Panna Anulka returned to her room filled with gratitude toward her
guardian, who up to that hour had never spoken to her with such
kindness; and at the same time she was disenchanted, embittered, and
disgusted with the world and with people. In the first moment she could
not and knew not how to think calmly; she had only the feeling that a
grievous wrong had been done her, a great injustice, and that an
awfully keen disappointment had struck her.
For her love, for her sorrow, for her yearning, for all that she had
done to bind the broken threads together, her only reward was a hateful
suspicion. And there was no remedy. She could not, of course, write to
Yatsek a second time, to justify herself and explain the position. A
blush of shame and humiliation covered her face at the mere thought of
this. Besides, she was almost sure that Yatsek had gone. And next would
come war; perhaps she would never behold him in life again; perhaps he
would fall and die with the conviction that a perverse and wicked heart
was in her bosom. All at once boundless sorrow seized her. Yatsek stood
before her eyes as if living, with his embrowned face and those pensive
eyes which more than once she had laughed at, as being the eyes of a
maiden.
The girl's thought flies like a swift swallow after the traveller, and
calls to him: "Yatsek! I wish thee no evil! God sees my heart, Yatsek."
Thus does she call to him, but he makes no answer; he rides on straight
ahead. What does he think of her? He only frowns and spits from disgust
as he travels.
Again there are pearls on her eyelids. A certain weakness has come on
her, a moment of resignation in which she says to herself: "Ah, this is
difficult! May God forgive him, and go with him, and never mind me!"
But her lips quiver like those of a child, her eyes look like those of
a tortured bird, and somewhere off in a hidden corner of her soul,
which is as pure as a tear, she blames God in the deepest secret for
that which has met her.
Then again she felt certain that Yatsek had never loved her, and she
could not understand why he had not loved her, even a little.
"My guardian spoke truly," said she.
But later on came reflection.
"No, that could not be."
Immediately she recalled those words of Yatsek, which were fixed in her
memory as in marble. "Not thou art to go, I am the person to go; but I
say to thee: though for years I have loved thee more than health, more
than life, 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." And he was pale as a wall when he said this,
and almost mad from pain and from anger. He had not come back, that was
true! He had appeared no more, he had left her, he had renounced her,
he had abandoned her, he had wronged her; with an unworthy suspicion he
and the priest had composed the dreadful letter--all that was true, and
her guardian was right in that. But that Yatsek had never loved her,
that after he had found money he had departed with a light and joyful
heart, that he thought of paying court to others, that he had ceased
altogether to think of her,--this was incredible. Her guardian might
think so in his carefulness, but the truth was quite different. He who
has no love does not grow pale, does not set his teeth, does not gnaw
his fists, does not rend his soul in anguish. Such being the case, the
young lady thought the difference was only this, that instead of one
two were now suffering, hence a certain consolation, and even a certain
hope, entered her. The days and months which were to come seemed
gloomier, it may be, but not so bitter. The words of the letter ceased
to burn her like red-hot iron, for though she doubted not that Yatsek
had assisted in the writing, it is one thing to act through sorrow and
pain, and another through deliberate malice.
So again great compassion for Yatsek took hold of her; so great was it,
and especially so ardent, that it could not be simply compassion. Her
thoughts began to weave, and turn into a certain golden thread, which
was lost in the future, but which at the same time cast on her the
glitter of a wedding.
The war would soon end and also the separation. That cruel Yatsek would
not return to Belchantska. Oh, no! a man so resolute as he when once he
says a thing will adhere to it; but he will come back to those parts,
and return to Vyrambki; he will live near by, and then that will happen
which God wishes. He went away it may be with tears, it may be with
pain, with wringing of hands--God comfort him! He will come home with a
full heart, and with joy, and, especially after war, with great glory.
Meanwhile she will be there quietly in Belchantska, where her guardian
is so kind; she will explain to that guardian that Yatsek is not so bad
as other young men--and farther on moved that golden thread which began
to wind round her heart again.
