Father Ludvik had some hope of converting him to the Catholic faith, all the more since the boy jested sometimes about Mohammed, and would beyond doubt have rejected the Koran had it not been that he feared his father, who, out of respect for family traditions, held with both hands to Mohammed, considering that as a noble of long standing he preferred to be an oldtime Mohammedan to a newly made Catholic. Old Davidovich, however, had no other Turkish or Tartar sympathies. His ancestors had settled in Lithuania during the time, perhaps, of Vitold. That was, moreover, a very wealthy nobility, living from of old in the same place. The property which they possessed had been given by Yan Sobieski to Mirza Davidovich, a colonel of light horse, who performed wonders at Vienna, and whose portrait was hanging then in Horeli.
I remember that portrait as making a wonderful impression on me. The colonel was a terrible person; his face was written over by God knows what sabres, as if with mystic letters of the Koran. He had a swarthy complexion, prominent cheek-bones, slanting eyes with a wonderfully gloomy glitter; they had this peculiarity, that they looked at you out of the portrait always, whether you stood straight in front or at either side.
But my comrade, Selim, resembled his ancestors in nothing. His mother, whom old Davidovich married in the Crimea, was not a Tartar, — she came from the Caucasus. I did not remember her, but people said that she was a beauty of beauties, and that young Selim resembled her as much as one drop of water resembles another.
Ah! he was a wonderful fellow, that Selim! His eyes had a scarcely discernible slant; they were not Tartar eyes, though, but the great, dark, pensive, moist eyes for which Georgian women have gained such renown. Eyes with such inexpressible sweetness when calm I had never seen in life, and shall never see again. He had regular features, as noble as if they had come from the chisel of a sculptor, a dark but delicate complexion, lips a trifle full, but red as raspberries, a sweet smile, and teeth like pearls.
When Selim was fighting with a comrade, for example, and this happened often enough, his sweetness vanished like a deceptive nightmare: he became almost terrible; his eyes seemed to swell out slantingly and gleam like the eyes of a wolf; the veins in his face distended; his complexion grew dark; and for a moment the real Tartar was roused in him, just such a Tartar as those with whom our ancestors went dancing. This transformation was short-lived. After a while Selim wept, begged pardon, kissed, and was forgiven usually. He had the best of hearts and a great inclination to noble impulses. He was heedless, however, somewhat frivolous, and a frolicker of unrestrained temperament. He rode, shot, and fenced like a master; he had medium success in learning, for in spite of great gifts he was rather lazy. We loved each other like brothers, quarrelled frequently, made peace as often, and our friendship continued unbroken. In vacation and on all holidays either I spent half the time in Horeli, or he with us.
And now on his return from Mikolai’s funeral, Selim was to stay with us to the end of the Christmas holidays.
When the guests took leave after dinner, it was perhaps four o’clock in the afternoon. The short winter day was near its end; the great evening twilight looked in through the windows; on trees standing near the house, and hidden with snow covered with a ruddy gleam, the crows began to caw and flutter. Through the windows we could see whole flocks of them flying across the pond from the forest and floating in the evening light. In the room to which we passed after dinner, silence prevailed. Pani d’Yves went to her chamber to tell fortunes by cards, as her habit was; Father Ludvik walked up and down the room and took snuff; my two little sisters, butting heads, tangled each other’s golden curls; Hania, Selim, and I were sitting under the window, on a sofa, looking at the pond on the garden side, on the forest beyond the pond, and on the vanishing daylight.
Soon it became entirely dark. Father Ludvik went out to evening prayers; one of my little sisters chased the other to an adjoining room; we were left alone. Selim had begun to say something when Hania pushed up to me all at once and whispered, —
“Panich, something terrifies me. I am afraid.”
“Fear not, Haniulka,” answered I, drawing her toward me. “Nestle up to me, this way. Whilst thou art near me, nothing evil can happen to thee. See, I am not afraid of anything, and I shall always be able to protect thee.”
That was not true, for whether because of the gloom which filled the hall, or Hania’s words, or the recent death of Mikolai, I, too, was under some strange impression.
