As a betrothed she had felt as if something in her life had grown
black, as if something had been quenched, had been cut off and ended;
hence that betrothal had not roused in her heart any gladness. She had
only consented to the marriage because such was the will of Pan Gideon,
and because of her gratitude for care, and still more because, after
Yatsek's departure, there remained in her heart only bitterness and
sorrow, with this painful thought, that save her guardian she had no
one, and that without him she would be a lost orphan, wandering among
enemies and strangers. But all on a sudden a thunderbolt had struck
that hearth at which she was to sit with some kind of peace, though a
sad one, now the only man in this world who to her was important had
vanished. It was not strange, then, that the thunderbolt had stunned
her, that all thoughts were confused in her head, while in her heart
sorrow for that only near soul had been fused into one with a feeling
of amazement and terror.
So the words of the elder sisters, who had begun straightway to pilfer
her dresses, struck her ears just like sounds without meaning. Then
Martsian came, bowed, rubbed his hands, jumped around her; but she
understood him no more than she did all the others, who, according to
custom, approached her with phrases of sympathy, which were more
elaborate the less they were heartfelt. It was only when Pan Serafin
put his hand on her head in the style of a father and said: "God will
be over thee, my orphan," that something moved in her suddenly, and
then tears rushed to her eyelids. Now for the first time the thought
came to her that she was as a poor little leaf given over to the will
of the whirlwind.
Meanwhile began ceremonies, which, since Pan Gideon had been a man of
position in his neighborhood, lasted ten days, in accordance with
custom. At the betrothal, with few exceptions, invited guests only were
present, but to the funeral came all near and distant neighbors, hence
the mansion was swarming. Receptions, speeches, processions, and
returns from the church followed one after the other.
During the first days exclusive attention was given to the incomplete
widow; but later, when people beheld the Krepetskis in possession and
saw that they alone appeared in the mansion as masters, they ceased to
regard the young lady, and toward the end of the funeral solemnities no
one paid more heed to her than to any house visitor.
Pan Serafin alone had a thought for her. He was moved by her tears and
touched by her misfortune. The servants had begun to whisper that the
Krepetski old maids had swept off her whole trousseau, and the old lord
had hidden in his box her "little jewels," and that in the house they
were already beginning to browbeat the "young lady." When these reports
went to Pan Serafin they moved his kind heart, and he resolved to see
Father Voynovski.
But that kindly man was prejudiced much against Panna Anulka because of
Yatsek, so at the very beginning he answered,--
"I am sorry for her, the poor lady, for she is in need, but in what can
I help her? That, speaking between us, God punished her for Yatsek is
certain."
"But Yatsek is gone, as is Stanislav, and she is here simply an
orphan."
"Of course he is gone, but how did he go? You saw him going, but I went
with him farther, and I tell you that the poor boy had his teeth set,
and the heart in him was bleeding, so that he could not utter a
syllable. Oh! he loved that girl as people loved only in the old time;
they know not to-day how to love in that manner."
"Still he was able to move his hands," said Pan Serafin, "for I heard
that just beyond Radom he had a quarrel and cut up a passing noble, or
even two of them."
"Ah, because he has a girl's face every road-blocker thinks that he can
get on with him cheaply. Some drunken fellows sought a quarrel. What
was he to do? I blame in him that method; I blame it, but remember,
your grace, that a man with a heart torn by love is like a lion seeking
to devour some one."
"True; but as to the girl. Ah, my benefactor, God knows if she is as
much to blame as we imagine."
"Woman is insidious."
"Insidious or not, but when I heard that Pan Gideon wished to marry her
it occurred to me straightway that he roused up everything, for it must
have been all-important for him to get rid of Yatsek forever."
"No," said the priest, shaking his head. "We remarked immediately from
the letter that it was written at her instigation. I remember that
perfectly, and I could repeat to your grace every word of it."
"I, too, remember, but we could not know what Pan Gideon had told her,
and how he described Yatsek's deeds to the lady. The Bukoyemskis, for
example, confessed to me, that meeting her and Pan Gideon while
travelling to Prityk they said purposely, that Yatsek went away after
great stirrup cups, laughing, gladsome, and uncommonly curious about
the daughter of Pan Zbierhovski to whom you had given him a letter."
