Pan Gideon had not invented when he spoke of the "abhorrence" which at
his house both women felt for the conqueror. Yatsek convinced himself
of this from one glance at them. Pani Vinnitski met him with an
offended face, and snatched her hand away when he wished to kiss it in
greeting; and the young lady, without compassion for his suffering and
embarrassment, did not answer his greeting. She was occupied with
Stanislav, sparing neither tender looks nor anxious questions; she
pushed her care so far that when he rose from the armchair in the
dining-room to go to the chamber set apart for the wounded she
supported him by the arm, and though he opposed and excused himself she
conducted him to the threshold.
"For thee there is nothing in this house. All is lost!" cried despair
and also jealousy in Yatsek's heart at sight of this action. Toward him
that maiden had shown changing humors, and with one kindly word had
given usually ten that were cold, when not biting, hence his pain was
the keener, that till then he had not supposed that she could be kind,
sweet, and angel-like to a man whom she loved really. That Panna Anulka
loved Stanislav the ill-fated Yatsek had no doubt whatever. He would
have endured not only such a wound as that given Stanislav, but would
have shed all his blood with delight, if she would speak even once in
her life to him with such a voice, and look with such eyes at him as
she had looked then at Stanislav. Hence, besides pain, an immeasurable
sorrow now seized him. This sent a torrent of tears toward his
eyeballs, and if those tears did not gush out and flow down his cheeks,
they flooded his heart and pervaded his being. Thus did Yatsek feel his
whole breast fill with tears, and, to give the last blow at this
juncture, never had Panna Anulka seemed to him so beautiful beyond
measure as at that moment, with her pale face and her crown of golden
hair slightly dishevelled from emotion. "She is an angel, but not for
thee," complained the sorrow within him; "wonderful, but another will
take her!" And he would have fallen at her feet and confessed all his
suffering and devotion, but at the same time he felt that just after
that which had happened it would not be proper to do so, and that if he
did not control himself and stifle the struggle in his spirit he would
tell her something quite different from that which he wanted, and sink
himself utterly in her estimation.
Meanwhile Pani Vinnitski, as an elderly person and one skilled in
medicine, entered the chamber with Stanislav, while the young lady
turned back from the threshold. Yatsek, understanding that he must use
the opportunity approached her.
"I should like a word with you," said he, struggling to control
himself, and with a trembling voice which, as it were, belonged to
another.
She looked at him with cold astonishment.
"What do you wish?"
Yatsek's face was lighted with a smile of such pain that it was almost
like that of a martyr.
"What I wish for myself will not come to me, though I were to give my
own soul's salvation to get it," said he, shaking his head; "but for
one thing I beg you: do not accuse me, cherish no offence against me,
have some compassion, for I am not of wood nor of iron."
"I have no word to say," replied she, "and there is no time for
talking."
"Ah! there is always some time to say a kind word to the man for whom
this world is grievous."
"Is it because you have wounded my rescuers?"
"The blame is not mine, as God stands by the innocent! The messenger
who came for those gentlemen to Vyrambki should have declared what
Father Voynovski told him to tell here; namely, that I did not
challenge them. Did you know that they were the challengers?"
"I did. The attendant, being a simple man, did not repeat, it is true,
every word which the priest sent; he merely cried out that 'the young
lord of Vyrambki had slashed them to pieces;' then Pan Gideon, on
returning from Vyrambki, ran in from the road and explained what had
happened."
Pan Gideon feared lest the news that Yatsek had been challenged might
reach the young lady from other lips and weaken her anger, hence he
wished above all to describe the affair in his own way, not delaying to
add that Yatsek by venomous insults had forced them to challenge him.
He reckoned on this: that Panna Anulka, taking things woman fashion,
would be on the side of the men who had suffered most.
Still, it seemed to Yatsek that the beloved eyes looked on him less
severely, so he repeated the question,--
"Did you know this position?"
"I knew," replied she, "but I remember that which you should not have
forgotten if you had even a trifling regard for me,--that I owe my life
to those gentlemen. And I have learnt from my guardian that you forced
them to challenge you."
"I, not have regard for you? Let God, who looks into men's hearts,
judge that statement."
All on a sudden her eyes blinked time after time; then she shook her
head till a tress fell to the opposite shoulder, and she said,--
"Is that true?"
"True, true!" continued he, in a panting and deeply sad voice. "I
should have let men cut me down, it seems, so as not to annoy you. The
blood which was dearest to you would not have been shed then. But there
is no help now for the omission. There is no help now for anything!
