their owner had packed and
unpacked them half-a-dozen times within the week, in the agony of
indecision and the search for some necessary garment that had been put
at the bottom. Nothing would induce him to let a servant pack them.
Besides the portmanteaux he carried several loose packages; to wit,
three long loaves of home-made bread, because any other kind gave him
indigestion; a small collection of home-smoked ham, sausage and tongue
to take in the evening with his glass of weak tea (Ciechocinek sausages
were all very well, but Father Constantine would sooner have gone
without than have eaten them). And, for his morning tea, the
housekeeper had packed up a large _baba_ or cake, whose very name makes
one's mouth water in days of dark flour and scarce eggs. There was a
little basket containing his lunch, for he eschewed restaurant cars and
preferred cold chicken and fresh bread and butter to the best meal to be
had at railway stations. I had almost forgotten the parcel of butter
which he carried to his cure, too; it was firm and fresh and creamy,
food fit for the gods, for he would not eat the watery, saltish rubbish
which, so he declared, the hotel-keeper in Ciechocinek provided. At the
last moment, when he was in the midst of his good-byes, a maid came
hurrying along with a heavy square parcel. It contained linen sheets.
The baths at the cure place, so Father Constantine declared, were
frequented by many people whom he thought none too clean. And he had no
faith in the attendant's scrubbing. So he had a sheet spread in the
bath before it was filled with the muddy substance that drew out his
pains. Then there were wraps and pillows and books for the journey,
till you would have thought the good old man was to travel for days,
instead of hours. Only a generously proportioned Russian railway
carriage would have taken so many bundles on the racks. For Father
Constantine never trusted his precious portmanteaux to the luggage van.
He was firmly convinced that highway robbers would have learned of his
coming, laid wait and robbed him of his baggage whilst he dozed. He
invariably counted the sum total of his packets each time the train
stopped, when he awoke and glared suspiciously at new-comers. But
everybody at Ruvno took his little ways with good humor; he had been
there so long that he was an institution. They loved his bright eyes
and sharp tongue; they knew his heart was in the right place, and knew
all his anecdotes so well that they could think of other things whilst
he told them, and yet, by force of habit, make the right remark when he
had finished. Ian was devoted to him; would never have thought of going
off, on his mid-morning round until he had departed. He asked to be
allowed to go with him as far as the station; in fact, the priest
expected this offer from the sturdy squire whom he had spanked and
taught in by-gone years. But he would never accept it. He disliked
being seen off. It looked as though he was no longer capable of buying
his own ticket or finding a porter. But the little comedy had to be
enacted all the same.
"Father, I'm going to the station," Ian would say on these occasions,
when the last package was stowed away and the housekeeper had counted
them at least twice.
The priest held up his hands in mock horror. He was small and rather
shrunken. His nose was hooked and his scant hair white. He had seen a
good deal of trouble in his day; was in Siberia for five years in his
youth for defending his church against a sotnia of Cossacks in 1864, and
owed his misshapen ears to frostbite which he got on the terrible
journey, made on foot in those days. But these things were a memory,
and life was peaceful enough now.
"No, my child," he said. "Think of the packages. By the way, where's
the _baba_? Zosia! where did you put the _baba_?"
"It's under the seat," said the Countess from the steps. "I saw her put
it there. You'd better let Ianek go with you. He'll enjoy it."
"No, no, Countess. Thank you all the same. He'd crush the bread or sit
on the butter when we begin to bump about on the bad part of the road.
I'll get on by myself. The old horse isn't done yet. Not by a long
way. God bless you all. Farewell!"
Making the sign of the cross, he wrapped the yellow dust-cloak round
him. Ian gave the word to start and off he went.
The three women strolled over to the chestnuts, glad of the shade that
warm morning, and Ian went to where men were busy laying out his new
paddock. He gave some directions there, had gone over the stables and
was waiting for his horse to be saddled for a visit to some wheat
fields, reported damaged by a shower of early-morning hail, when the
familiar hoot of his motor made him look up in surprise. He had given
the driver orders to wait for the papers from Warsaw, and knew he could
not have done it in so short a time. But surprise grew when, as the car
drew nearer, he saw Father Constantine's dust-cloak. He waved to them to
drive to the stables instead of round by the avenue and the house.
"What has happened?" he asked as they pulled up. "You can't have lost
the train. It's not due for an hour yet."
"There is no train," announced the priest. "The Muscovites are
mobilizing troops. We're cut off from everywhere. I might have saved
myself the trouble of packing."
"But there's worse than that, my lord Count," put in Bartek, the young
chauffeur, who had been born on the land and had served first as
stove-tender, then as gun-cleaner before being trained as a mechanic.