"Here they lied! And what for?"
"Well, they lied to show the girl and Pan Gideon that Yatsek had no
thought for them. But note this, your grace, if the Bukoyemskis spoke
thus out of friendship for Yatsek, what must Pan Gideon have said out
of hatred."
"It is sure that he did not spare Yatsek. Still, even if she were less
to blame than we imagine, tell me what of that? Yatsek has gone, and
perhaps will never come back to us, for I know that he will spare his
life less than Pan Gideon spared his reputation."
"Yatsek would have gone in every case," answered Pan Serafin.
"And if he does not return I will not tear the soutane on my body. A
death in defence of the country and fighting Mohammedan vileness is a
worthy end for a Christian knight, and a worthy end for a great family.
But I will add one thing: I should have preferred to see him go without
that painful dart which is sticking in him."
"Neither had my only son special happiness in life; he too went, and
perhaps will not return to me."
They grew thoughtful, for their souls were filled with love for those
young men.
Tvorkovski, the prelate, came upon them while thoughtful, and learned
that they had been talking of Panna Sieninski.
"I will tell you, gentlemen," said he, "but let this be a secret. Pan
Gideon left no will, the Krepetskis have a right to the property. I
know that he had the wish to provide for his wife and leave all to her,
but he was not able. Do not mention this before the Krepetskis."
"But have you said nothing?"
"Why should I? Those are hard people, and with me the question is that
they should not be too hard toward the orphan, hence I withheld
information, and then told them this: 'Not only does God sometimes try
a man, but one man tries another.' When they heard this they were
disquieted greatly, and fell to inquiring: 'How is it? Does your grace
know anything?' 'What has to be shown will be shown,' remarked I, 'but
remember one thing. Pan Gideon had the right to will what he owned to
whatever person pleased him.'"
Here the prelate laughed, and, putting his hands behind his violet
girdle, continued,--
"I say, gentlemen, that the legs trembled under old Krepetski when he
heard this; he began to contradict. 'Oh,' said he, 'that is impossible!
he had not the right. Neither God nor men would agree to that.'
"I looked at him severely, and said: 'If you think of God, you do well,
for at your age it is proper to have His mercy in mind, and not turn to
earthly tribunals, for it may happen very easily that you will not have
time to await a decision.' He was frightened then terribly, and I
added: 'And be kind to the orphan, lest God punish you sooner than you
imagine.'"
Hereupon Father Voynovski, whose compassionate heart was moved at the
fate of the maiden, embraced the wise prelate.
"Benefactor," cried he, "with such a head you ought to be chancellor. I
understand! I understand! You said nothing, you did not miss the truth,
and you have frightened the Krepetskis, who think that perhaps there is
a will, nay, that it is even in your possession; they must count with
this, and be moderate toward the orphan."
The prelate, pleased with the praise, rapped his head with his
knuckles.
"Not quite like a nut with holes in it?" asked he.
"Ho, there is so much reason there that it finds room with difficulty."
"If God wish, it will burst, but meanwhile, I think that I have saved
the orphan really. I must confess, however, that the Krepetskis spoke
of her with greater humanity and with more kindness than I had
expected. The women, it is true, have taken some trifles, but the old
man declared that he would have them given back to the young lady."
"Though the Krepetskis were the worst among men," said Pan Serafin,
"they would not dare to rob an orphan over whom the eyes of such a wise
and good priest are so watchful. But, my very reverend benefactor, I
wish to mention another thing. I wish to beg you to show me this favor;
come now to Yedlinka, let me have the honor of entertaining under my
roof such a notable personage, with whom conversation is like the honey
of wisdom and politeness. Father Voynovski has promised already to
visit me, and we will talk, the three of us, concerning public and
private matters."
"I know what hospitality yours is," answered the prelate, with
affability, "to refuse would be real suffering, and since Lent, the
time of self-subjection is past, I will go for a pleasant day to you,
willingly. Let us take farewell of the Krepetskis, but first of the
orphan, so that they shall see the esteem in which we hold her."
