CHAPTER VIII
But Tachevski's friends did not foresee that the priest's letter would be in a certain sense useful to Pan Gideon, and serve his home policy. He did not indeed receive it without anger. Yatsek, who so far had been merely an obstacle, became thenceforth, though not the author of the letter, an object of hatred. That hatred in the stubborn old heart of Pan Gideon bloomed like a poison flower, but his ingenious mind determined to use the priest's letter. In view of this he restrained his fierce rage, his face assumed a look of contemptuous pity, and he went with the answer to Anulka.
"Thou hast paid toll, and art assaulted for doing so," said he. "I did not wish this, for I am a man of experience, and I know people; but when thou didst clasp thy hands and say that injustice had been done, that I had exceeded in sternness, and thou hadst been too severe to him, that he ought not to leave us in anger, I yielded. I sent him assistance in money. I sent him a horse. I wrote him a nice letter also. I thought he would come and bow down, give us thanks, take farewell as became a man who had spent so much time in this mansion; but see what he has sent me in answer!"
At these words he drew the priest's letter from his girdle and gave it to the young lady. She began to read, and soon her dark brows met in anger, but when she reached the place where the priest declared that Pan Gideon wished to humiliate Yatsek, thanks to the suggestions of another, her hands trembled, her face became scarlet, then grew as pale as linen, and remained pale.
Though Pan Gideon saw all this he feigned not to see it.
"May God forgive them for what they attribute to me," said he, after a moment of silence. "He alone knows whether my ancestors are much below the Tachevskis, of whose greatness more fables than truth are related. What I cannot forgive is this: that they pay thee, my poor dear, for thy kindness of an angel, with such ingratitude."
"It was not Pan Yatsek who wrote this, but Father Voynovski," answered Anulka, seizing, as it were, the last plank of salvation.
The old noble sighed.
"Dost thou believe, girl," inquired he, "that I love thee?"
"I believe," answered she, bending and kissing his hand.
"Though thou believe," said he, stroking her bright head with great tenderness, "thou knowest not clearly that thou art my whole consolation. Rarely do I permit myself words such as these, and rarely do I tell that which my heart feels, since former suffering is concealed in it. But thou shouldst understand that I have only thee in the world. I would increase hourly, not thy disappointment, pain, and trouble, but thy joy and happiness. I do not ask what began to bud in thy heart, but I will say this to thee: whether that was, as I think, a pure, sisterly feeling, or something more, that young man was unworthy. He has heaped on us ingratitude in return for our sincere friendship. My Anulka, thou wouldst deceive thyself wert thou to think that the priest wrote this letter without Yatsek's knowledge. They wrote it together and knowest why they replied with such insolence? As I have heard, Tachevski got money from that Armenian in Yedlinka. That is what he needs, and now since he has it he cares for naught else, and for no one any longer. This is the truth, and in thy soul thou must acknowledge that to think otherwise would be willing self-deception."
"I see," answered Anulka.
Pan Gideon meditated awhile as if he were dwelling on something.
"People say," added he finally, "that it is a vice of old people to praise past times and lay blame on the present. But no, this is not a vice. The world is growing worse, people are becoming worse. In my day no man would have acted as has Tachevski. Dost thou know the first cause of this? That night on the tree, which exposed this lord cavalier to the ridicule of people. To hurry, as it were, to help some one and then climb a tree out of terror, may happen, but in such a case it is better not to boast of it, for the thing is ridiculous, ridiculous! I do not hold up the Bukoyemskis or Pan Stanislav as heroes: they are drunkards, road-blockers, gamblers-I know them! Our lives were less in their minds than were wolf skins. But there is lurking in this Yatsek such envy that he could not forgive them that chance aid which they gave us. Out of that rose the duel. May God punish me if I had not reason to be angry. Ha, they made friends after the duel, for it is clear that our cavalier understood that he could get money from Pan Serafin, so he preferred to turn his malice against this mansion. Pride, animosity, ingratitude, and greed, those are the things which he has manifested, and nothing better. He has injured me. Never mind. God forgive him! But why should he attack thee, my dear flower? A neighbor for long years, a guest for long years-daily visits. A gypsy in such a position would become faithful; a swallow grows used to its roof; a stork returns to its nest; but he spat on our house as soon as he felt in his purse the coin of the Armenian. No! No! No man in my day would have acted in that style."