"The tales they're telling at the station made my hair stand on end."
"What tales?" asked Ian.
"Jewish lies," snapped the priest.
Ian turned to the driver, who said:
"The Prussians have crossed the frontier and are in Kalisz."
"Don't you believe it, Ian," put in Father Constantine. "The Jews will
say anything to scare honest Christians."
"And please, my lord Count," pursued Bartek the driver, "they are
murdering men and women and children there. First they took a lot of
money, gold, too, from the town, as a bribe to let the people alone.
Then when they'd got the money they went up on that hill that stands
over the town. And when the people thought they were safe on account of
the gold they had given to the Prussian Colonel, that very officer came
down into the town again, shut the people in their houses and shot at
them through the windows, like rats in a trap."
"The Prussians so near us?" murmured Ian, looking from one to the other.
"It's incredible. What are the Russians doing? There were several
regiments in Kalisz."
"They retired before the Prussians came," answered Bartek, who had kept
his ears open at the station.
"Incredible!" echoed the priest. "It's impossible. They wouldn't dare
to do it."
The boy produced a crumpled newspaper from one of his pockets and handed
it to Ian.
"The ticket man gave it to me," he explained. "One of the recruits
brought it in a train from Warsaw. He says it tells what the Prussians
are doing in some foreign part, I forget what it's called, but it's
smaller than our country, and they've ravished the maids and murdered
the children and done such things that haven't been done in Poland since
the Turks were here. And they say they'll do the same thing to us if
they get any further."
"You never told me you'd a paper," cried the priest. "What does it say,
Ianek."
And Ian read the first story of Belgium's martyrdom.
"It's some trick to sell the paper," was Father Constantine's remark,
when he had done.
"I hope so." Ian glanced at the head of the paper. It was the _Kurjer
Warszawski_, which would hardly have printed such news without reason.
He reread the account, to himself this time, whilst the old priest sat
back in the car and piously called upon God to know if it were true.
Some minutes passed. Ian read and reread the news, unbelievingly at
first, then with growing conviction. In the late-news column was a
telegram from London, saying that England would probably declare war on
Germany.
"There must be something in it," he said. "If England is going to war,
Belgium has been invaded." He jumped into the car and they drove up to
the house.
His mother and the two girls he found in the Countess' sitting-room.
Zosia, the housekeeper, was standing there, sobbing bitterly and cursing
the Prussians through her tears. In the large French window, which
stood open, was a ragged, dusty, fear-stricken Jew, of the poorest
description, one of the dark masses who live by running errands for
their wealthier brethren; the hewers of wood and drawers of water of
their own race; happy to lend a stray rouble in usury to some
agricultural laborer who has fallen on evil days.
From this miserable man's trembling lips he heard much the same story as
Bartek had learned at the station. But in addition the Jew brought news
that Zosia's sister, who lived in Kalisz, married to a prosperous
cartwright, had been murdered by the Prussians.
Ian never forgot the impression this made upon him. Later on, he grew
more callous, saw and heard so many horrors, proved the Kaiser's army
capable of anything. But the thought that Zosia's sister, a girl who
had grown up at Ruvno and served his mother as maid before her marriage,
had been assassinated in cold blood made his own boil. He was not a man
to use many words. He made no effort to express the thoughts and
feelings that rose in him. He did not speak for some time. Then he
turned to his mother.
"You women must go to Moscow at once," he said. "God knows, they may
soon be here at the rate they are coming on."
He spoke in a tone of authority he rarely used with her. She went to
the window and looked into her beloved rose garden, soon to be cut into
trenches and trampled by soldiers' feet. But on that morning it was a
beautiful spot, fair with the work and art of many generations of
skilled gardeners and gentle mistresses. A peacock spread his tail in
the sun; Ian's two favorite dogs whined to him to go out to them; the
air was very sweet with the odor of roses and pine needles. A big red
butterfly floated past her into the room. She could scarcely believe
that only a few miles away war raged; and yet, here was Zosia sobbing
her heart out, here stood the Jewish messenger, who had come to say that
the dead woman's husband and children were on their way to Ruvno as
refugees, leaving all they possessed behind them, traveling on foot,
with unspeakable bitterness and grief in their hearts.
She turned to her son, smiling a little. They lived very near to one
another and she loved him better than anything in the world, better than
she had loved his father, for whom she suffered such pain.
"And you?" she asked.
"I shall volunteer," he answered simply.