They went, and finding Anulka alone, spoke kind, heartfelt words, which
gave her consolation and courage. Pan Serafin stroked her bright head,
just as would a mother who desires to comfort a sorrowing child; the
prelate did the same, and the honest Father Voynovski was so moved by
her thin face and her beauty in its sadness, which reminded him of a
flower of the field cut down too early by a scythe-stroke, that he too
pressed her temples, and having a mind always thinking of Yatsek, he
said half to himself, half to her,--"How can one wonder at Yatsek,
since this picture was before him. But those Bukoyemskis lied, when
they said that he went away gladly."
When Anulka heard these words, she put her lips to his hand on a
sudden, and for a long time she could not withdraw them. The sobbing,
which came from her heart, shook her bosom; and they left her in an
immense, irrepressible onrush of weeping.
An hour later they were in Yedlinka, where good news was awaiting them.
A man had arrived bringing a letter from Stanislav, in which he stated
that he and Yatsek had joined the hussars of Prince Alexander; that
they were well, and Yatsek, though pensive at all times, had gained a
little cheerfulness, and was not so forgetful as during the first days.
Besides words of filial love, there was in the letter one bit of news
which astonished Pan Serafin: "If thou, my father, my most beloved and
great mighty benefactor, see the Bukoyemskis on their return be not
astonished, and save them with kindness, for they have been met by most
marvellous accidents, and I cannot help them. If they were not to go to
the war they would die, I think, from sorrow, which even now has almost
killed them."
In the course of the following months Pan Serafin visited Belchantska
repeatedly, wishing to learn what was happening to Anulka. This was not
caused by any personal motive, for Stanislav was not in love with the
young lady, and she had broken altogether with Yatsek; he acted mainly
from kindness, and a little from curiosity, for he wished to discover
in what way, and how far the girl had aided in breaking the bonds of
attachment between herself and Yatsek. He met opposition, however. The
Krepetskis respected his wealth, hence they received him politely; but
theirs was a wonderfully watchful hospitality, so continuous and active
that Pan Serafin could not find himself alone with the girl for one
instant.
He understood that they did not wish him to ask her how she was
treated, and that set him to thinking, though he did not find that she
was either ill treated, or made to serve greatly. He saw her, it is
true, once and a second time cleaning with a crust of bread white satin
shoes of such size that they could not be for her own feet, and darning
stockings in the evening, but the Krepetski girls did the same, hence
there could not be in this any plan to humiliate the orphan by labor.
The old maids were at times as biting and stinging as nettles, but Pan
Serafin remarked soon that such was their nature, and that they could
not restrain themselves always from gnawing even at Martsian, whom
still they feared so much that when either one had thrust out her sting
half its length a look from him made her draw it back quickly. Martsian
himself was polite and agreeable to Anulka, though without forwardness,
and after the departure of old Krepetski and Tekla he became still more
agreeable.
This departure was not pleasing to Pan Serafin, though it was simple
enough that they could not leave an old man, who was somewhat disabled
in walking, without the care of a woman, and since they had two houses
they had divided the family. Pan Serafin would have preferred that
Tekla remain with the orphan, but when on an occasion he hinted
remotely that the ages of the two maidens made them company for each
other, the elder sister met his words in the worst manner possible,--
"Anulka has shown the world," said Johanna, "that age does not trouble
her. Our late uncle and Pani Vinnitski have proved this--so we are not
too old for her."
"We are as much older than she, as Tekla is younger, and I do not know
as we are that much," added the second sister; "besides our heads must
manage this household."
But Martsian broke into the conversation,--
"Tekla's service," said he, "is dearest to father. He loves her beyond
any one, at which we cannot wonder. We thought to send Panna Anulka
with them, but she is accustomed to this house, so I think she will
feel more at home in it. As to our care, I will do what I can to make
it not too disagreeable."
Then, with feet clattering, he approached the young lady, and tried to
kiss her hand, which she drew away quickly, as if frightened. Pan
Serafin thought that it was not proper to remove Pani Vinnitski, but he
kept to himself that idea, not wishing to interfere in questions beyond
his authority. He noted more than once that on Anulka's face fear as
well as sadness was evident, but at this he was not greatly astonished,
for her fate was in fact very grievous. An orphan, without a kindred
soul near her, without her own roof above her head, she was forced to
live on the favor of people who to her were repulsive, and who had an
evil fame generally, she was forced to suffer pain over the vanished
and brighter past, and to be in dread of the present. And though a
person may be in suffering to the utmost, that person will have some
solace if he, or she, may cherish hope of a better future. But she had
no chance for hope, and she had none. To-morrow must be for her as
to-day and the endless years to come, with the same drag of orphanhood,
loneliness, and living on the bread of a stranger's favor.
