AT Belchantska it was not only evil for the young woman, but worse and
worse daily. A good deal of time had passed since that moment in which
old Pan Gideon had noticed that Martsian gazed at the young girl with
too much of a "goat's look," and had driven him from the mansion. Later
on, Martsian saw her at church, and sometimes at the houses of
neighbors, and always her beauty of springtime roused fresh desires in
him. Now when he was living under one roof with her, when he saw her
daily, he fell in love in his own way, that is, with the beastlike
desire, and that feeling of which he was alone capable. A change had
taken place in his wishes. His first intent had been to bring the girl
to shame, and then marry her only in case that a will should be found
in her favor. Now he was ready to go with her to the altar, if he could
in any case have and possess her forever. Reason, which when urged by
desire becomes its obedient assistant, told him, moreover, that a young
lady bearing the name of Sieninski was, although dowerless, a match of
great moment. But even if reason had told him the opposite, Martsian
would not have listened, for as each day appeared he lost some part of
his self-mastery. He burnt, he raged, and if up to that time he had
restrained himself from violence it was only because desire, even the
most urgent, craves and yearns for a willing surrender, and is charmed
with the thought of mutuality in which it sees the highest pleasure,
and deceives itself even when there is no cause whatever for doing so.
Thus Krepetski deceived himself, and thus he pampered his wishes with
pictures of that blissful moment in which the young lady would herself,
radiant and willing, incline to his embraces. But he dreaded to lose
should he risk all on the hazard of a trial, and when he put to himself
in spirit this question, What would follow? fear seized him in presence
of himself, and in presence of the terror which would threaten him; for
the laws of the Commonwealth guarding the honor of woman were pitiless,
and around him were sabres of nobles by the hundred, which would flash
above his head most unfailingly. But he felt also that the hour might
come in which he would care for nothing, since in his insolent, wild
spirit there was hidden a craving for battle, and a hunger for peril;
so not without a certain charm for him was the picture of a great
throng of nobles besieging Belchantska--the flame of conflagration
above him, and a red executioner standing, axe in hand, somewhere off
in the mist of a distant city.
And thus desire, dread, and also a longing for battle struggled like
three whirlwinds within him. At the same time, wishing to give exit to
that storm, and to cool that flood which was seething in his person as
water in a caldron, he grew mad, wallowed in riot throughout village
inns, rode down his horses, fell upon people, and drank to kill in
every dramshop of Radom, Prityk, and Yedlina. He collected around him a
company of road-blockers, who did not go to the war because of evil
fame, or of poverty. He paid these men and tyrannized over them; he did
this thinking that such a mob might be useful in the future, but he did
not admit any man of them to confidence, and never mentioned in their
presence the name of the young lady. Once when a certain Vysh, from
some Vyshkov of unknown situation, mentioned her in rude, obscene
fashion, Martsian slashed the fellow on his snout and drew blood from
him.
Martsian galloped home at breakneck speed, and usually about daylight.
But that mad riding sobered him thoroughly. He dropped down in his
clothes to the horse skin which covered his bed, and slept like a stone
for some hours on it; when he rose he put on his best garments, went
then to the women, and strove to please the young lady, whom his eyes
did not leave for one moment, he meanwhile rousing desire, while his
glances crawled over her person. And more than once, when he was alone
with Anulka, his lips were pushed forward, his arms of monstrous
length quivered as if powerless against his wish to seize hold of
her; his voice became stifled, his words became insolent, vague,
and double-meaning; through them circled both flattery and an
ill-restrained threatening.
But Anulka feared him simply as she would have feared a tamed wolf, or
a bear, and with difficulty did she hide the repulsion with which the
sight of him filled her. For in spite of the parrot-like colors in
which he arrayed himself, in spite of the shining jewels at his neck,
and the costly flageolet which he never let slip from his fingers, he
looked worse each day, and more repulsive. Sleepless nights, rioting,
drinking, and flaming desires had placed on him their impress. He grew
thin, his shoulders drooped, through this his arms, long by nature,
seemed longer, so that his hands reached below his knees and were
beyond human proportions. His gigantic trunk was like a knotty section
of a tree trunk, and his short bow-legs bent still more from mad
riding. Moreover, the skin of his face took on a kind of green pallor,
and because of his sunken cheeks, his protruding eyes and pouting lips
were pushed forward phenomenally. He became simply dreadful to look at,
especially when he laughed, for from his eyeballs when lighted with
laughter looked out a kind of nervous, unrestrained threat and malice.