He had not consciously thought about it before. The words came without
his knowing exactly why. He knew that Russia had plenty of men without
him; he bore that country no love, having had to suffer many
humiliations from her since his babyhood. Every day he had to fight
Russian malevolence in some shape or form. But he knew that the troops
now speeding to stop the Prussian advance were on the right side. He
remembered Roman's words: "The only deuced thing that matters is to stop
Prussianism from spreading."
His mother gave him a frightened look, bit her lip, and said nothing.
"You're right, my child," said Father Constantine, who, dust-cloak and
all, was sitting in a chair several times too big for him. In his hand
he held one of the many packets Zosia had prepared for his journey. He
had forgotten about them. His old heart was filled with a terrible,
helpless anger against the human beasts who had brought such death into
the country.
The Countess put her hands on Ian's shoulder and kissed him, standing on
tip-toe to reach his honest, sunburnt face.
"And I," she said, "will stop here with our people."
He tried to dissuade her, reminding her of what was happening a few
miles away. But she was firm. I don't believe he thought she would
give in. He did his duty in trying to make her move; but his own
instinct was to stick to Ruvno till it was burned over their heads.
"If we leave the place goodness knows what would happen," she went on.
"If we are shelled we can live in the cellars. That's what they were
built for. If Ruvno goes, I may as well go with it."
"It is the simplest way, and the simplest is generally the best way,"
said Vanda. She had not spoken since Zosia burst into the room with her
terrible story. Ian looked at her face, which had grown pale. He had
forgotten her for the moment. Now he remembered that the man she was to
marry had gone home and must fight on the other side, or be shot for a
deserter. Their eyes met: they understood each other; both had the same
thought. And it flew round the room to the others, for they all looked
at her, wondering what she felt about it. She covered her face with her
hands. Anxious to draw attention away from her, he turned to Minnie
Burton.
"And you," he said, "must come with me to Warsaw, at once. I will see
your Consul and send you home the quickest way."
Minnie gave a little laugh. She was a fair, fresh-colored girl, with
steady brown eyes and a frank manner. She expected them to talk of
sending her home and had already made up her mind not to leave Ruvno
whilst they remained. Three years ago, her soldier brother brought Ian
home for a week-end. They were renting a little place in Leicestershire
for the winter, and he hunted with them. She liked him at once. He was
the first foreigner she had met who did not overwhelm her with silly
compliments. He was more interesting than most of her brother's
friends, who developed their muscles, but neglected their minds. And he
liked the things she liked, the country, violent exercise, horses;
appeared much pleased with English country life and arranged for her to
meet his mother and Vanda. So the two families became very friendly.
Then old General Burton died, the home was broken up and Minnie left
more or less alone in the world, for both brothers were abroad, one, a
sailor, and the other with his regiment in India. She had been
foolishly happy at Ruvno, she reflected, and allowed friendship with Ian
to ripen into one-sided love. She was not one of those women who will
renounce a husband rather than marry a foreigner, and prefer to bear no
children rather than see them grow up to citizens of another state than
England. She longed to "settle down," though she never admitted it and
gave acquaintances to understand that she thoroughly enjoyed her present
way of living. Ian was free; he liked her. She saw no reason why he
should not one day love her as she loved him. Though the Countess had
not dropped a word about her own thoughts in the matter, Minnie felt
sure she would not object to her son's marrying a comely young
Englishwoman with a tidy fortune and good connections. There was one
great barrier--the difference in their faith; but Minnie had not thought
about that seriously. Her mind dwelt more on Ian the possible spouse
than on Ian the Roman Catholic. In his company she had enjoyed many a
canter across country, many a chat and not a few friendly discussions.
And her heart had succumbed. True, there were times when she suspected
him of being a little cold by nature; a little prosaic, even for her,
who would have been annoyed with a lover of Roman Skarbek's type. She
did not guess he felt so comfortable as a bachelor that he thought of
matrimony as an unpleasant plunge, to be taken as late as could be. All
this seems calculating and unmaidenlike put on paper; but it was not
nearly so clear in her brain; till this fateful morning of bad news from
Kalisz her plans had been vague; her heart alone busy. She would have
been well content to live in Ruvno forever. And here was sudden danger
of her leaving. Ian might marry another girl before they could meet
again. Though no husband-angler and too proud to set her cap at any man
she felt that she must stop under his roof, or her romance would be
ruined. Rapidly, she reviewed heart and conscience. The first spoke
all too plainly; as to the second, she had no near family beyond her two
brothers, one on the high seas, the other, presumably, to fight in
Belgium. Her only duties, if she went home all the way through Russia
or Roumania or Greece, would be to help refugees and do her unskilled
best with wounded. But here were both to succor. She was nearer that
kind of suffering than she could be at home. And even though Ian joined
the army--she glanced at his sturdy figure and reflected on his
thirty-four summers with the comforting doubt as to whether Russia
wanted him--she would be in touch with him at Ruvno, and of use to his
mother, whom she liked sincerely.