“Perhaps thou wilt ask to have a light brought?” said I.
“Yes, Panich.”
“Selim, ask Franek to bring a light.”
Selim sprang from the sofa, and soon we heard an uncommon trampling and noise outside the door. The door opened with a slam; in rushed Franek like a whirlwind, and behind, grasping his arm, was Selim. Franek had a stupid and terrified face, for Selim, holding the boy by the shoulder, was spinning him like a top and turning round with him. Advancing with that motion to the sofa, Selim halted, and said, —
“Thy lord commands thee to bring a light, for the young lady is afraid. Dost wish to bring the light, or shall I twist thy head off?”
Franek went for the lamp and returned with it in a moment; but it seemed that the light injured Hania’s eyes, which were red from crying, so Selim quenched it. We were again in mysterious darkness, and again silence reigned among us. Soon the moon cast bright silver light through the window. Evidently Hania was afraid, for she nestled up to me still more closely, and I had to hold her hand besides. Selim sat opposite us in an armchair, and, as his custom was, passed from a noisy mood into thoughtfulness, and after a while fell to imagining. Great silence was among us; we were a little afraid; but it was pleasant there.
“Let Selim tell us some story,” said I, “he tells stories so well. Shall he, Hania?”
“Let him.”
Selim raised his eyes and thought awhile. The moon lighted clearly his handsome profile. After a time he began to speak in a quivering, sympathetic, and lowered voice: —
“Beyond forests, beyond mountains, lived in the Crimea a certain kind woman named Lala, who could soothsay. Once the Sultan was passing her cottage. This Sultan, who was called Harun, was very rich; he had a palace of coral with columns of diamonds; the roof of that palace was of pearls. The palace was so large that it took a year to go from one end of it to the other. The Sultan himself wore genuine stars in his turban. The turban was of sun-rays, and on top of it was a crescent, which a certain enchanter had cut from the moon and bestowed on the Sultan. That Sultan was passing near Lala’s cottage, and weeping; he was weeping so, and weeping, that his tears fell on the road, and wherever a tear fell a white lily sprang up right away.
“‘Why art thou weeping, O Sultan Harun?’ asked Lala.
“‘Why should I not weep,’ replied Sultan Harun, ‘when I have only one daughter, beautiful as the morning dawn, and I must give her to a black Div with fiery eyes, who every ye—’”
Selim stopped suddenly and was silent.
“Is Hania asleep?” whispered he to me.
“No; she is not asleep,” answered the girl, with drowsy voice.
“‘How should I not weep,’ said Harun the Sultan to her [continued Selim], when I have only one daughter, and I must give her to the Div?’
“‘Do not weep, O Sultan,’ says Lala; ‘sit on the winged horse and ride to the grotto of Borah. Evil clouds will chase thee on the road, but throw thou these poppy seeds at them and directly the clouds will fall asleep.’”
And so Selim went on, and then he stopped a second time and looked at Hania. The child was now asleep really. She was very tired and pained, and was sleeping soundly. Selim and I scarcely dared to breathe lest we might waken her. Her breathing was even, peaceful, interrupted only at times by deep sighs. Selim rested his forehead on his hand and fell into serious thought. I raised my eyes toward the sky, and it seemed to me that I was flying away on the wings of angels into heavenly space. I cannot tell the sweetness which penetrated me, for I fel
t that that dear little being was sleeping calmly and with all confidence on my breast. Some kind of quiver passed through my whole body, — something not of earth; new and unknown voices of happiness were born in my soul, and began to sing and to play like an orchestra. Oh, how I loved Hania! How I loved her, as a brother and a guardian yet, but beyond bound and measure.
I approached my lips to Hania’s hair and kissed it. There was nothing earthly in that, for I and the kiss were yet equally innocent.
Selim shivered all at once and woke up from his pensiveness.
“How happy thou art, Henryk!” whispered he.
“Yes, Selim.”
But we could not stay there in that way.
“Let us not wake her, but carry her to her room,” said Selim.