The goldfinch, in the Dantsic clock of the drawing-room, whistled out a
late hour, but sleep flew from the young lady altogether.
Lying now in her bed she fixed her clear eyes on the ceiling and
considered what disposition to make of her troubles and sorrows. If
Yatsek had gone it was only because he was running away from her, for
according to what she had heard war was still far from them. Her
guardian had not mentioned that young Stanislav and the Bukoyemskis
were to go away also; it was proper to come to an understanding with
them and learn something of Yatsek, and say some kind word which might
reach him through them, even in distant camps, and in war time.
She had not much hope that those gentlemen would come to Pan Gideon's,
for it was known to her that they had gone over to Yatsek, and that for
a certain time they had been looking with disfavor on Pan Gideon; but
she relied on another thing.
In some days there would be a festival of the Most Holy Lady; a great
festival at the parish church of Prityk, where all the neighboring
nobles assembled with their families. She would see Pan Stanislav and
the Bukoyemskis, if not in front of the church then at dinner in the
priest's house. On that day the priest received every one.
She hoped too that in the throng she would be able to speak with them
freely, and that she would not meet any hindrance from her guardian
who, though not very kind toward those gentlemen recently, could not
break with them in view of the service which they had shown him.
To Prityk from Belchantska the road was rather long, and Pan Gideon,
who did not like hurry, passed the night at Radom, or at Yedlina, if he
chose the road through the latter place.
This time because of the overflow they took the safer though longer
road through Radom, and started one day before the festival--on wheels,
not on runners, for winter had broken on a sudden, and thoroughly.
After them moved two heavily laden wagons with servants, provisions, a
bed and sofas for decent living at inns where they halted.
The stars were still twinkling, and the sky had barely begun to grow
pale in the east when they started. Pani Vinnitski led morning prayers
in the dark. Pan Gideon and the young lady joined her with very drowsy
voices, for the evening before they had gone to bed late because of
preparations for the journey. Only beyond the village and the small
forest, in which thousands of crows found their night rest, did the
ruddy light shine on the equally ruddy face and drowsy eyes of the
young lady. Her lips were fixed ready for yawning, but when the first
sun-ray lighted the fields and the forest she shook herself out of the
drowsiness and looked around with more sprightliness, for the clear
morning filled her with a certain good hope, and a species of gladness.
The calm, warm, coming day promised to be really wonderful. In the air
appeared, as it were, the first note of early spring. After
unparalleled snows and frosts came warm sunny days all at once, to the
astonishment of people. Men had said that from the New Year it seemed
as if some power had cut off the winter as it were with a knife-blade,
and herdsmen foretold by the lowing of cattle, then restive in the
stables, that the winter would not come back again. In fact, spring
itself was then present. In furrows, in the forest, at the north side
of woods and along streams, strips of snow still existed; but the sun
was warming them from above, and from beneath were flowing out streams
and currents, making in places broad overflows in which were reflected
wet leafless trees, as in mirrors. The damp ridges of fields gleamed
like belts of gold in the sun-rays. At times a strong wind rose, but so
filled with gladsome warmth as if it came from out the sun's body
directly, and flying over the fields wrinkled the waters, throwing down
with its movement thousands of pearls from the slender dark twigs of
the tree branches.
Because of the thaws and road "stickiness," and also because of the
weighty carriage which was drawn by six horses with no little effort,
they moved very slowly. As the sun rose more and more the air grew so
warm that Panna Sieninski untied the ribbons of her hood, which dropped
to the back of her head, and unbuttoned her weasel-skin shuba.
"Are you so warm?" inquired Pani Vinnitski.
"Spring, Auntie! real spring!" was the answer.
And she was so charming with her bright and somewhat dishevelled head
pushed out from her hood, with laughing eyes and rosy face, that the
stern eyes of Pan Gideon grew mild as he glanced at her. For a while he
seemed as if looking at her then for the first time, and spoke as if
half to himself,--
"As God lives thou art at thy best also!"
