“Insults, contempt, a trampling upon the man’s poverty and his honor. Dost understand?”
Then from the gill’s breast was rent a shriek of such pain and sincerity that the honest heart of the priest quivered in him. He approached her, removed the hands with which she had covered her face, and asked, —
“Then didst thou not know of this?”
“I did not — I did not!”
“And thou didst wish Yatsek to return to thee?
“I did!”
“In God’s name! Why was that?”
Tears as large as pearls began again to drop from her closed lashes in abundance, and quickly; her face was red from maiden shame, she caught for air with her open lips, the heart was throbbing in her as in a captured bird, and at last after great effort, she whispered, —
“Because — I love him!”
“My child, is that possible!” cried out Father Voynovski.
But the voice broke in his breast, for tears were choking him also. He was seized at the same instant by delight and immense compassion for the girl, and astonishment that “a woman” in this case was not the cause of all evil, but an innocent lamb on which so much suffering had fallen God knew for what reason. He caught her in his arms, pressed her to his heart. “My child! my child!” repeated he, time after time.
The Bukoyemskis, meanwhile, had betaken themselves, with the glasses and pitcher, to the dining-room; had emptied the pitcher conscientiously to the bottom, and were waiting for the priest and Pan Serafin, in the hope that with their coming supper would be put on the table.
They returned at last with moistened eyes and with emotion on their faces. Pan Serafin breathed deeply once, and a second time, then he said, —
“Pani Dzvonkovski is putting the poor thing to bed. Indeed, a man is unwilling to believe his own ears. We too, are to blame; but Krepetski, — what he has done is simply infamous and disgraceful. We may not let him go without punishment.”
“On the contrary,” answered Marek, “we will talk about this with that ‘stump.’ Oh-ho!”
Then he turned to Father Voynovski, —
“I am very sorry for her, but still, I think that God punished her for Yatsek. Is that not true?”
“Thou art a fool!” called out Father Voynovski.
“But how is that? Why?”
The old man, whose breast was full of pity, fell to talking quickly and passionately of the innocence and suffering of the girl, as if wishing in that way to make up for the injustice which he had permitted regarding her; but after a time all discussion was interrupted by the coming of Pani Dzvonkovski, who burst into the room like a bomb into a fortress.
Her face was as flooded with tears as if it had been dipped in a full bucket, and right on the threshold she fell to crying, with arms stretched out before her, —
“People, whoso believes in God! Vengeance, justice! As God lives! her dear shoulders are all in blue lumps, those shoulders once white as wafers — hair torn out by the handful, golden hair! my dearest dove! my innocent lamb! my precious little flower!”
On hearing this, Mateush Bukoyemski, already excited by the narrative of Father Voynovski, bellowed out at one moment, the next he was accompanied by Marek, Lukash, and Yan till the servants rushed into the dining-hall and the dogs began to bark at the entrance. But Vilchopolski, who a moment later returned from his night review of haystacks, met now another humor of the brothers. Their hair was on end, their eyes were staring with rage, their right hands were grasping at their sabre hilts.
“Blood!” shouted Lukash.
“Give him hither, the son of a such a one!”
“Kill him!”
“On sabres with him!”
And they moved toward the door as one man; but Pan Serafin sprang to the entrance and stopped them.
“Halt!” cried he. “Martsian deserves not the sabre, but the headsman!”
CHAPTER XVIII
And he had to speak long in pacifying the angry brothers. He explained to them that were they to cut down Krepetski at once it would be the act not of nobles but assassins.
“There is need first of all,” said he, “to visit our neighbors, to come to an understanding with Father Tvorkovski, to have the support of the clergy and the nobles, to obtain the testimony of the servants at Belchantska, then to take the case before a tribunal, and only when the sentence is passed to stand behind it with weapons. If,” continued he, “ye were to bear Martsian apart on your sabres immediately, his father would not fail to report in all places that ye did so through agreement with Panna Anulka; by this her reputation might suffer, and the old man would summon you, and, instead of going to the war, ye would have to drag around through tribunals, for, not being under the authority of the hetman as yet, ye would not escape a civil summons. That is how this matter stands at the moment.”