Pan Serafin spoke of this often with Father Voynovski, whom he saw
almost daily, since it was pleasant for them to talk about their young
heroes. Father Voynovski, however, shrugged his shoulders with sympathy
and magnified the keenness of the prelate who, by hanging the threat of
a will like a Damocles sword above the Krepetskis, had protected the
orphan, at least from evil treatment.
"Such a keen man!" said he. "Now you have him, and now he has slipped
from you. Sometimes I think that perhaps he has not told the whole
truth to us, and that there is a will in his hands, and that he will
bring it out unexpectedly."
"That has occurred to me also, but why should he hide it?"
"I know not; perhaps to test human nature. I think only of this: Pan
Gideon was a clear-sighted man, and it cannot find place in my head
that he should not have made long ago some provision."
But after a time the ideas of both men were turned in a different
direction, for the Bukoyemskis arrived, or rather walked in from Radom.
They appeared at Yedlinka one evening, with sabres, it is true, but
with not very sound boots, and with torn coats on their bodies. They
had such woe-be-gone faces that, if Pan Serafin had not for some time
been expecting them, he would have been terribly frightened, and would
have thought that news of his son's death had come with them.
The four brothers embraced his knees, and kissed his hands straightway;
he, looking at their misery, dropped his arms at his sides in
amazement.
"Stashko wrote," said he, "that it had gone ill with you, but this is
terrible!"
"We have sinned, benefactor!" answered Marek, beating his breast.
The other brothers repeated his words.
"We have sinned, we have sinned, we have sinned!"
"Tell me how, and in what. How is Stashko? He has written me that he
saved you. What happened?"
"Stashko is well, benefactor; he and Pan Yatsek are as bright as two
suns."
"Glory to God! glory to God! Thanks for the good news. Have you no
letter?"
"He wrote, but did not give us the letter. It might be lost," said he.
"Are you not hungry? Oh, what a condition! It is as if I had four men
risen from the dead now before me."
"We are not hungry, for entertainment is ready at the house of every
noble--but we are unfortunate."
"Sit down. Drink something warm, but while the servants are heating it
tell me what happened. Where have you been?"
"In Warsaw," said Mateush, "but that is a vile city."
"Why so?"
"It is swarming with gamblers and drunkards, and on Long Street and in
the Old City at every step there is a tavern."
"Well, what?"
"One son of a such a one persuaded Lukash to play dice with him. Would
to God that the pagans had impaled the wicked scoundrel on a stake ere
that happened."
"And he cheated?"
"He won all that Lukash had, and then all that we had. Desperation took
hold of us, and we wanted to win the coin back, but he won further our
horse with a saddle and with pistols in the holsters. Then, I say to
your grace, that Lukash wished to stab himself. What was to be done?
How were we to help comforting a brother? We sold the second horse, so
that Lukash might have a companion to walk with him."
"I understand what happened," remarked Pan Serafin.
"When we became sober there was still keener suffering; two horses were
gone, and we had greater need of consolation."
"So ye consoled yourselves till the fourth horse was gone?"
"Till the fourth horse. We sinned, we sinned!" repeated the contrite
brothers.
"But was that the end?" continued Pan Serafin.
"How the end, our father and special benefactor? We met a deceiver, one
Poradski, who scoffed at us. 'So this is the way they shear fools!'
says he. 'I will take you,' says he, 'as my serving men, for I am
making the levy for a regiment.' Lukash cried out that the man was
exposing us to ridicule, and when he would not stop Lukash slashed him
on the snout with a sabre. Poradski's friends sprang to help him, and
we to help Lukash, and we cut till the marshal's guard whirled in and
went at us. And we yielded only when the others fell to shouting:
'Gracious gentlemen, they are attacking freedom, and injuring the
Commonwealth in our persons.' That is how it happened, and God blessed
us immediately, for we wounded eight attendants in a flash, and three
of these mortally; the others were at our feet,--there were five of
them."
