That evening, or late at night, Pani Vinnitski appeared in the room of
her relative, and, finding the young lady still dressed, she talked to
her.
"I cannot recover from amazement," said she; "sooner should I have
looked for death than that such an idea should have come to the head of
Pan Gideon."
"Neither did I look for it."
"How is it then? And is it so, really? I know not what to do, to be
glad, or the opposite. We know that the prelate as a spiritual person
has better judgment than the laity. He is right when he says that till
death thou wilt have a roof over thy head, and that roof thy own, not
another's. But Pan Gideon is old"--here she spoke lower--"art thou not
a little afraid of him?"
"It is all in the past; there is nothing to think of at present,"
answered Anulka.
"How dost thou say that?"
"I say that I owe him gratitude for a refuge, and a morsel of bread,
and that these are poorly paid for by my person which no one else cares
for; but since he cares, that too, is a favor on his part."
"He began long ago to wish for this," said the old woman mysteriously.
"After he had talked to-day with thee he called me. I thought that
there was something wrong with the supper, and that he would reproach
me, but he said nothing. I saw that for some reason he was cheerful,
and all at once he broke the news to me. My legs trembled under me.
'What is the matter?' asked he. 'You are turned, like Lot's wife, to a
pillar of salt,' said he. 'Is it because I have taken such a mushroom?'
'No,' I answered, 'but because it is so unexpected.' 'With me,' said
he, then, 'that is an old idea. Like a fish at the bottom of a river it
was unknown till some one helped it to swim to the surface. And dost
thou know who that was?' I felt sure that it was the prelate. 'Not at
all,' said he, 'but Pan Grothus.'"
A moment of silence followed.
"But I thought Pan Yatsek--" said Anulka through her set teeth.
"Why Yatsek?"
"To show that he did not care for me."
"Thou knowest that Yatsek has not seen Pan Gideon."
Then Anulka began to repeat feverishly,--
"Yes, I know! He had something else in his head! Let that go! I do not
want to know anything. I do not, I do not! It is all finished, and
finished forever."
A dry, nervous weeping shook her bosom. After a moment she repeated
again,--
"It is finished beyond recall!" Then they knelt down to an "Our
Father," which they repeated each evening in company.
Next day Anulka appeared with a calm face, but something had changed in
her, something remained unexpressed, something had shut itself up in
her. She was not sad, but all at once, she had grown, as it were, some
years older, and she had in her now a certain calm dignity, so that Pan
Gideon, who hitherto had taken into account himself only, began without
noting it, to consider her also. In general he was unable to command
himself, and it seemed to him specially strange that he felt in some
sense his dependence on Anulka. He began to fear those thoughts which
she did not express, but which she might conceal in her spirit. He
tried to forestall such, and put in place of them others, of the kind
which he wanted. Even the silence of Pani Vinnitski was oppressive and
seemed to him suspicious; so he worked out fantastic pictures, talked,
joked, but there flashed up in his steel eyes at times certain gleams
of impatience.
Meanwhile news of his engagement had gone through the neighborhood. Of
this engagement he now made no secret; on the contrary, he sent letters
announcing it to Pan Serafin, and to his nearest neighbors; he wrote
letters to the Kohanovskis, to the Podlodovskis, to the Sulgostovskis,
to Pan Grothus, to the Krepetskis, and even to distant relatives of his
late wife, with invitations to the betrothal, after which the marriage
would be celebrated immediately.
Pan Gideon would have preferred to get a dispensation from the banns
even, but unfortunately it was the Lenten season, and he had to wait
till after Easter. He took both women, therefore, to Radom where the
young lady was to find her wedding outfit, and he to buy horses more
showy than those which he had at that time in his stables.
Reports came to him that among the relatives who had hoped to inherit
everything not only after his late wife, but after him, there was as
much movement as there is in a beehive; but this pleased him, since he
hated them all from his innermost spirit, and was planning at all times
to harm them. Those tidings of meetings, whispered conferences, and
counsels shortened his visit to Radom. And when at last his stay there
was ended, and the horses together with new harness were purchased, he
returned on Easter eve to his mansion. Guests began to arrive almost at
the same time, for the betrothal was to take place on the third day
after Easter.