“How so?” inquired Yan, with sorrow; “then we are to let the wrong done this dove go unpunished?”
“But do ye think,” said the priest, “that life will be pleasant for Krepetski when infamy is hanging over him, or the axe of the headsman, and in addition when general contempt is surrounding him? That is a worse torment than a quick death would be, and I should not wish, for all the silver in Olkuts, to be in his skin at this moment.”
“But if he will wriggle out?” inquired Marek. “His father is an old trickster, who has won more than one lawsuit.”
“If he wriggles out, Yatsek on returning will whisper a word in his ear.”
“Ye do not know Yatsek yet! He has the eyes of a maiden, but it is safer to take her young cubs from a she-bear than to pain him unjustly.”
Hereupon Vilchopolski till then only listening spoke in gloomy accents, —
“Pan Krepetski has written his own sentence, whether he awaits the return of Pan Tachevski or not — But there is another point; he will try, with armed hand, to get back the young lady, and then—”
“Then we shall see!” interrupted Pan Serafin. “But let him only try! That is something quite different!”
And he shook his sabre, threateningly, while the Bukoyemskis began to grit their teeth straightway.
“Let him try! let him try!” said they.
“But, gentlemen,” said Vilchopolski, “you are going to the war.”
“We will arrange then in another way,” replied Father Voynovski.
Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the butler. He had brought trunks filled with the wardrobe of Panna Sieninski which, as he said, he did only with difficulty. The Krepetski sisters tried to prevent him, and even wished to wake Martsian, and keep the trunks in the mansion, but they could not wake him; and the butler persuaded them that they should not act thus, both in view of their own good and that of their brother, otherwise an action would be brought against them for robbery, and they would be summoned for damages before a tribunal. As women who do not know law they were frightened and yielded. The butler thought that Martsian would try surely to get back the young lady, but he did not think that the man would use violence immediately.
“He will be restrained from that,” said the butler, “by his father, who understands well the significance of raptus puellae. He knows nothing yet of what has happened, but from here I will go to him directly and explain the whole matter, for two reasons. First, so that he may restrain Martsian, and second, because I do not wish to be in Belchantska to-morrow when Martsian wakes and learns that I have helped the young lady in fleeing. He would rush on me surely, and then to one of us something ugly might happen.”
Pan Serafin and Father Voynovski praised the man’s prudence and, finding that he was a well-wishing person, and experienced, a man who had eaten bread from more than one oven, and to whom law itself was no novelty, begged him to aid in examining the question. There were two councils then, one of these being formed of the four Bukoyemskis.
Pan Serafin, knowing how to restrain them most easily from murderous intentions, and detain them at home, sent a large demijohn o
f good mead to the brothers; this they were glad to besiege at the moment, and began to drink one to another. Their hearts were moved, and they remembered involuntarily the night when Panna Anulka crossed for the first time the threshold of that house there in Yedlinka. They recalled how they had fallen in love with her straightway, how through her they had quarrelled, and then in one voice adjudged her to Stanislav, and thus made an offering of their passion to friendship.
At last Mateush drank his mead, put his head on his palm, sighed, and continued, —
“Yatsek was sitting that night on a tree like a squirrel. Who could have thought then that he was just the man to whom the Lord God had given her?”
“And commanded us to continue in our orphanhood,” added Marek.
“Do ye remember,” asked Lukash, “how the rooms were all bright from her presence? They would not have been brighter from a hundred burning candles. And she at one time stood up, at another sat down, and a third time she laughed. And when she looked at a man it was as warm in his bosom as if he had drunk heated wine that same instant. Let us take a glass now on our terrible sadness.”
They drank again; then Mateush struck a blow with his fist on the table, and shouted, —
“Ei! if she had not loved that Yatsek so!”