Pan Serafin seized his head, and Marek continued,--
"Yes! Now we know all; God helped us till people shouted that the fight
was near the king's palace, and a crime,--that we should die for it. We
were frightened and ran. They tried to seize us, but when we, in old
fashion, cut one on the face and another on the neck, they fled in a
hurry. Stanislav saved us with the horses of his attendants, but even
then we had to work hard to bring our heads with us; we were hunted to
Senkotsin; if the horses had been slow our case would have ended. Our
names were not known; that was lucky, and there will be no accusation
against us."
Long silence followed.
"Where are those horses which Stanislav gave you?" asked Pan Serafin.
The brothers began their confession a third time,--
"We have sinned, benefactor, we have sinned!"
Pan Serafin walked with long strides through the chamber.
"Now I understand," said he, "why ye did not bring Stashko's letter. He
wrote me that various sad things had happened you, and he predicted
your return, thinking that ye would need money for horses and outfits,
but how ye would end was unknown to him."
"So it is, benefactor," said Yan.
Men now brought in heated wine, to which the brothers betook themselves
with great willingness, for they were road weary. Still they were
frightened by the silence of Pan Serafin, who was striding up and down
in the chamber, his face severe and gloomy. So again Marek spoke to
him,--
"Your grace, my benefactor, has asked about Stanislav's horses. Two of
them foundered before we reached Groyets, for we galloped all the way
in a terrible windstorm; we sold them for a trifle to Jew wagoners, for
the beasts were no good after foundering. And we had not a coin to keep
the souls in us; since we left in such a hurry Pan Stanislav had no
time to assist us. Then strengthened a little we rode farther, two men
on each animal. But your grace will understand this. We met then some
noble on the road, and immediately he seized his side, laughing. 'What
kind of Jerusalem nobles are these?' asked he. And we from such
terrible scornfulness were ready for anything. So we had endless
encounters and fights till we came to Bialobregi, where for dear peace
we sold the last two of our crowbaits; then, when people wondered at
our travelling on foot we replied that we were making that journey
through a vow of devotion. So forgive us now like a father, for there
are not more ill-fated men in this world, as I think, than we
brothers."
"It is true! it is true!" exclaimed Mateush and Lukash; while Yan, the
youngest, moved by remembrance of past suffering, and wine, raised his
voice, and cried,--
"We are orphans of the Lord! What is left now in this world to us?"
"Nothing but brotherly love," put in Marek.
And they fell to embracing one another, shedding bitter tears as they
did so; then all drew up to Pan Serafin, but Marek seized his knees
before the others.
"Oh, father," said he, "our first-born protector, be not angry. Lend us
once more for the levy, and from plunder, God grant, we will give it
back faithfully; if you lend not--it is well also, but be not angry,
only forgive us! Forgive us through that great friendship which we
cherish for Stashko; for I tell you, let any man harm even one of
Stashko's fingers, we will bear that man apart on our sabres! Is this
not true, dearest brothers?--on our sabres?"
"Give him hither, the son of a such a one!" cried Mateush, Lukash, and
Yan.
Pan Serafin halted before them, put his hand on his forehead, and
answered in these words,--
"I am angry, it is true! but less angry than grief-stricken; for when I
think that in this Commonwealth there are many such men as ye, the
heart in me is straitened, and I ask myself: Will this mother of ours
have the power with such children to meet the attacks which are
threatening her? Ye wish to implore me, and ye expect my forgiveness.
By the living God! it is not a question here of me, and not of my
horses, but of something a hundred times greater, a question of the
public weal, and the future of this Commonwealth; and of this, that ye
do not understand the position, that even such a thought has not come
to you; and since there are thousands such as ye are, the greater is
the sorrow and the keener the anxiety, the more dreadful the
desperation both of me and each honest son of this country--"
"For God's sake, benefactor! How have we sinned against the country?"