But the feeling of her misfortune, deep sadness, and unhappiness
produced in Anulka a dignity of which she had not a trace somewhat
earlier. This dignity imposed on Krepetski. Once she had been a
twittering maiden, active all day as a water-mill; now she had learned
to be silent, and her eyes had a fixity of expression. So, though her
heart trembled often from fear of Krepetski, she restrained him by her
calm glance and her silence. He drew back then as if fearing to offend
such a majesty. It is true that she seemed to him still more desirable,
but also more difficult of access. She, however, feeling that from him
immense danger was threatening, and later on being perfectly convinced
of this, strove to avoid him, to be alone with him the shortest time
possible, to turn away conversation from things which might facilitate
confession, and finally she had the boldness sometimes to indicate that
she was not by any means abandoned and left to the favor or ill-will of
fortune, as it might seem to him.
She avoided even memories of Yatsek, understanding that after what had
passed between them he could not be then, and would not be ever a
defence to her. She felt besides that every word touching him would
rouse hatred and anger in Martsian. But having noted that the
Krepetskis were careful of the prelate, and looked as if with secret
dread on him, she let it be understood frequently that she was under
his special protection, which rose from a secret agreement which, in
view of every contingency, Pan Gideon had concluded. The prelate, who
from time to time came to Belchantska, aided her notably, for he turned
to the Krepetskis with pleasure, since he was studying mankind; he
expressed himself with mystery, and quoted subtle phrases in Latin; he
reminded Martsian of various things which that young man might
interpret as suited him.
But a great point was this: The servants and the whole village loved
the "young lady." People considered the Krepetskis as intruders, and
her as the genuine inheritor. All feared Martsian, except Vilchopolski.
But even after the removal of that young noble, the unseen care of the
people went, as it were, with Anulka, and Martsian understood that the
fear which he roused had its limit, beyond which for him would begin
real danger. He understood also that Vilchopolski, whose eyes had a
daring expression, would not go far from Belchantska, and that if the
young lady should be in need of defence he would not draw back before
anything; hence he confessed to himself that she was not really so
deserted by every one as at first he had thought, and as on a time he
had told his old father.
"Who will take her part? No one!" said he, when the old man commanded
him to remember the terrible punishments which the laws threatened for
an attempt on the honor of a woman.
At last he understood that there were such defenders. That raised one
more obstacle, but obstacles and perils were only an incitement to a
nature like Martsian's. He deceived himself yet, thinking that he would
move the young lady and make her love him; but there came moments in
which he saw, as clearly as a thing on the palm, that he was quite
powerless; and then he raged, as said the comrades of his revels, and
had it not been for a certain dull, but strong and irresistible
foreboding that if he attacked the girl he should lose her forever, he
would long ere that have set free the wild beast within him.
And in just those times did he drink without measure and memory.
Meanwhile relations in the house had become unendurable, seasoned with
bitterness and poison. The Krepetski old maids hated Anulka, not only
because she was younger than they and more beautiful, but because
people loved her, and because Martsian took her part for every reason,
and even for no reason. They flamed up at last with implacable hatred
toward their brother; but seeing that Anulka never complained, they
tortured her all the more stubbornly. Once Agneshka burnt her with a
red-hot shovel, as if by accident. Martsian, hearing of this through
the servants, went to ask pardon of the young lady, and beg her to seek
his protection at all times; but he pushed up to her with such
insistence, and fell to kissing her hand with such greed and so
disgustingly, that she fled from him, unable to repress her abhorrence.
Thereupon he broke into a rage and beat his sister so viciously that
for two days she feigned illness.
The two "heiresses" as they were called at the mansion did not spare
biting words on the young lady, or open inventions and humiliations,
taking vengeance in this way for all they were forced to endure from
their brother. But out of hatred for Martsian they warned her against
him, censuring her at the same time for yielding to his wishes, for
they saw that with nothing could they wound and offend her so painfully
as with this implication. The house became a hell for her, and every
hour in it a torment.