“Then what?” asked Yan, angrily, “dost think that she would fall in love with thee right away? Look at him — my dandy!”
“Well thou art no beauty!” retorted Mateush.
And they looked at each other with ill-feeling. But Lukash, though given greatly to quarrels, began now to pacify his brothers.
“Not for thee, not for thee, not for any of us,” said he. “Another will get her and take her to the altar.”
“For us there is nothing but sorrow and weeping,” blurted out Marek.
“Then at least we will love one another. No one in this world loves us! No one!”
“No one! no one!” repeated they all in succession, mingling their wine with their tears as they said so.
“But she is sleeping up there!” added Yan on a sudden.
“She is sleeping, the poor little thing,” responded Lukash; “she is lying down like a flower cut by the scythe, like a lamb torn by a villainous wolf. My born brothers! is there no man here who will take even a pull at the wild beast?”
“It cannot be but there is!” cried out Mateush, Marek, and Yan. And again they grew indignant, and the more they drank the oftener they gritted their teeth, first one, then another, or one of them struck his fist on the table.
“I have an idea!” said the youngest on a sudden.
“Tell it! Have God in thy heart!”
“Here it is. We have promised Pan Serafin not to cut up that ‘stump.’ Have we not promised?”
“We have, but tell what thou hast to say; ask no questions.”
“Though we have promised we must take revenge for our young lady. Old Krepetski will come here, as they said, to see if Pan Serafin will not give back the young lady. But we know that he will not give her, do we not?”
“He will not! he will not!”
“But think ye not this way: Martsian will hurry to meet his father on the road back, to see and inquire if he has succeeded.”
“As God is in heaven, he will do so.”
“On the road, half-way between Belchantska and Yedlinka, is a tar pit near the roadside. If we should wait at that tar pit for Martsian — ?”
“Well, but what for?”
“Psh! quiet!”
“Psh!”
And they began to look around through the room, though they knew that save themselves there was not a living soul in it, and then they whispered. They whispered long, now louder, now lower. At last their faces grew radiant, they finished their wine at one draught, embraced one another, and in silence went out of the room one after the other, in goose fashion.
They saddled their horses without the least noise, and each led his beast by the bit from the courtyard. When they had gone through the gate they mounted and rode stirrup by stirrup to the roadway where Yan, though the youngest, took command and said then to his brothers, —
“Now I with Marek will go to the tar pit, and do ye bring that cask before daybreak.”
CHAPTER XIX
Old Krepetski, as had been foreseen by the butler, went to Yedlinka after midday on the morrow, but beyond all expectation he appeared there with so kindly a face, and so gladsome, that Pan Serafin, who had the habit of dozing after dinner, and felt somewhat drowsy, became wide awake with astonishment at sight of him. Almost at the threshold the old fox began to mention neighborly friendship and say what delight his old age would find in more frequent and mutual visits; he gave thanks for the kindly reception, and only after finishing these courtesies did he come to the real question.
“Benefactor and neighbor,” said he, “I have come with the salute which was due you, but also, as you must have divined, with a request which, in view of my age, you, I trust, will give ear to most kindly.”
“I will yield gladly to every proper wish which you may utter,” said Pan Serafin.
The old man began to rub his hands.
“I knew that! I knew it beforehand,” said he. “What a thing it is to deal with a man who has real wisdom; one comes to an agreement immediately. I said to my son ‘Leave that to me! the moment,’ said I, ‘that thou hast to do with Pan Serafin all will go well, for there is not another man, not merely so wise, but so honorable in this region.’”
“You praise me too greatly.”
“No, no, I say too little. But let us come to the question.”
“Let us.”
Old Krepetski was silent for a while, as if seeking expressions. He merely moved his jaws, so that his chin met his nose. At last he laughed joyously, put his hand on Pan Serafin’s knee, and continued, —
“My benefactor, you see our goldfinch has flown from the cage.”