First came the Krepetskis who were both the nearest relatives and
nearest neighbors. The father was almost eighty years old, with the
visage of a vulture, and renowned as a miser. He had three daughters:
Tekla, the youngest, was pretty and pleasant; Agneshka and Johanna were
not youthful, they were testy old maids with pimples on their cheeks at
all seasons. He had a son, Martsian, nicknamed Pniak (stump) in the
neighborhood. He bore the name justly, for at the first glance he
seemed a great stump; he had a mighty chest, and broad shoulders. His
bow-legs were so short that he was almost dwarflike, and his arms
reached his kneepans. Some thought him a hunchback; he was not,
however, but his head without a neck was fixed so closely to his body
that his high shoulders reached his ears, very nearly. Out of that
head peered prominent, lustful eyes, and his face was like that of a
he-goat. A small beard which he wore as if in defiance of general
custom, increased the resemblance.
He did not serve as a warrior, for he had been ridiculed from service,
for which reason he had had in his time many duels. There was uncommon
strength in his stumpy body, and people feared him in all places, since
he was a quarreller and a road-blocker, who, in every affair, was glad
to seek pretexts; he was as irritable as a vicious beast, and wounded
savagely in Radom one Krepetski, his cousin, a handsome and worthy
young man who almost died of the injuries then inflicted. He felt
respect only for Yatsek, whose skill at the sabre was known to him, and
before the Bukoyemskis, one of whom, Lukash, threw him over a fence
like a bundle of straw once in Yedlina. He had the deserved reputation
of being a great profligate. Pan Gideon had driven him out of the
mansion a few years before that, because he had looked too much in goat
fashion at Panna Anulka, a little girl at that period. But since then
some years had passed, and, as they had met later in Radom, and in
neighboring houses, Pan Gideon invited him now with the family.
Immediately after the Krepetskis came the Sulgostovskis, twin brothers,
who so resembled each other that when they put on coats of like fashion
no man could distinguish them; next came three remote Sulgostovskis
from beyond Prityk--and then a numerous family formed of nine people,
the handsome Zabierzovskis. From Yedlinka came Pan Serafin, but alone,
since his son had gone to his regiment already; Pan Podlodovski, the
starosta, once the agent of the great lord in Zamost; the Kohanovskis;
the priest from Prityk; the prelate Tvorkovski from Radom, who was to
bless the ring, and many small nobles from near and distant places,
some even without invitation, with this idea, that a guest though quite
unknown would be sure to find welcome, and that when there is a chance
to eat and drink a man should not miss it.
Belchantska was crowded with carriages and wagons, the stables were
filled with horses, the outbuildings with servants of all sorts;
everywhere in the mansion were colored coats, sabres, shaven foreheads;
and with these went Latin, the twittering of women, farthingales,
laces, and various ornaments. Maids were flying around with hot water,
and tipsy servants with excellent wine in decanters. From morning until
night-hours the kitchen was steaming like a tar pit. The windows of the
mansion gleamed and flashed every evening, so that the whole place
around there was radiant.
And amid all this tumult Pan Gideon moved through the chambers, walked
about and gave welcome, magnificent, important, grown young as it were
for the second time, dressed in crimson, and wearing a sabre which
glittered with jewels, a sabre which Panna Anulka had inherited; it was
her only dowry from wealthy forefathers. If giddiness seized him he
leaned on an armchair, and again he moved forward, showed honor to
guests who were personages, and struck one heel against the other when
greeting older ladies; but above all he followed with eyes which were
more and more enamoured "his Anulka," who bloomed in that many-colored
throng. Amid glances which were frequently ill-wishing, frequently
jealous, and filled sometimes with venom, she was as fair as a lily,
somewhat sad, or only conscious, it may be, of the weight of that fact
which she had to encounter.
Thus things continued till the evening of the third day, that is,
Tuesday, when the mortars of the mansion thundered in the yard, thus
announcing to the guests and the country that the solemn moment had
come, the moment of betrothal.
The guests ranged themselves then as a half-circle in the drawing-room,
men and women in splendid costumes bright as a rainbow in the light of
the candles. In front of them stood Pan Gideon and Panna Anulka.
Silence settled down, and the eyes of all people were fixed on the
bride, who with downcast eyes, with attention and dignity on her face,
without a smile, but not sad, seemed as if drowsy.