"How? By lawlessness, license, by riot and drunkenness. Oh! With us,
people treat such things over lightly, and do not see how the
pestilence is spreading, how the walls of this lordly building are
weakened, and our heads are endangered by the ceiling. War is
approaching; it is not known yet whether the foe will turn his power
against us directly--but, ye Christian soldiers, what is the best that
ye are doing? The trumpet is calling you to battle, but in your heads
there is nothing save wine and lawlessness. With a glad heart ye cut
down the guardians of that law which gives order of some kind. Who
established those laws? Nobles. Who trampled them? Nobles! How can this
country move to the field of glory, if this advance post of
Christianity is inhabited not by warriors but drunkards, not by
citizens but roysterers and rioters?"
Here Pan Serafin stopped and, pressing his hand to his forehead, walked
again with great steps through the chamber. The brothers glanced at one
another in amazement and confusion, for they had not thought to hear
from him anything of that sort.
But he sighed deeply and continued,--
"Ye were called out against pagans, and ye spill the blood of
Christians; ye were summoned in defence of this country, and ye have
gone out as its enemies, for it is evident that the greater the
disorder in a fortress, the weaker is the fortress. Fortunately there
are still honest children of this mother, but of men such as ye there
are, as I have said, many legions; for here not freedom, but riot is
nourishing, not obedience, but impunity, not stern discipline, but
wantonness, not love of country, but self-seeking; for here diets are
broken, here the treasury is plundered, disorder increases, and civil
wars like unbridled horses trample the country; hence drunken heads are
fixing its fortunes; here is oppression of peasants, and from high to
low lawlessness so that my heart bleeds, and I fear defeat, with God's
anger as the consequence."
"In God's name must we hang ourselves?" cried Lukash.
Pan Serafin measured the chamber a number of times with his steps yet,
and spoke on, as if it were to himself, and not to the Bukoyemskis,--
"Through the length and the breadth of this Commonwealth there is
one immense feast, and on the wall an unknown hand is now writing:
'Mane--Tekel--Fares.' Wine is flowing, but blood and tears also are
flowing. I am not the only person who sees this, I am not the only man
predicting evil, but it is vain to put a light before the sightless, or
sing songs to those who have no hearing."
Silence followed. The four brothers stared now at one another, and now
at Pan Serafin with increasing confusion; at last Lukash said in a low
voice to the other three,--
"May I split, if I understand anything!"
"And may I split!"
"And may I!"
"If we could drink a couple of times--"
"Quiet, do not mention it--"
"Let us go home."
"Let us go."
"With the forehead to your grace, our benefactor!" said Marek, pushing
out in front and bending down to the knees of Pan Serafin.
"But whither?"
"To Lesnichovka. God help us."
"And I will help you," said Pan Serafin; "but such grief seized me that
I had to pour it out. Go upstairs, gentlemen,--rest; later on ye will
learn my decision."
An hour later he commanded to drive to Father Voynovski's. The priest
was scandalized no little by the deeds of the Bukoyemskis, but at
moments he could not restrain himself from laughter, for having served
many years in the army he recalled various happenings which had met him
and his comrades. But he could not forgive the brothers for drinking
away the horses.
"A soldier will often run riot," said he, "but to drink away his horse!
that is treason to the service. I will tell the Bukoyemskis that I
should have been glad if martial law had taken the heads from their
shoulders, and that certainly would have given an example to rioters,
but I confess to you that I should have been sorry, for all four are
splendid fellows. I know from of old what men are, and I can say in
advance what each is good for. As to the Bukoyemskis, it will be
unhealthy for those pagans who strike breast to breast with them in
battle. What do you think to do with them?"
"I will not leave them without rescue, but I think if I were to send
them off alone the same kind of thing might meet them a second time."
"True!" said the priest.
"Hence it has occurred to me to go with them, and give them straight
into the hands of the captain. Once with the flag and under discipline,
they can grant themselves nothing."
"True, this is a splendid idea! Take them to Cracow; there the
regiments will assemble. As I live I will go with you! Thus we shall
see our boys, and come back with more pleasantness."
At this Pan Serafin laughed, and said,--
"Your grace will come back alone."
"How is that?"
"I am going myself to the war."
"Do you wish to serve again in the army?" asked Father Voynovski, in
astonishment.