She smiled at him in answer.
"Oh, how slowly we are moving," said she after a while. "The road is
awful! Is it not true that on a long road one should wait till it dries
somewhat?"
Pan Gideon's face became serious, and he looked out of the carriage
without giving an answer.
"Yedlina!" said he, soon after.
"Then perhaps one may go to the church?" inquired Pani Vinnitski.
"We will not, first because the church is sure to be closed, for the
priest has gone to Prityk, and second, because he has offended me
greatly, and I will hide my hand if he approaches." Then he added: "I
ask you, and thee also, Anulka, not to converse with him in any way."
A moment of silence succeeded. Suddenly the tramping of horses was
heard behind the carriage, and the sounds made as the beasts pulled
their feet out of the mud; these resembled the firing of muskets,--then
piercing words were heard on both sides of the carriage.
"With the forehead! with the forehead!"
That was from the Bukoyemskis.
"With the forehead!" answered Pan Gideon.
"Is your grace for Prityk?"
"I go every year. I suppose your lordships are going also to the
festival?"
"You may lay a wager on that," replied Marek. "One must be purified
from sin before war comes."
"But is it not early yet?"
"Why should it be too early?" asked Lukash. "All that has been sinned
up to the moment will fall from one's shoulders, since that is the use
of absolution; and as to sins incurred later, the priest absolves from
those in presence of the enemy, _in partikulo mortis_."
"You wish to say _in articulo_" corrected Pan Gideon.
"All the same, if only repentance is real."
"How do you understand repentance?" inquired the amused Pan Gideon.
"How do I understand repentance? Father Vior, the last time, commanded
that we give ourselves thirty stripes in discipline, and we gave fifty;
for we thought: Well, since this pleases the Heavenly Powers, let them
have all they want of it."
At this even the serious Pani Vinnitski laughed and Panna Anulka hid
her face in her sleeve as if warming her nose there.
Lukash noticed, as did his brothers, that their answer had roused
laughter, hence they were somewhat offended and silent; so for a time
were heard only the rattling of chains on the carriage, the snorting of
horses, the sound of mud under hoofs, and the croaking of crows.
Immense flocks of these birds were sailing away in the sunlight from
small places and villages to the pine woods.
"Ah! they feel this very minute that there will be food even to wade
in," said the youngest Bukoyemski, turning his eyes toward the crows.
"Yes, war is their harvest," said Mateush.
"They do not feel it yet, for war is far off," said Pan Gideon.
"Far or near, it is certain!"
"And how do you know?"
"We all know what the talk was at the district diets, and what
instructions will be given to the general Diet."
"True, but it is not known if they were the same everywhere."
"Pan Prylubski, who has travelled through a great part of the
Commonwealth, says they were the same everywhere."
"Who is Pan Prylubski?"
"He comes from Olkuts, and makes levies for the bishop of Cracow."
"But has the bishop commanded to make levies before the assembling of
the Diet?"
"You see, your grace, how it is! This is the best proof that war is
certain. The bishop wants a splendid light cavalry regiment--well, Pan
Prylubski came to these parts because he has heard of us somewhat."
"Ho! ho! Your glory has gone far through the world. Are you going?"
"Of course!"
"All of you?"
"Why should we not all go? It is a good thing during war to have a
friend at one's side, and still better a brother."
"Well, and Pan Stanislav?"
"He and Pan Yatsek will serve in one regiment."
Pan Gideon glanced quickly at the young lady sitting in front; a sudden
flame rushed over her cheeks, and he inquired further,--
"Are they so intimate already? Under whom will they serve?"
"Under Pan Zbierhovski."
"Of course in the dragoons?"
"In God's name, what are you saying? That is the hussar regiment of
Prince Alexander."
"Is it possible! Is it possible! That is no common regiment--"
"Pan Yatsek is no common man."