Hatred toward those people, who themselves hated one another, was
poisoning even her heart. She began to think of a cloister, but she
kept the thought in her bosom, for she knew that they would not let her
enter one, and that by unfettering Martsian's anger she would expose
herself to great peril. Alarm and fear of danger dwelt in her
continually, and produced the desire of death, a desire which she had
never felt previously. Meanwhile each day added to her cup new drops of
bitterness. Once, early in the morning, Agneshka surprised Martsian
looking through the keyhole of the orphan's chamber. He withdrew
gritting his teeth and threatening with his fist, but the "heiress"
called her sister immediately, and the two, finding the girl still
undressed, began to torment her, as usual.
"Thou didst know that he was standing there," said the elder, "for the
floor squeaks outside the door, and there is a noise when any one
stands near it; but to thee, as is clear, his presence was agreeable."
"Bah! he licked his lips before dainties, and she did not hide them,"
interrupted Agneshka. "Hast thou no fear of God, shameless creature?"
"Such a one should be put before the church at a pillory."
"And expelled from the mansion."
"Sodom and Gomorrah!"
"Tfu!"
"And when will the need be to send to Radom for a woman?"
"What sort of a name wilt thou give it?"
"Tfu! thou dish-rag!"
And they spat on her.
The heart stormed up in the hapless maiden, for the measure was passed
then.
"Be off!" cried she, pointing to the door.
But her face grew pale as linen, and darkness fell on her eyes; for a
moment it seemed to her that she was flying into some gulf without
bottom, then she lost consciousness, feeling, and memory. On recovering
she found herself wet from water which had been poured on her, and her
breast pinched in places. The faces of the old maids bending over her
showed fear, but after a while they felt reassured when they saw that
she was conscious.
"Complain, complain!" said Johanna. "Thy paramour will defend thee."
"And thou wilt thank him in thy own way."
Setting her teeth Anulka answered no syllable.
But Martsian divined all that must have happened upstairs, for some
hours later from the chancellery, where he had shut himself in with his
sisters, came howls from which the whole mansion was terrified.
In the afternoon, when old Krepetski came, the two sisters fell with a
scream to his knees imploring him to remove them from that den of
profligacy and torture. But he to the same degree that he loved his
youngest daughter hated the elder ones; so he not only took no pity on
the ill-fated hags, but he called for sticks, and compelled them to
stay there.
The only being in that terrible house in whom Johanna and Agneshka, if
they had wished to be friendly and kind, might have found compassion,
sympathy, and even protection, was Panna Anulka. But they preferred to
torment the poor girl, and gloat over her, for, with the exception of
Tekla, that was a family in which each member did all in his or her
power to poison the life and increase the misfortune of the others.
But Panna Anulka feared the love of Martsian more than the hatred of
his sisters. And he thrust himself more and more on her, pushed himself
forward more and more shamelessly, was more and more insistent, and
gazed at her more and more greedily. It had become clear that he was
ceasing to command himself, that wild desire was tearing him as a
whirlwind tears a tree, and that he might give way at any moment.
In fact that moment came soon.
Once, after warm weather had grown settled, Anulka went at daybreak to
bathe in the shady river; before undressing she saw Martsian's face on
the opposite bank sticking out from thick bushes. That instant she
rushed away breathlessly. He pursued her, but trying to spring over the
water he failed and fell into it; he was barely able to climb out, and
went home drenched to the very last thread of his clothing. Before
dinner he had beaten a number of servants till the blood came; during
dinner he said not a word to any person. Only at the end of the meal
did he turn to his sisters,--
"Leave me alone," said he, "with Panna Anulka; I have to talk with her
on matters of importance."
The sisters, on hearing this, looked at each other significantly, and
the young lady grew pale from amazement; though he had long tried to
seize every moment in which he might be alone with her, he had never
let himself ask for such a moment openly.
When the sisters had gone he rose, looked beyond one door and another,
to convince himself that no one was listening, then he drew up to
Anulka.
"Give me your hand," said he, "and be reconciled."
She drew back both hands unconsciously, and pushed away from him.
Martsian's wish for calmness was evident, but he sprang forward twice
on his bow-legs, for he could never abandon that habit, and said, with
a voice full of effort,--
"You are unwilling! But to-day I came very near drowning for your sake.