She did not answer him, but turned to the Countess.
"I'll stop here with you," she said with flaming cheeks.
"But, my dear child, think of the risks," said her hostess, by no means
unwilling, but anxious to give her a fair chance of escaping from such a
dangerous place.
Here Father Constantine chimed in. His bird-like eyes saw a great deal
and he shuddered at the thought of Ian's marrying a heretic. He had
often wondered of late when those two brothers of hers were coming to
take her away. And here was a good opportunity to get rid of her at
once.
"You cannot stay here, Mademoiselle." He spoke French, not trusting his
halting English in so important a matter. "The Germans will be
exceedingly cruel to the English. I know how they hate you. I have
been in Germany many times, for my rheumatism. If they find you here in
Ruvno they will be capable of doing unspeakable things to you and bad
things to us, for having you here." He turned to the Countess, nursing
his bundle of sausages, a shriveled, eager figure in his linen
dust-cloak and his air of the family confidant and confessor. "Madame,
think of the responsibility. Imagine your terrible remorse if anything
happened to Mademoiselle."
"The same things might just as well happen to me if I left this minute,"
protested Minnie, determined to fight for her cause. "The steamer might
be captured by the Germans, England might be invaded. Of course, I hope
it won't, but my brothers say the government have never bothered to
prepare for this. I may not even be able to reach home. Father
Constantine could not get to his cure at that place with the
unpronounceable name. And it's lots nearer than England."
"That's true," agreed the Countess, who knew all about her chaplain's
dread of heretics. Besides, she was loth to lose Minnie. Apart from
her affection for the girl and her reluctance to send her off on a long
journey, dark with unknown perils, she thought of Ian. Supposing they
were burned out of house and home, as seemed more than likely, it would
be a comfort to her to know that he could settle in England with Minnie
to look after him till, one vague day, the Germans were beaten. She
told herself that she would never survive the ruin of her home. It was
almost as great a part of her existence as Ian himself. No: she did not
want to part with Minnie; Minnie would look after him when she was no
more. She smiled across at Father Constantine.
"You see," she said, "we can always send her away when danger is really
near. In the meantime, let us wait till the trains are running again."
Here Ian intervened. He had been questioning the Jew about Kalisz,
without getting any clear statements from his poor, muddled brain.
"We can't let Minnie run such risks. It's bad enough for us Poles, who
live in a country which is always a charnel house when war comes. But
why should she get mixed up in it?"
Minnie's heart sank. He was so very matter of fact. But she would not
give in.
"Why? For lots of reasons. I'd be all alone if I did reach home. You
know the boys will be fighting."
"England hasn't declared war yet," said Father Constantine, handing his
sausages over to Zosia. He had just remembered they were in his lap.
"She may remain neutral."
"She won't!" cried Minnie hotly. "If that were possible I'd change my
nationality!"
Father Constantine made a hopeless little gesture and let Zosia help him
off with his execrable dust-cloak, watching the Countess furtively the
while. He felt very much ashamed of having neglected to remove it in
the hall. It was not only a breach of good manners, but a sign of his
extreme agitation.
"Take it away at once!" he whispered to poor Zosia. She went off with it
and the sausages, to weep on the ample bosom of old Barysia, Ian's
long-since-pensioned nurse.
Thinking she had settled the priest, Minnie turned to her host.
"If you go away to fight with the Russians I mean to look after the
Countess--and don't imagine I'm going to leave Poland and my Polish
friends just because you're all in trouble!"
This touched them all, even the priest. The Countess was won over
before, but Ian still meant to get her away that evening. Vanda would
stop with his mother. The only feeling he had for Minnie just then was
fear her brothers would blame him for keeping her.
The matter was partially settled by a couple of young Russians, whom a
servant announced as waiting for Ian in the library. He hurried out to
see them and did not return for some time. The others eagerly asked his
news.
"It's true about Kalisz," he said. "But the Russians are sending troops
up there as fast as they can. Incidentally, they are requisitioning all
the cars and most of my horses."
"Cars! Then no Warsaw for me to-night," said Minnie.
Ian gave her an odd look. She rather annoyed him that morning, he knew
not why.
"No," he retorted. "And you don't seem to wonder how I'm going to get
in the crops if all my men are called to the colors and my cattle are
taken off."