“I know. Because the cat frightened it.”
“Is there not pleasure in talking with such people?” cried the old man, rubbing his hands. “Oh, that is wit! The prelate Tvorkovski would burst with envy, as God is dear to me!”
“I am listening.”
“Well, to the question, and straight from the bridge. We should like to take back that goldfinch.”
“Why should you not?”
Pan Krepetski moved his chin toward his nose once, and a second time. He was alarmed; the affair went too easily; but he clapped his hands, and cried with feigned joyousness, —
“Well, now the affair is finished! Would to God that such men as you were born everywhere!”
“It is finished so far as I am concerned,” said Pan Serafin. “Only there is need to ask that little bird whether she wants to go back again; besides she cannot go back to-day, for your son has so throttled her that she is barely breathing.”
“Is she sick?”
“Sick; she is lying in bed.”
“But is she not pretending?”
Pan Serafin’s face grew dark in a moment.
“My gracious sir,” said he, “let us talk seriously. Your son Martsian has acted unworthily with Panna Anulka, not in human fashion, and not as a noble; he has acted altogether with infamy. Before God and man you have offended grievously to give an orphan into hands such as his, and intrust her to a tyrant so shameless.”
“There is not a bit of truth in what she says,” cried the old man.
“Why not? You know not what she has said, and still you deny. It is not she who is speaking; blue lumps and marks of blows speak for her, marks which my housekeeper saw on her young body. As to Martsian, all the servants in Belchantska have seen his approaches and his cruelty, and are ready to testify when needed. In my house is Vilchopolski who is going to-day to Radom to tell the prelate Tvorkovski what has happened.”
“But you have promised to give me the girl.”
“No, I only said that I would not detain her. If she wants to go back, very well! If she wishes to stay with me, very well a
lso! But attempt not to bring me to refuse my roof and a morsel of bread to an orphan who is grievously offended.”
Old Krepetski’s jaws moved time after time. For a while he was silent, and then began, —
“You are right, and you are wrong. To refuse a shelter and bread to an orphan would be unworthy, but as a wise man consider that it is one thing not to refuse hospitality, and something different to stand with rebellion against the authority of a father. I love Tekla, my youngest daughter, sincerely, but it happens sometimes that I give her a push. Well, what then? If she, after being punished by me, should flee to you, would you not permit me to take her, or would you refer me to her pleasure? Think of this — what sort of order would there be in the world, if women had their will? A married woman, even when old, must hearken to her husband, and yield to him; but what must it be in the case of an immature girl, as against the commands of her father, or guardian?”
“Panna Anulka is not your daughter, nor even your relative.”
“But we inherited the guardianship over her from Pan Gideon. If Pan Gideon had punished the girl, you, of course, would not have had a word against him; but it is the same thing touching me and my son, to whom I have committed the management of Belchantska. Some one must manage, some one must have authority to punish. Difficult to do without that. I do not deny that Martsian, as a man, young and impulsive, exceeded the measure, perhaps, especially since he was met with ingratitude. But that is my affair! I will examine, judge, and punish; but I will take the girl back, and I think, with your permission, that even the king himself would have no right to raise any hindrance.”
“You speak as in a tribunal,” said Pan Serafin. “I do not deny that you have appearances on your side; but appearance is one thing, and the real truth another. I do not wish to hinder you in anything, but I tell you honestly what the opinion of people is, and with that opinion I advise you to reckon. For you it is not a question of Panna Anulka, nor of guardianship over her, but you suspect that there may be a will in the hands of the prelate, with a provision for the young lady, therefore you are afraid that Belchantska might slip from you together with Panna Anulka. Not long ago I heard one of the neighbors speak in this way: ‘Were it not for that uncertainty the Krepetskis would be the first to drive the orphan from the house, for those people have not God in their hearts.’ It is very disagreeable for me and repulsive to say such things in my house to you, but you ought to know them.”
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 573