Your guardian told you that I forced those gentlemen to challenge me. I
leave that too to God's judgment. But did your guardian tell you that
he himself had insulted me beyond mercy and measure beneath my own roof
tree? I have come now to you because I knew that I should not find him
here. I have come to satisfy my unhappy eyes with the last look at you.
I know that this is all one to you, but I thought that even in that
case--"
Here Yatsek halted, for tears stopped his utterance. Parma Anulka's
mouth began also to quiver and to take on more and more the shape of a
horseshoe, and only haughtiness joined to timidity, the timidity of a
maiden, struggled in her with emotion. But perhaps she was restrained
by this also: that she wished to get from Yatsek a still more
complaining confession, and perhaps because she did not believe that he
would go from her and never come back again. More than once there had
been misunderstandings between them, more than once had Pan Gideon
offended him greatly, and still, after brief exhibitions of anger,
there had followed silent or spoken explanations and all had gone on
again in the old way.
"So it will be this time also," thought Panna Anulka.
For her it was sweet to listen to Yatsek and to see that great love
which, though it dared not express itself in determinate utterance, was
still beaming from him with a submission which was matched only by its
mightiness. Hence she yearned to hear him speak with her the longest
time possible with that wondrous voice, and to lay at her feet for the
longest time possible that young, loving, pained heart of his.
But he, inexperienced in love matters and blind as are all who love
really, could not take note of this, and did not know what was
happening within her. He looked on her silence as hardened
indifference, and bitterness was gradually drowning his spirit. The
calmness with which he had spoken at first began now to desert him, his
eyes took on another light, drops of cold sweat came out on his
temples: something was tearing and breaking the soul in him. He was
seized by despair of such kind that when a man lies in the grip of it
he reckons with nothing, and is ready with his own hands to tear his
own wounded heart open. He spoke yet as it were calmly, but his voice
had a new sound, it was firmer, though hoarser.
"Is this the case," asked he, "and is there not one word from thee?"
Panna Anulka shrugged her shoulders in silence.
"The priest told me the truth when he warned that here a still greater
wrong was in store for me."
"In what have I wronged thee?" asked she, bitterly, pained by the
sudden change which she saw in him.
But he waded on farther in blindness.
"Had I not seen how thou didst treat this Pan Stanislav, I should think
that thou hadst no heart in thy bosom. Thou hast a heart, but for him,
not for me. He glanced at thee, and that was sufficient."
Then Yatsek grasped the hair of his head with both hands on a sudden.
"Would to God that I had cut him to pieces!"
A flame flashed, as it were, through Panna Anulka; her cheeks
crimsoned, anger blazed in her eyes as well at herself as at Yatsek;
because a moment before she had been ready for weeping, her heart was
seized now by indignation, deep and sudden.
"You, sir, have lost your senses!" cried she, raising her head and
shaking back the tress from her shoulder.
She was on the point of rushing away, but that brought Yatsek to utter
desperation; he seized her hands and detained her.
"Not thou art to go. I am the person to go," said he, with set teeth.
"And before going I say this to thee: though for years I have loved
thee more than health, more than life, and more than my own soul, I
will never come back to thee. I will gnaw my own hands off in torture,
but, so help me, God, I will never come back to thee!"
Then, forgetting his worn Hungarian cap on the floor there, he sprang
to the doorway, and in an instant she saw him through the window,
hurrying away along the garden by which the road to Vyrambki was
shorter,--and he vanished.
Panna Anulka stood for a time as if a thunderbolt had struck her. Her
thoughts had scattered like a flock of birds in every direction; she
knew not what had happened. But when thoughts returned to her all
feeling of offence was extinguished, and in her ears were sounding only
the words: "I loved thee more than health, more than life, more than my
own soul, but I will never come back to thee!" She felt now that in
truth he would never come back, just because he had loved her so
tremendously. Why had she not given him even one kind word for which,
before anger had swept the man off, he had begged as if for alms, or a
morsel of bread to give strength on a journey? And now endless grief
and fear seized her. He had rushed off in pain and in madness. He may
fall on the road somewhere. He may in despair work on himself something
evil, and one heartfelt word might have healed and cured everything.
Let him hear her voice even. He must go, beyond the garden, through the
meadow to the river. He will hear her there yet before he vanishes.
And rushing from the house she ran to the garden. Deep snow lay on the
middle path, but his tracks there were evident. She ran in them. She
sank at times to her knees, and on the road lost her rosary, her
handkerchief, and her workbag with thread in it, and, panting, she
reached the garden gate finally.
"Pan Yatsek! Pan Yatsek!" cried she.