"Oh, I didn't think of that," she said, repentant.
"Well, I must get back. Mother, we'll have to have these two young
Russians to lunch. They're not very presentable ... but it's war-time."
He hurried put, leaving Minnie in contrition. She had ruffled him when
she wanted to please him above all things. Father Constantine could not
believe his ears. Social intercourse between Russians and Poles was
exceedingly restricted. A few tufthunters and the descendants of those
men who had winked at Russia's share in Poland's three partitions kept
up a certain amount of relationship with the Russian Government; went to
the official receptions given by the Governor General of Warsaw, who was
also Commander of the troops stationed in Poland. Whilst in office he
was lodged at the Royal Palace in Warsaw, once the winter home of
Poland's kings. But these were the very few, as few were the members of
old Polish families who had charges at the Imperial Court of Russia.
The vast majority of Poles, rich and poor, aristocratic and humble,
lived their lives apart from the Russian Bureaucrats in their midst, who
fattened on the country, reaping a harvest in peculation, drawing extra
pay whilst there, on the lying legend that they carried their lives in
their hands and slept with revolvers under their pillows for fear Polish
insurgents should murder them in the night. They knew perfectly well
that the Poles had long since ceased to dream of independence won by
rebellion; that they had learned the lessons of eighteen sixty-three and
four. But they made alarming reports to St. Petersburg to enhance the
value of their own services. The Poles knew that, at least for the time
being, their one way of resisting Russification was to develop the
agricultural and commercial resources of their country as much as
possible, despite their conqueror's efforts; to preserve their native
customs in spite of persecution; to teach their native language despite
restriction and to cling to their national faith despite persecution
from the Holy Synod and the indifference of Rome, who looked with dread
upon Russia and dared not protest. But since the Russians in their
midst were there to suppress all signs of their national life, the Poles
shunned intercourse with them as much as possible; those who did not
were marked men. Ruvno had never shown the least inclination to mix
with Russians. Both Ian and his father before him declined a charge at
the Imperial Court; it was an unwritten law in the family, as in so many
others, that whilst the men had to learn a little Russian in order to
transact necessary business, the women must not know a word. This rule
has done more to preserve the Polish language in humble homes and in
great than anything else.
So you can understand Father Constantine's surprise when he heard Ian
say that two Muscovites, as they are generally called in Poland, were to
sit at his patron's table. Nobody had fought harder, in his modest way,
against the Russification of his country than the old priest. He was
apt to see but Russian faults, just as the Russians had eyes only for
Polish shortcomings. Had such a thing happened a week ago he would have
expressed his displeasure at the sudden crumbling up of Ruvno traditions
and excused himself from the meal. But he thought things over for a
minute and remarked to the silent room:
"Well, the Russians are fighting on the right side _this_ time."
In his tone and the gesture of his thin hands were much eloquence, and a
hint that he had wiped his account against Russia off the slate; that
the sufferings of Siberian exile were to rankle no more. From that day
forth they never heard him say a hard word against Russians, never
caught him speaking of them as Muscovites, a term of hatred and
contempt, but as Russians, children of the big land of Rus, fighting in
a big struggle for the good cause of humanity.
The Countess said nothing for a moment. She had always avoided
Russians, knew nothing of their language, treated those whom evil chance
threw in her way with dignified civility, which was meant to make them
feel that they were barbarians and she of an old civilization. But she
was ready to call Russia an acquaintance, a possible friend in the near
future, if they only kept their word to fight the Prussians who were
killing defenseless women and children in Kalisz and Belgium. Ian had
described the two visitors as "not very presentable." She knew what he
meant. She had seen dozens of Russian officers who were not
presentable, in the streets of Warsaw and Plock; at the races, at
restaurants, in trains. They were noisy and none too clean; they spoke
nothing but Russian and probably put their knives in their mouths. They
would smell of pitch. She never quite understood why Russians of this
type smelt of pitch, but the fact remained. Ian said it was something
to do with the tanning of their shoe-leather. Perhaps it was. Anyway,
it was not quite the kind of smell she cared to have at her table or in
her sitting-room. And yes, they would expect some of the strong, raw
vodka which peasants drink. However, she had always been ready to take a
sporting chance on the sudden events of life, and said cheerfully:
"I expect we shall have more of them before the war is over. So the
sooner you and I pick up a few Russian words, Vanda, the better for us."
Vanda did not answer. She was thinking of Joseph, who had gone to fight
with the race that had violated Belgium and slaughtered the children of
Kalisz.
Minnie only nodded. Her thoughts were for Ian. She felt she had said
too much that morning and was regretting it.