I beg your pardon for that fright, but it was not caused by any bad
reason. Mad dogs began yesterday to run between Vyrambki and this
mansion, and I took a gun to make sure of your safety."
Anulka's knees trembled under her a little, but she said with good
presence of mind and with calmness,--
"I want no protection which would bring only shame to me."
"I should like to defend you, not merely now, but till death and at all
times! Not offending God, but with His blessing. Dost understand me?"
A moment of silence followed this question. Through the open window
came the sound of cutting wood, made by an old lame man attached to the
kitchen.
"I do not understand."
"Because thou hast no wish to understand," replied Martsian. "Thou
seest this long time that I cannot live without thee. Thou art as
needful to me as this air is for breathing. To me thou art wonderful,
and dear above all things. I cannot exist--without thee I shall burn up
and vanish! If I had not restrained myself I should have grabbed thee
long ago as a hawk grabs a dove. It grows dry in my throat without
thee, as it does without water--everything in me quivers toward thee. I
cannot sleep, I cannot live--see here even now--"
And he stopped, for his teeth were chattering as if in a fever. He had
a spasm, he caught at the arms of the chair with his bony fingers, as
if fearing to fall, and panted some time very loudly. Then he
continued,--
"Thou lackest fortune--that is nothing! I have enough. I need not
fortune, but thee. Dost thou wish to be mistress in this mansion? Thou
wert to marry Pan Gideon; I am not worse, as I think, than Pan Gideon.
But do not say no! do not, by the living God, do not say it, for I
cannot tell what will happen. Thou art wonderful! thou, my--!"
He knelt quickly, embraced her knees with his two hands, and pressed
them toward his bosom. But, beyond even her own expectation, Anulka's
fear vanished without a trace in that terrible moment. The knightly
blood began to act in her; readiness for battle to the last breath
was roused in the woman. Her hands pushed back with all force his
sweat-covered forehead, which was nestling up toward her knees at that
moment.
"No! no! I would rather die a thousand deaths! No!"
He rose up, pallid, his hair erect, his mustache quivering. Beneath the
mustache were glittering his long decayed teeth, and for a time he was
filled with cold rage as he stood there; but still he controlled
himself, still presence of mind did not desert him entirely. But when
Anulka pushed toward the door on a sudden, he stopped the way to her.
"Is this true?" inquired he, with a hoarse voice. "Thou wilt not have
me? Wilt thou repeat that once more to me, to my eyes? Wilt thou not
have me?"
"I will not! And do not threaten, for I feel no fear."
"I do not threaten thee, but I want to take thee as wife, nay more, I
beg thee bethink thyself! By the living God, bethink thyself!"
"In what am I to bethink myself? I am free, I have my will, and I say
before your eyes: Never!"
He approached her, so nearly that his face pushed up to hers, and he
continued,--
"Then perhaps instead of being mistress, thou dost choose to carry wood
to the kitchen? Or dost thou not wish it? How will it be, O noble lady!
To which of thy estates wilt thou go from this mansion? And if thou
stay, whose bread wilt thou eat here; on whose kindness wilt thou live?
In whose power wilt thou find thyself? Whose bed, whose chamber is that
in which thou art sleeping? What will happen if I command to remove the
door fastenings? And dost thou ask in what thou art to bethink thyself?
In this: which thou art to choose!--marriage, or no marriage!"
"Ruffian!" screamed Panna Anulka.
But now happened something unheard of. Seized with sudden fury,
Krepetski bellowed with a voice that was not human, and seizing the
girl by the hair he began with a certain wild and beastly relish to
beat her without mercy or memory. The longer he had mastered himself up
to that time, the more did his madness seem wild then, and terrible; at
that moment beyond doubt he would have killed the young lady had it not
been that to her cries for assistance servants burst into the chamber.
First that man cutting wood at the kitchen broke in with an axe through
the window, after him came kitchen servants, the two sisters, the
butler, and two of Pan Gideon's old servitors.
The butler was a noble from a distant village in Mazovia, moreover, a
man of rare strength, though rather aged; he caught Martsian's arms
from behind, and drew them so mightily that the elbows almost met at
his shoulders.
"This is not permitted, your grace!" exclaimed he. "It is infamous!"
"Let me go!" roared Krepetski.