The prelate Tvorkovski in his surplice, having near him young Tekla
Krepetski, who held a silver plate with rings on it, advanced from the
half-circle and addressed those who were soon to be married. He spoke
learnedly, long, and with eloquence, showing what were the _sponsalia
de futuro_, and what great importance from the earliest days of
Christianity was attached to betrothals. He quoted Tertullian, and the
Council of Trent, and the opinion of various learned canonists, then
turning to Pan Gideon and Panna Sieninski he explained to them how wise
their decision was, what great benefaction they promised each other,
and how their future happiness depended on themselves only.
Those present listened with admiration, but also with impatience, for
as relatives from whom their inheritance was slipping they looked on
that marriage with repugnance. Pan Gideon, who from standing long had
grown dizzy, began to rest on one leg and then on the other, and to
give signs with his eyes to the prelate to finish; these signs he was
not quick to notice, but at last he blessed the rings and put them on
the fingers of the affianced.
Then the mortars thundered again in the yard, and from the gallery in
the dining-hall was heard a loud orchestra made up of five Radom Jews
who played nicely. The guests came now in turn to congratulate, for the
greater part with sourness and insincerely. The two Krepetski old maids
simply jeered as they courtesied to their "Aunt," and Pan Martsian,
when kissing her hands, recommended himself to her graces with such a
goat glance that Pan Gideon ought to have driven him from the mansion a
second time.
But others, more remote relatives, being better and less greedy, gave
sincere, cordial wishes. Now the door of the dining-hall was thrown
open; Pan Gideon gave his arm to his betrothed, and after him moved the
other couples amid the glitter and the quivering of flames caused by a
sudden cold gust which had blown through the entrance. From the kitchen
came the servants, half tipsy, with decanters of wine and an
unreckonable number of dishes.
From the opening of doors there was such cold air in the dining-hall
that guests, while sitting down to the table, were seized the first
moment with a shiver, while the flickering of candles made the whole
hall, in spite of its elegant furnishing, seem dark and gloomy. But it
was proper to hope that wine would soon warm the blood in all present,
and wine was not spared by Pan Gideon. He was rather stingy in
every-day life, but on exceptional occasions he liked so to show
himself that people spoke long of him afterward. This happened now.
Behind every guest an attendant was standing with a mossy and
big-bellied bottle, while under the table were hidden a number of
servants with bottles also, so that in case a guest could not find more
to drink on the table he put down a goblet twixt his knees and they
filled it immediately. Immense glasses for drinkers, great goblets,
glittered in front of each man, but before ladies were smaller glasses,
either French or Italian.
The guests did not occupy the whole table, however, for Pan Gideon had
commanded to set more plates than there were guests in the mansion. The
prelate cast his eyes on those empty places and fell to praising the
hospitality of the house and the master; at that moment he rose in his
chair somewhat, wishing to arrange the folds of his soutane, hence
those present supposed that he was going to offer the earliest toast,
and were silent.
"We are listening!" said a number of voices.
"Oh, there is no reason," said the prelate, with joyousness. "There is
no toast yet, though the time will come soon for it. I see some of you
gentlemen rubbing your heads rather early, and the Kohanovskis are
whispering as well as counting on their fingers. It is difficult to
expect rhymes from any if not from the Kohanovskis. I wish to say only
that it is an old Polish and praiseworthy custom to leave thus a place
for a guest who is unexpected."
"Oh," answered Pan Gideon, "as the house is lighted up some one may
come from the darkness."
"And perhaps some one is coming," said Kohanovski. "It may be Pan
Grothus?"
"No-- Pan Grothus has gone to the Diet. If a man comes he will be
unexpected."
"But the earth is soft, we shall not hear him."
"Well, a dog is barking under the window, so some one is coming."
"No one will drive in from that side, for the windows look into the
garden."
"But the dog is not barking, he is howling."
That was the case really. The dog had barked once, twice, a third time,
then the barking turned to a low, gloomy howling.
Pan Gideon quivered despite himself, for he remembered how years and
years earlier in another place, at his house, which stood five miles
from Pomorani, in Russia, dogs had howled in the same way before a
sudden onrush of Tartars.
The thought came to Panna Anulka, that she had no cause to expect any
one, and that should any man come to her from the darkness to that
lighted mansion he would be late in his coming. But it seemed somehow
strange to other guests, all the more as the first dog was joined by a
second, and a double howl was heard now near that window. So they
listened in disagreeable silence, which was broken only after a while
by Martsian Krepetski,--
"A guest at whom the dogs howl is nothing to us," said he.
"Wine!" called Pan Gideon.