"Yes, and no; for it is one thing to go to the army and make a career
out of service, and another to go on a single expedition. Of course, I
am old, but older than I have gone to the ranks more than once in reply
to Gradiva's trumpet. I have sent my only son, that is true, but it is
not possible to yield up too much for the country. Thus did my fathers
think, therefore, that Mother showed them the greatest honor at her
disposal. Hence my last copper coin, and my last drop of blood are now
ready to be sacrificed for her sake! Should it come to die--think, your
grace, what nobler death, what greater happiness could meet me? A man
must die once, and is there not greater pleasure in dying on the field
of glory, at the side of one's son, than in bed; to die from a sabre or
a bullet than from sickness; in addition fighting against pagans for
the faith and the country?"
Then Pan Serafin, moved by his own words, opened his arms and
repeated,--
"God grant this! God grant this!"
Then Father Voynovski took him in his arms, and pressing him, said,--
"God grant that in this Commonwealth there be as many men like you as
possible; there are not many as honorable, more honorable there are
none whatever. It is true that it becomes a noble better to die on the
field than in bed, and in old times every man held that idea, but
to-day worse times have come on us. The country and the faith are one
immense altar, and a man is a morsel of myrrh, predestined for burning
to the glory of that altar. Yes, times are worse at the present. Then
war is nothing new to you?"
Pan Serafin felt his breast, and continued,--
"I have here a few wounds from sabres and shots of the old time."
"It would be pleasanter for me to defend the flag," said Father
Voynovski, "than listen to old women's sins in this neighborhood. And
more than one of them tells me such nonsense, just as if she had come
to shake out fleas at confession. When a man commits sin he has at
least something to speak about, and all the more if he is a soldier!
When I took this robe of a priest I became a chaplain in the regiment
of Pan Modlishevski. Ah, I remember that well. Between one absolution
of sins and another there was sometimes a shooting in the teeth, or
blades were drawn. Ah, there was great need of chaplains in that time.
I should like now to go, but my parish is large, and there is a tempest
of work in it; the vicar is wilful but worst of all is a wound from a
gunshot, which I received long ago, and which does not let me stay more
than an hour in the saddle."
"I should be happy to have a comrade," said Pan Serafin, "but I
understand that even without that wound your grace could not leave the
parish."
"Well, I shall see. In a couple of days I will ride and learn how long
I can stay in the saddle. Something may have straightened out in me.
But who will look to the management at Yedlinka?"
"I have a forester, a simple man, but so honest that he might almost be
canonized."
"I know; that one who is followed by wild beasts. Some say that he is a
wizard; you know better, however. But he is old and sickly."
"I wish to take also that Vilchopolski who on a time served Pan Gideon.
Perhaps you remember him? a young noble who lost one foot, but he is
vigorous and daring. Krepetski removed him because he was too
independent. He came to me two days ago offering his service, and
to-day I will agree with him surely. Pan Gideon did not like him, since
the man would not let any one blow on his pudding, but Pan Gideon
praised his activity and faithfulness."
"What is to be heard in Belchantska?"
"I have not been there for some time. It is clear that Vilchopolski
does not praise the Krepetskis, but I had no chance to inquire about
everything in detail."
"I will look in there to-morrow, though they are not over glad to
behold me, and then I will return to rub the ears of the Bukoyemskis. I
will command them to come to confession, and for penance the whips will
be moving. Let them give one another fifty lashes; that will be good
for them."
"It will, that is certain. But now I must take farewell of your grace
because of Vilchopolski."
Then Pan Serafin shortened his belt-strap, so that his sabre might not
be in the way when he was entering the wagon. A moment later he was on
the road moving toward Yedlinka, thinking meanwhile of his expedition,
and smiling at the thought that he would work stirrup to stirrup with
his one son, against pagans. After he had passed Belchantska he saw two
horses under packs, and a trunk-laden wagon which Vilchopolski was
driving. He commanded the young man to sit over into his wagon, and
then he inquired,--
"Are you leaving Belchantska already?"
Vilchopolski pointed to the trunks, and wishing to prove that though he
served he was not without learning, he said,--
"See, your grace, _omnia mea mecum porto_" (I am taking all my things
with me).
"Then was there such a hurry?"
"There was not a hurry, but there was need; therefore I accept all your
grace's conditions with pleasure, and in case you go away, as you have
mentioned, I will guard your house and possessions with faithfulness."