“I will carry her alone, and do thou just open the door,” answered I.
I drew my arm carefully from under the head of the sleeping girl, and laid her on the sofa. Then I took her carefully in my arms. I was still a youth, but I came of uncommonly strong stock; the child was small, frail, and I carried her like a feather. Selim opened the door to the adjoining chamber, which was lighted, and in that way we reached the green chamber, which I had destined to be Hania’s room. The bed was already prepared. In the chimney a good fire was crackling; and near the chimney, poking the coals, sat old Vengrosia, who, when she saw me burdened as I was, exclaimed, —
“Ah, for God’s sake! and so the Panich is carrying the little maid. Wasn’t it possible to wake her, and let her come herself?”
“Let Vengrosia be silent!” said I, angrily. “A young lady, not ‘a maid,’ only a young lady; does Vengrosia hear? The young lady is tired. I beg not to wake her. Undress her and put her to bed quietly. Let Vengrosia remember that this is an orphan, and that we must comfort her with kindness for the loss of her grandfather.”
“An orphan, the poor little thing; an orphan, indeed,” repeated the honest Vengrosia, with emotion.
Selim kissed the old woman for this, then he returned for tea.
Selim forgot everything and became frolicsome at tea; I did not follow his example, however, first, because I was sad, and second, I judged that it did not become a serious man, already a guardian, to appear like a child. That evening Selim raised another storm; this time with Father Ludvik, because when we were at evening prayers in the chapel, he flew out to the yard, climbed onto the low roof of the ice-house, and began to howl. The dogs of the yard rushed together from all sides and made such an uproar while accompanying Selim that we could not say our prayers.
“Have you gone mad, Selim?” asked Father Ludvik.
“Pardon me, Father, I was praying in Mohammedan fashion.”
“Do not make sport of any religion, thou rascal!”
“But if I, begging your attention, want to become a Catholic, only I am afraid of my father, what can I do with Mohammed?”
The priest, attacked on his weak side, was silent, and we went to bed. Selim and I had a room together, for the priest knew that we liked to talk, and did not wish to hinder us. When I had undressed and saw that Selim was doing the same without praying, I inquired, —
“But really, Selim, dost thou never pray?”
“Of course I do. If thou wish, I will begin right away.”
And standing in the window he raised his eyes to the moon, stretched his hands toward it, and began to cry in a singing voice, —
“Oh, Allah! Akbar Allah! Allah Kerim!”
Dressed only in white, with his face raised toward the sky, he was so beautiful that I could not take my eyes from him.
Then he began to explain, —
“What shall I do? I do not believe in this prophet of ours, who would let others have only one wife, but had as many himself as he pleased. Besides, I tell thee that I like wine. I am not free to be anything except a Mohammedan, but I believe in God, and often I pray as I know how. But do I know anything? I know that there is a Lord God, and that is the end of the question.”
After a while he continued, —
“Knowest what, Henryk?”
“What?”
“I have splendid cigars. We are children no longer; let us smoke.”
Selim sprang out of bed and got a package of cigars. We each lighted one, then lay down and smoked in silence, spitting out of the bed in secret from each other.
“Knowest thou what, Henryk?” said Selim after a while. “How I envy thee! Thou art really grown up now.”
“I hope so.”
“For thou art a guardian already. Oh, if some one would leave me such a ward to care for!”
“That is not so easy, and, besides, where could another Hania be found in the world? But knowest what?” continued I, in the tone of a mature wise man. “I hope that soon I shall not go to school. A man who has such obligations at home cannot go to school.”
“And — thou art raving! What! thou wilt not learn any more? But school is the main thing.”
“Thou knowest that I like to study, but duty before all. Unless my father and mother send Hania to Warsaw with me.”
“They won’t even dream of it.”
“While I am in the classes, surely not; but when I am in the University they will. Well, dost thou not know what a student means?”
“Yes, yes! That may happen. Thou wilt be her guardian, and thou wilt marry her.”
I sat up in bed.
“Selim, art thou mad?”
“Why shouldst thou not marry her? In school one is not free to marry; but a student may not only have a wife, he may have even children,” said Selim.