But the iron hands held him as in vices, and a serious, low voice was
heard near his ear,--
"I will break your bones unless you restrain yourself!"
Meanwhile the sisters led, or rather carried the young lady from the
chamber.
"Come to the chancellery to rest," said the butler. "I advise your
grace earnestly."
And he pushed the man before him as he would a child, while Martsian,
with chattering teeth, moved on with his short legs, crying for a
halter and the hangman; but he could not resist, for a moment later he
had grown so weak all at once, from the outburst, that he was unable
even to stand unassisted. So, when the butler in the chancellery threw
him on the horse skin with which the bed was covered, Martsian did not
even try to rise; he lay there panting with heaving sides, like a horse
after over-exertion.
"Something to drink!" shouted he.
The butler opened the door, called a boy, and, whispering some words,
gave him keys: the lad returned with a pint glass and a demijohn of
brandy.
The butler filled the glass to the brim, sniffed at it, and said
approaching Martsian,--
"Drink, your grace."
Krepetski seized it with both hands, but they trembled so that liquor
dropped on his breast; then the butler raised him, put the glass to his
lips, and inclined it.
He drank and drank, holding the glass greedily when the butler tried to
remove it from his mouth. At last he drank all, and fell backward.
"It may be too much," said the butler, "but you had become very weak
when I gave it."
Though Martsian wished to say something, he merely hissed in the air,
like a man who has burnt his mouth with too hot a liquid.
"Eh," said the butler, "you owe me a good gift, for I have shown no
petty service. God preserve us, if anything is done--in such an affair
it is the axe and the executioner, not to mention this, that misfortune
might happen here any minute. The people love that young lady beyond
measure. And it will be difficult to hide what has been done from the
prelate, though I will tell all to be silent. How do you feel?"
Martsian looked at him with staring eyes and open mouth as he panted.
Once and a second time he tried to say something, then hiccoughing
seized him, his eyes grew expressionless, he closed his lids on a
sudden, and then began a rattling in his throat as if the man were
dying.
"Sleep, or die, dirty dog!" growled the butler as he looked at him. And
he went from the room to the outbuildings. Half an hour later he
returned and knocked at the young lady's chamber. Finding the two
sisters with her he said to them,--
"Ladies, perhaps you would look in a moment at the chancellery, for the
young lord has grown very feeble. But if he sleeps it is better not to
wake him."
Then when alone with Panna Anulka he inclined to her knees, and said,--
"Young lady, there is need to flee from this mansion. All is ready."
And she, though broken and barely able to stand on her feet, sprang up
in one instant.
"It is well, and I am ready! Save me!"
"I will conduct you to a wagon which is waiting beyond the river.
To-night I will bring your clothing. Pan Krepetski is as drunk as Bela,
and will lie like a dead man till morning. Only take a cloak, and let
us go. No one will stop us; have no fear on that point."
"God reward! God reward!" repeated she, feverishly.
They went out through the garden to that gate by which Yatsek used to
enter from Vyrambki. On the way the butler said to her,--
"Long ago Vilchopolski arranged with the servants that if an attack
upon you were attempted, they would set fire to the granary. Pan
Krepetski would be forced to the fire, and you would have time to
escape through the garden to a place beyond the river, where a man was
to wait with a wagon. But it is better not to burn anything. To set
fire is a crime, no matter what happens. Krepetski will be like a stone
until morning, so no pursuit threatens you."
"Where are we going?"
"To Pan Serafin's; defence there is easy. Vilchopolski is there. So are
the Bukoyemskis and other foresters. Krepetski will try to take you
back, but will fail. And later on Pan Serafin will conduct you to
Radom, or farther. That will be settled with the priests. Here is the
wagon! Fear no pursuit. It is not far to Yedlinka, and God gives a
wonderful evening. I will bring your clothing to-night. If they try to
stop me I will not mind them. May the Most Holy Mother, the guardian
and protectress of orphans conduct you!"
And taking her by the hand like a child, he seated her in the wagon.
"Move on!" cried he to the driver.
It was growing dark in the world, and the twilight of evening was
quenching, but from the remnant of its rays the stars in the clear sky
were rosy. The calm evening was filled with the odors of the earth, of
leaves, and of blossoming alders, while nightingales were filling with
their song, as with a warm rain of spring, the garden, the trees, and
the whole region.