Pan Gideon had it on his lips to say that such a stripling in the
hussars would be a soldier, not an officer, but he held back the
remark, fearing it might seem that his letter was not so polite, or his
help so considerable as he had told Anulka, so he frowned and said,--
"I have heard of the mortgage of Vyrambki; how much was given on it?"
"More than you would have given," answered Marek, dryly.
Pan Gideon's eyes glittered for a moment with savage anger, but he
restrained himself a second time, for it occurred to him that further
conversation might serve his purpose.
"All the better," said he, "the cavalier must be satisfied."
The Bukoyemskis, though slow-witted by nature, began to exaggerate, one
more than the other, just to show Pan Gideon how little Tachevski cared
for him and all in his mansion.
"Of course!" called out Lukash, "when he went away he was almost wild
from delight. He sang so that the candles at the inn toppled over. It
is true, that we had drunk some at parting."
Pan Gideon looked again at Panna Sieninski, and saw that her rosy face
full of youth and life had become as it were petrified. Her hood had
fallen off entirely, her eyes were closed as in sleep; only from the
movement of her nostrils and the slight quivering of her chin could it
be known that she was not sleeping, but listening, and listening
intently. It was painful to look at her, but the merciless noble
thought,--
"If there is a splinter in thy heart yet will I pluck it out of thee!"
And he said aloud,--
"Just as I expected--"
"What did you expect?"
"That you gentlemen would be drunk at the parting, and that Pan
Tachevski would go away singing. Of course, he who is seeking fortune
must hurry, and if it smiles on him, perhaps he may catch it--"
"Of course!" exclaimed Lukash.
"Father Voynovski," added Marek, "gave Tachevski a letter to Pan
Zbierhovski, who is his friend, and in Zbierhova the land is such that
you can sow onions in any place,--and he has an only daughter, just
fifteen years of age. So don't you bother about Tachevski; he will make
his way without you, and without these sands around Radom!"
"I do not bother myself about him," said Pan Gideon, dryly. "But
perhaps you gentlemen are in a hurry to ride on? My carriage moves in
this mud like a tortoise."
"Well, here is to you with the forehead!"
"With the forehead! with the forehead! I am the servant of your
lordships!"
"We are yours in the same way!"
Having said this the brothers moved forward more speedily, but when
they had ridden an arrow-shot from the carriage they reined in again
and talked with animation.
"Did ye see?" asked Lukash, "I said 'Of course!' twice, and twice I
thrust a sword into his heart as it were; he almost burst out."
"I did better," said Marek, "for I struck both the girl and the old
man."
"How? Tell us, do not hide!" called the brothers.
"Did ye not hear?"
"We heard, but do thou repeat."
"I struck with what I said of Panna Zbierhovski. Ye saw how the girl
became pale? I looked at her; she had her hand on her knee and she
opened and closed it, opened and closed it, just like a cat before
scratching. A man could see that anger was diving down into her."
But Mateush reined in his horse, and he added,--
"I was sorry for her--such a dear little flower--and do ye remember
what old Pan Serafin said?"
"What did he say?" inquired, with great curiosity, Lukash, Marek, and
Yan, reining in their horses.
Mateush looked at them a while through his protruding eyes, then said
as if in sorrow,--
"But if I have forgotten?"
Meanwhile not only Pan Gideon, but Pani Vinnitski, who generally knew
very little of what was happening around her, turned attention to the
changed face of the young lady.
"But what is the matter, Anulka? Art thou cold?"
"No," answered the girl, with a sort of sleepy voice which seemed not
her own. "Nothing is the matter, only the air affects me strangely--so
strangely."
Though her voice broke from moment to moment she had no tears in her
eyes; on the contrary, in her dry pupils there glittered sparks
peculiar, uncommon, and her face had grown older. Seeing this Pan
Gideon said to himself,--
"Would it not be better to strike while the iron is hot?"