Anulka listened with her palms on her temples, and with eyes looking out before her in fixedness, so Pan Gideon stopped and looked at her once, and a second time.
"Why dost thou forget thyself?" asked he.
"I have not forgotten myself, but I am so sad that words have deserted me."
And not finding words she found tears.
Pan Gideon let her cry till she had finished.
"It is better," said he at last, "to let that sadness pass off with tears than let it stay in the heart and be petrified. Ah, it is hard! Let him go, let him clink other men's coin, let him touch the mud with his saddle-cloth, let him strut as a lord, and court Warsaw harlots. But we will remain here, my girl. That is no great delight, it is true, but still it is a delight, if thou remember that no one in this house will deceive thee, no one here will offend thee, no one will break thy heart; that here thou wilt be always as an eye in the head of each person, that thy happiness will be the first question always, and also the last question of my life. Come-"
He stretched his arms toward her, and she fell on his breast with emotion and gratitude, as she would on the breast of a father who was comforting her in a moment of suffering.
Pan Gideon fell to stroking her bright head with the one hand that remained to him, and long did they sit there in silence. Meanwhile it was growing dark, the frosty window-panes glittered in the moonlight, and dogs made themselves heard here and there with prolonged barking.
The warmth of the maiden's body penetrated to the heart of Pan Gideon which began to beat with more vigor, and since he feared to make a declaration too early, he would not expose himself then to temptation.
"Stand up, child," said he. "Thou wilt not weep now?"
"I will not," answered she, kissing his hand.
"Seest thou! Ah, this is it! Remember always the place where thou hast a sure refuge, and where it will be calm for thee, and pleasant. Every young man is glad to race over the world like a tempest, but for me thou art the only one. Fix this well in mind. More than once, perhaps, hast thou thought, 'My guardian seems a savage wolf; he is glad to find some one to shout at, and he has no understanding of my young ideas;' but knowest thou of what this guardian has thought and is thinking at present? Often of his past happiness, often of that pain, which like an arrow is fixed in his heart-that is true, but besides that only of thee and thy future, only of this: to secure every good thing for thee. Pan Grothus and I talked whole hours of this. He laughed because, as he said, one thought alone remained with me. My one point was to secure to thee after my death even a sufficient and quiet morsel."
"May God not grant me to wait for that!" cried she, bending again to the hand of Pan Gideon.
And in her voice there was such sincerity that the stern face of the old noble was radiant with genuine joy for the moment.
"Dost thou love me a little?"
"Oh, guardian!"
"God reward thee, child. My age is not yet so advanced, and my body, save for the wounds in my heart and my person, would be sufficiently stalwart. But as men say, death is ever sitting 'at the gate, and knocks at the door whensoever it pleases. Were it to knock here thou wouldst be alone in the world with Pani Vinnitski. Pan Grothus is a good man and wealthy; he would respect my testament and wishes at all times, but as to other relatives of my late wife-who knows what they would do? And this estate and this mansion I got with my wife. Her relatives might wish to resist, and raise lawsuits. There is need to have foresight in all things. Pan Grothus gave advice touching this case-true, it is effective-but strange, and therefore I will not speak to thee yet of it. I should like to see His Grace the King-to leave thee and my will to his guardianship, but the king is occupied now with the coming war and the Diet. Pan Grothus says that if there is war the troops will move first under the hetmans, and the king will join them at Cracow-perhaps then-perhaps we shall go together. But whatever happens, know this, my child; all that I have will be thine, though I should have to follow at last the advice of Pan Grothus. Yes! – even for one hour before death! Yes, so help me, God. For I am not a wind in the field, not a harebrain, not a purse emptier, not a Tachevski."
CHAPTER IX
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?"