Pan Serafin was pleased with the answer and the daring, firm face of
the young man; so, after a moment of meditation, he added,--
"Of faithfulness I have no doubt, for I know that you are a noble, but
inexperience I fear, and incautiousness. In Yedlinka one must sit like
a stone, and watch day and night, because it is almost in the
wilderness, and in great forests there is no lack of bandits, who at
times attack houses."
"I do not wish an attack upon Yedlinka, but for myself I should like
it, to convince your grace that courage and alertness would not be
lacking on my part."
"You look as though you had both," said Pan Serafin.
He was silent a while, and then continued,--
"There is one other thing of importance of which to forewarn you. Pan
Gideon is in God's hands at the present, and touching the dead nothing
save that which is good may be mentioned; but it is known that he was
hard to his people. Father Voynovski blamed him for this, and there was
variance between them. The sweat of the peasant was not spared in
Belchantska; trials were short and punishment grievous. We will be
outspoken--there was oppression, and his agents were too cruel with
people. This is not my case, be sure of that; there must be discipline,
but paternal. I look on excessive severity as a great sin against God
and the country. Fix it well in your mind that a man is not curds, and
it is not allowable to press him too cruelly. I do not wring out
people's tears--and I remember that before God all are equal."
A moment of silence followed. Vilchopolski seized Pan Serafin's hand
and put his lips to it.
"I see that you understand me," said Pan Serafin.
"I understand, your grace; and I answer, More than a hundred times I
wanted to say to Pan Gideon: 'Find another manager;' more than a
hundred times I wanted to go from his service, but--well, I could not
do so."
"Why was that? Is there a lack of work in the world?"
Vilchopolski was confused and spoke as if fear had seized hold of him.
"It did not happen--I could not go--day after day I loitered. Besides,
there was severity, and there was not."
"How was that?"
"The people were driven to work, it is true, no one could prevent that;
but as to flogging, I will say briefly that instead of whips straw
ropes were used on them."
"Who was so merciful--you?"
"No. But I chose to obey the will of an angel, not that of a devil."
"I understand, but tell me whose will?"
"Panna Anulka's."
"Ah! so it was she?"
"Really an angel. She too was in dread of Pan Gideon, who in recent
times only began to regard what she told him. But all loved her so much
that each man exposed himself to Pan Gideon's anger rather than refuse
what she asked of him."
"May God bless her for that! So you all conspired against Pan Gideon?"
"Yes, your grace."
"And it was not discovered?"
"It was discovered once, but I did not betray the young lady. Pan
Gideon flogged me himself, for I declared to him that if any other man
flogged, or if he flogged me except on a carpet, I, a noble, would let
his house up in smoke, and shoot him besides that. And it would have
been done as I promised, even had I to join forest bandits in
consequence."
"You please me for this," said Pan Serafin.
"More than once I found it difficult to stay with Pan Gideon,"
continued Vilchopolski; "but in the house there was simply one of God's
cherubim, and so, though a man might wish to go, he would stay there.
After that, as the young lady grew up Pan Gideon gave her more
consideration, and recently he gave thought to no one save Panna
Anulka. He knew often that she commanded to give wheat to the poor from
the granary, then, as I have said, she had straw used instead of whips;
besides, she had labor remitted; he affected not to notice it. At last
he was so much ashamed that she had no need to do anything in secret.
She was a real protector of people, and for that reason may God, as you
have said, bless and save her."
"Why do you say 'save'?" inquired Pan Serafin.
"Because it is worse for her now than it has been."
"Have the fear of God! What is the danger?"
"The two women are terrible. Young Krepetski himself restrains them
apparently, but I know why he does this; but let him be careful, some
one may shoot him down like a dog if he is not."
It was deep night then, but very clear, for the full moon was shining,
and by the light of it Pan Serafin saw that the eyes of the young man
were glittering like wolf eyes.
"What dost thou know of him?" asked Pan Serafin, with curiosity.
"I know that he removed me not merely for my independence, but because
I watched and listened carefully to what people in the house said. I
went away because I had to go, but Belchantska is not far from
Yedlinka, and in case of need--"
Here he was silent, and on the road was heard only the sound of the
pines as they were moved by the night wind.