But the field beyond the garden was empty. Besides, that same wind
which had blown the morning haze off, made a great sound among the
branches of apple and pear trees; her weak voice was lost in that sound
altogether. Then, not regarding the cold nor her light, indoor
clothing, she sat on a bench near the gate and fell to crying. Tears as
large as pearls dropped down her cheeks and she, having nothing else
now with which to remove them, brushed those tears away with that tress
on her shoulder.
"He will not come back."
Meanwhile the wind sounded louder and louder, shaking wet snow from the
dark branches.
When Yatsek rushed into his house like a whirlwind, without cap and
with dishevelled hair, the priest divined clearly enough what had
happened.
"I foretold this," said he. "God give thee aid, O my Yatsek; but I ask
nothing till thou hast come to thy mind and art quiet."
"Ended! All is ended!" said Yatsek.
And he walked up and down in the chamber, like a wild beast in
confinement.
The priest said no word, interrupted him in nothing, and only after
long waiting did he rise, put his arms around Yatsek's shoulders, kiss
his head, and lead him by the hand to an alcove.
The old man knelt before a small crucifix which was hanging over the
bed there, and when the sufferer had knelt at his side the priest
prayed as follows:
"O Lord, Thou knowest what pain is, for Thou didst endure it on the
cross for the offences of mankind.
"Hence I bring my bleeding heart to Thee, and at Thy feet which are
pierced I implore Thee for mercy.
"I cry not to Thee: 'take this pain from me,' but I cry 'give me
strength to endure it.'
"For I, O Lord, am a soldier submissive to Thy order, and I desire much
to serve Thee, and the Commonwealth, my mother-- But how can I do this
when my heart is faint and my right hand is weakened?
"Because of this make me forget myself and make me think only of Thy
glory, and the rescue of my mother, for those things are of far greater
moment than the pain of a pitiful worm, such as I am.
"And strengthen me, O Lord, in my saddle, so that through lofty deeds
against pagans I may reach a glorious death, and also heaven.
"By Thy crown of thorns, hear me!
"By the wound in Thy side, hear me!
"By Thy hands and feet pierced with nails, hear me!"
Then they knelt for a long time, but at the middle of the prayer it was
evident that the pain in Yatsek's breast had broken, for on a sudden he
covered his face with both hands and fell to sobbing. When they had
risen and gone to the adjoining chamber Father Voynovski sighed deeply.
"My Yatsek," said he, "I saw much of life in my years of a warrior,
during which sorrow greater than thine met me. I have no thought to
speak touching this to thee. I will say only that in a time of most
terrible anguish I composed this very prayer and to it owe deliverance.
I have repeated it frequently in misfortune since that day, and always
with solace; we have repeated it now for this reason. And how dost thou
feel? Art thou not freed in some measure? Pray tell me!"
"I feel pain, but it burns less severely."
"Ah, seest thou! Now drink some wine. I will tell thee, or rather I
will show thee, something which should give thee comfort. Look!"
And bending his head down he showed beneath his white hair a dreadful
scar, which passed across his whole crown from one side to the other.
"From that," said he, "I came very near dying. The wound pained me
awfully, but the scar gives no trouble. In like manner, Yatsek, thy
wound will cease to pain when a scar takes the place of it. Tell me now
what has happened to thee."
Yatsek began, but met failure. It was not in his nature to invent, or
increase, or exaggerate, so now he himself wondered over this: that all
which had torn him with such torture seemed less cruel in the
narrative. But Father Voynovski, clearly a man of experience, and
knowing the world, heard him out to the end, and then added,--
"It is difficult, I understand that, to describe looks or even gestures
which may be altogether contemptuous and insulting. Often even one
look, or one wave of the hand, has led men to duels and to bloodshed.
The main point is this: thou hast told the young lady that thou wilt
not go back to her. Youth is giddy, and when guided by sadness it
changes as the moon in the sky does. And love too is like that
mendacious moon, which when it seems to decrease is just growing and
swelling toward its fulness. How is it then, hast thou the true wish of
doing what thy words tell me?"
"So help me, God, I have told my whole wish, and if thou desire I will
repeat the same in an oath on that cross there."
"And what dost thou think to do?"
"To go into the world."
"I have been hoping for that. I have desired it this long time. I have
known what detained thee, but go now. When thou hast broken thy fetters
go into the world. Thou wilt wait for no good thing in this place, no
good thing has met thee here, or will meet thee here ever. To thee the
life here has been ruin. It was a happiness that I was near by and
trained thee in Latin, and in working with thy sword even somewhat;
without these two kinds of knowledge thou wouldst have dropped down to
be a peasant. Thank me not, Yatsus, for that was pure devotion on my
part. I shall be sad here without thee, but I am not in question. Thou
wilt go into the world. That, as I understand, means that thou wilt
join the army. That road is the straightest and the most honorable,
also, especially since war with the pagan is approaching. The pen and
the chancellery are more certain, men tell us, than promotion from the
sabre, but they are less fitted for blood such as thine is."