But the glasses were full, hence there was no need to pour at that
moment. Old Krepetski, father of Martsian, rose from his chair somewhat
heavily, wishing to speak, as seemed evident. All turned their eyes to
him. Old men began to surround their ears with their hands to hear
better, but he only moved his lips after long waiting, his chin almost
meeting his nose, for he was toothless.
Meanwhile, notwithstanding the fact that the earth was soft from
thawing, there came from the other side of the house, as it were, a
dull clatter and it was heard rather long, long enough to go twice
round the courtyard. Hence old Krepetski, who had raised his glass,
held it a while, looked at the door, and then put the glass down again;
other guests acted in like manner.
"See who has come!" said Pan Gideon to his attendant.
The youth rushed out, returned straightway, and answered,--
"There is no one."
"That is strange," said the prelate. "The sound was heard clearly."
"We all heard it," said one of the twin Sulgostovskis.
"And the dogs have stopped howling," said others.
Then the door of the entrance, badly fastened by the servant, as was
evident, opened of itself, and a new draught of air entered with such
violence that it quenched from ten to twenty candles.
"What is that?" "Shut the door!" "The candles are dying!" said a number
of voices.
But with the wind had rushed into the hall, as it were, some unknown
terror. Pani Vinnitski, who was superstitious and timid, began then to
cross herself audibly.
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost--"
"Woman! be silent!" commanded Pan Gideon.
Then turning to Panna Sieninski he kissed her hand.
"A quenched candle cannot trouble my gladness," said he, "and God grant
me to be as happy to the end of my days as I am at this moment. Is that
not right, my Anulka?"
"Yes, guardian," said she, bending toward his hand.
"Amen!" ended the prelate, who rose to address them.
"Gracious ladies and gentlemen, since that unexpected sound stopped, as
is evident, Pan Krepetski's ideas let me be the earliest expounder of
those feelings with which our hearts are warmed toward the future wife
and her husband. Hence, ere we cry out _O Hymen, O Hymenaios_, before
we, in Roman fashion, begin to call Thalassius, the beautiful youth who
God grant may appear at the earliest, let us raise _ex imo_ this first
toast to their prosperity and coming happiness: _Vivant, crescant,
floreant_" (may they live, increase, flourish).
"_Vivant! Vivant!_" thundered all guests.
The Radom orchestra was heard that moment, and outside the windows the
drivers fell to cracking their whips.
Long did the shouts last, with the stamping of feet, the sounding of
horns and the cracking of whips. The servants, too, raised a shout
throughout the whole mansion, and in the dining-hall, amid endless
cheers, rose great sounds of wine-gulping.
"_Vivant, crescant, floreant!_"
Silence came only when Pan Gideon stood up, raised his glass, and said
in a loud voice,--
"My guests and relatives, very gracious and most dear to my heart! I
express with inadequate words my gratitude to all; I will first bow to
you profoundly for that brotherly and neighborly good-feeling which you
have shown me by meeting here under my poor roof in such numbers--"
The words "under my poor roof" were pronounced with a kind of
marvellously mild, and, as it were, submissive accents, then he sat
down and bent his head, so that the forehead rested really on the
table. And the guests wondered that a man usually so distant and so
haughty should speak with such affection. They thought that great
happiness melts even hearts the most obdurate, and, waiting for what he
had to say further, they looked at his iron-gray head resting yet on
the edge of the table.
"Silence! We are listening!" said voices.
And in fact deep silence had followed.
But Pan Gideon was motionless.
"What is the matter? What has happened? For God's sake! Speak on!"
cried they.
But Pan Gideon answered only with a terrible rattling; then his
shoulders and arms began on a sudden to quiver.
Panna Sieninski sprang from her chair pale as a wall, and cried in
terrified accents,--
"Guardian! guardian!"
At the table were dismay and confusion; cries and questions rose
everywhere. Guests surrounded Pan Gideon, the prelate seized his arms
and brought him to the back of the chair, some began to throw water on
him, others cried, "Take him to the bed and bleed him as quickly as
possible." Some of the women were tearful; some ran, as if frantic,
through the chambers with groans or with sharp lamentation. But Pan
Gideon remained sitting, his head was thrown back, the veins in his
forehead were distended like straps, his eyes were closed firmly, the
hoarseness and rattling grew louder.
The unexpected guest had come indeed out of darkness and entered the
mansion, dreadful and merciless.