At that moment all the University prerogatives and privileges did not concern me in the least. Selim’s question illuminated, as with a lightning flash, those sides of my heart which to me were still dark. A thousand thoughts, like a thousand birds, flew through my head all at once. To marry my dear, beloved orphan! Yes; that was the lightning flash, the new flash of thought and feelings. It seemed to me that suddenly into the darkness of my heart some one had brought light. Love, deep, but brotherly hitherto, had grown rosy on a sudden from that light and was heated through it by an unknown warmth. To marry Hania, that bright-haired angel, my dearest, most beloved Hania. With a weak voice now and lower, I repeated like an echo, —
“Selim, art mad?”
“I would lay a wager that thou art in love with her already,” said Selim.
I made no answer; I quenched the light, then seized a corner of the pillow and began to kiss it.
Yes; I loved her already.
CHAPTER III.
ON the second or third day after the funeral, my father came, summoned by a telegram. I trembled lest he should recall my dispositions touching Hania, and my forebodings were real to a certain degree. My father praised me and embraced me for my zeal and conscientiousness in fulfilling duties; that pleased him evidently. He repeated even a number of times, “Our blood!” which he did only when he was much pleased with me. He did not divine to what extent that zeal was interested, but my dispositions had not pleased him overmuch. It may be that the exaggerated statements of Pani d’Yves moved him toward this a little, though really in the days following that night in which my feelings rose to consciousness I made Hania the first person in the house.
He was not pleased by my project to educate her in the same way as my sisters.
“I recall and withdraw nothing,” said he. “That is the affair of thy mother. She will determine what she likes; that is her department. But it is worth while to think over this: What is best for the girl herself.”
“Education, father, will never harm. I have heard that from thy own mouth more than once.”
“True, in the case of a man,” answered he, “for the education of a man gives position, but with a woman it is different. A woman’s education should be in accord with the position which she is to occupy in life. Such a girl does not need more than a medium education; she has no need of French, music, and the like. With a medium education Hania will find more easily an honest of
ficial for a husband—”
“Father!”
He looked at me with astonishment.
“What is the matter?”
I was as red as a beet. The blood almost spurted through my face. In my eyes it grew dark. To compare Hania with an official seemed such blasphemy before my world of imagining that I could not withhold a cry of indignation. And that blasphemy pained me the more since it came from the lips of my father. That was the first cold water thrown by reality on the burning faith of youth, the first blow aimed by life into the fairy castle of illusions, the first deceit and disenchantment from the bitterness of which we defend ourselves with pessimism and unbelief. But as red-hot iron, when a drop of cold water falls on it, merely hisses and turns the water into steam, so the burning soul of a man under the influence of its first contact with the cold palm of reality, hisses, it is true, from pain, but soon warms reality itself with its own heat.
My father’s words wounded me at once, therefore, and wounded me in a wonderful manner, for under their influence I had a feeling of offence not against my father, but, as it were, against Hania. In virtue, however, of that internal resistance which exists only in youth, I soon threw it as far from my soul as possible, and forever. My father understood nothing of my enthusiasm, and ascribed it to excessive devotion to the duties confided to me, which, moreover, was natural at my time of life, and which, instead of angering, simply flattered him and weakened his dislike to the higher education of Hania. I promised him to write a letter to my mother, who was to remain abroad a good while yet, and beg her to make final arrangements in this regard. I do not remember that I have ever written so long and so heartfelt a letter. I described the death of old Mikolai, his last words, my desires, fears, and hopes; I moved vigorously the chord of compassion which was always quivering in my mother’s heart; I depicted the disquiet of conscience which would await me beyond doubt, if we should not do for Hania all that lay in our power, — in a word, according to my opinion at that time, my letter was of its kind a real masterpiece, which must produce its effect. Pacified somewhat by this, I waited patiently for an answer, which came in two letters, — one to me, the other to Pani d’Yves. I had won the battle at all points. My mother not only agreed to the higher education of Hania, but enjoined it most emphatically.
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 680