"I have not thought of another service," said Yatsek, "but I shall not
join the infantry, and I cannot in any way reach the higher banners,
for I am in terrible poverty--"
"A noble who has Latin on his tongue and a sabre in his fist will make
his way always," interrupted the priest; "but there is no need of
talking, thou must have good horses. We must think over this carefully.
Now I will tell thee something of which I have never yet spoken. I hold
for thee ten ruddy ducats which thy late mother left with me--and her
letter, in which she begs not to give thee this money, lest it be spent
ere the time comes. Only in sudden need may I give it when either
the ferry or the wagon is awaiting thee--when some dilemma presents
itself--well, the dilemma is here at this moment! Thou hadst an
honorable, a holy, and an unhappy mother, for when that woman was dying
there was great need in her dwelling, and she took from her own mouth
that which she left with me."
"God give eternal rest to her," said Yatsek. "Let those ten ducats be
used for masses to benefit her soul, and Vyrambki I will sell even for
a trifle."
Father Voynovski grew very tender at these words; a tear glistened in
his eye, and again he put his arms around Yatsek.
"There is honest blood in thee," said he, "but thou art not free to
reject this gift from thy mother, even for the purpose which thou hast
mentioned. Masses will not be lacking in her case, be sure of that,
though in truth she has no great need of them; but to other souls
suffering in purgatory they will be of service. As to Vyrambki it would
be better to mortgage it; though a noble has but the smallest estate,
how differently do people esteem him from one who is landless."
"But I am in a hurry. I should like to go even to-day."
"To-day thou wilt not go, though the sooner the better. I must write
for thee letters to my comrades and friends. We must talk also with the
brewers in Yedlina who have money and also good horses, so that no
armored warrior may have a better outfit. In my house there are some
old arms and some sabres, not so much ornamented as tested on Swedish
and Turkish shoulders."
Here the priest looked through the window and said,--
"But the sleigh is waiting, and a traveller should start when his
sleigh comes."
An expression of pain now shot over the face of the young man; he
kissed the priest's hand and added,--
"I have one other prayer, my benefactor and father; let me go with you
now and live in your house till I leave this region. Those roofs are
visible from this dwelling. They are too near me."
"Of course! I wished to propose this; thou hast taken the words from my
lips. There is no work for thee here, and I shall be glad from my soul
to have thee under my roof tree. Be of good cheer, O my Yatsus. The
world does not end in Belchantska, but stands open widely before thee.
God alone knows how far thou wilt ride when once thou art on horseback.
War is awaiting thee! Glory is awaiting thee! and that which pains thee
to-day will be healed at another time. I see now how the wings are
growing out at thy shoulders. Fly then, O bird of the Lord, for to that
wert thou predestined and created."
And joy like a sunray lighted up the honest face of the old man. He
struck his thigh with his palm, soldier fashion.
"Now take thy cap and we will go."
But small things stand often in the way of important ones, and the
comic is mixed with the tragic. Yatsek glanced round the room; then he
gazed with concern at the priest, and repeated,--
"My cap!"
"Well! Thou wilt not go bareheaded--"
"How could I?"
"Where is it?"
"But suppose it remained at Belchantska?"
"There are thy love tricks, old woman! What wilt thou do?"
"What shall I do? I might get a cap from my man, but I could not go in
the cap of a peasant."
"Thou canst not go in a peasant's cap, but send thy man to
Belchantska."
"I would not for anything."
The priest was becoming impatient.
"Plague take it! War, glory, the wide world--these are all waiting for
the man, but his cap is gone!"
"There is an old hat in the bottom of a trunk which my father took from
a Swedish officer at Tremeshno--"
"Take it, and let us go."
Yatsek vanished and returned a little later wearing the yellow hat of a
Swedish horseman, which was too large for him. Amused by the sight of
it, the priest caught at his left side as if seeking his sabre.
"It is well," said he, "that it is not a Turkish turban. But this is a
real carnival!"
Yatsek smiled in reply, and then added,--
"There are some stones in the buckle; they may be of value."
Then they took seats in the sleigh and moved forward. Immediately
beyond the enclosure Belchantska and the mansion were as visible
through leafless alders as something on one's hand. The priest looked
carefully at Yatsek, who merely drew the big Swedish hat over his eyes
and did not look, though something besides his Hungarian cap had been
left in the mansion.