With Fire and Sword

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  “But how was it,—how?” asked a crowd of young men.

  “Well, gentlemen, do you want my tongue to get red-hot with turning in my mouth, like an axle in a wagon?”

  “Then you must pour wine around it,” said the nobles.

  “We might do that,” answered Zagloba; and glad to find grateful listeners, he told them all, from the journey to Galáts and the flight from Rozlogi, to the capture of the banner at Konstantinoff. They listened with open mouths. Sometimes they murmured when, glorifying his own bravery, he presumed too much on their lack of experience; but he was invited and entertained each day in a new place.

  The time was passed, then, in pleasure and tumult at Zbaraj, till old Zatsvilikhovski and others of a more serious turn wondered that the prince suffered these feasts so long. But Yeremi remained in his own quarters. It was evident that he gave rein to the soldiers, so that all might taste every enjoyment before new conflicts. Skshetuski arrived now, and dropped as it were at once into a whirlpool of boiling water. He wanted rest in the circle of his companions; but still more did he wish to visit Bar,—to go to his loved one, and forget all his past troubles, all his fears and sufferings, in her embrace. He appeared before the prince therefore without delay, to report on his expedition to Zaslav and obtain leave of absence.

  He found the prince changed beyond recognition, so that he was astonished at his appearance, and asked in his mind: “Is this the chief whom I saw at Makhnovka and Konstantinoff?” For there stood before him a man bent with the burden of care, with sunken eyes and shrivelled lips, as if suffering from a grievous internal disease. When asked for his health he answered briefly and dryly that he was well, so the knight did not dare inquire further. Having made his report, he began immediately to ask for two months’ absence from the squadron, that he might marry and take his wife to Skshetushevo.

  On hearing this the prince woke as it were from sleep. The expression of kindness habitual to him reappeared on his gloomy face, and embracing Pan Yan, he said,—

  “This is the end of your suffering. Go, go! May God bless you! I should like to be at your wedding myself, for I owe that to Kurtsevichovna, as the daughter of Vassily, and to you as a friend; but at this time it is impossible for me to move. When do you wish to start?”

  “To-day, if I could, your Highness.”

  “Then set out to-morrow. You cannot go alone. I will give you three hundred of Vershul’s Tartars to bring her home in safety. You will go quickest with them, and you will need them, for bands of ruffians are wandering about. I will give you a letter to Andrei Pototski; but before I write to him, before the Tartars come, and before you are ready, it will be to-morrow evening.”

  “As your Highness commands. I make bold to request further that Volodyovski and Podbipienta go with me.”

  “Very well. Come again to-morrow morning for my farewell and a blessing. I should like also to send your princess a present. She is of a noted family. You will both be happy, because you are worthy of each other.”

  The knight knelt and embraced the knees of his beloved chief, who repeated several times,—

  “God make you happy! God make you happy! But come again to-morrow morning.”

  Still the knight did not go; he lingered as if wishing to ask for something else. At last he broke out: “Your Highness!”

  “And what more do you say?” asked the prince, mildly.

  “Pardon my boldness, but—my heart is cut, and from sorrow comes great boldness. What affects your Highness? Does trouble weigh you down, or is it disease?”

  The prince put his hand on Skshetuski’s head. “You cannot know this,” said he, with sweetness in his voice. “Come to-morrow morning.”

  Skshetuski rose and went out with a straitened heart.

  In the evening old Zatsvilikhovski came to Skshetuski’s quarters, and with him little Volodyovski, Pan Longin, and Zagloba. They took their seats at the table, and Jendzian came into the room bearing a keg and glasses.

  “In the name of Father and Son!” cried Zagloba. “I see that your man has risen from the dead.”

  Jendzian approached, and embraced Zagloba’s knees. “I have not risen from the dead, for I did not die, thanks to you for saving me.”

  Then Skshetuski added: “And afterward he was in Bogun’s service.”

  “Oh, that fellow would find promotion in hell,” said Zagloba. Then, turning to Jendzian, he said: “You couldn’t have found much joy in that service; here is a thaler for pleasure.”

  “Thank you humbly,” said Jendzian.

  “He,” cried Pan Yan, “is a perfect rogue. He bought plunder of the Cossacks. You and I couldn’t purchase what he has now, even if you were to sell all your estates in Turkey.”

  “Is that true?” asked Zagloba. “Keep my thaler for yourself, and grow up, precious sapling; for if you’ll not serve for a crucifix, you will serve at least for a gallows-tree. The fellow has a good eye.” Here Zagloba caught Jendzian by the ear, and pulling it, continued: “I like rogues, and I prophesy that you will come out a man, if you don’t remain a beast. And how does your master Bogun speak of you, hi?”

  Jendzian smiled, for the words and caress flattered him, and answered; “Oh, my master, when he speaks of you, he strikes fire with his teeth.”

  “Oh, go to the devil!” cried Zagloba, in sudden anger. “What are you raving about?”

  Jendzian went out. They began to discuss the journey of the morrow, and the great happiness which was awaiting Pan Yan. Mead soon improved Zagloba’s humor; he began to talk to Skshetuski, and hint of christenings, and again of the passion of Pan Andrei Pototski for the princess. Pan Longin sighed. They drank, and were glad with their whole souls. Finally the conversation touched upon military events and the prince. Skshetuski, who had not been in the camp for many days, asked,—

  “Tell me, gentlemen, what has happened to our prince? He is somehow another man; I cannot understand it. God has given him victory after victory. They passed him by in the command. What of that? The whole army is rushing to him now, so that he will be hetman without any one’s favor, and will destroy Hmelnitski; but it is evident that he suffers, and suffers from something—”

  “Perhaps the gout is taking hold of him,” said Zagloba, “Sometimes when it gets a pull at me in the great toe, I am despondent for three days at a time.”

  “I tell you, brothers,” said Podbipienta, nodding his head, “I haven’t heard this myself from the priest Mukhovetski, but I heard that he told some one why the prince is so tormented—I do not say this myself; he is a kindly man, good, and a great warrior,—why should I judge him? But since the priest says so—but do I know that it is so?”

  “Just look, gentlemen, at this Lithuanian!” cried Zagloba. “Am I not right in making fun of him, since he doesn’t know human speech? What did you wish to say? You circle round and round, like a rabbit about her nest, but cannot come to a point.”

  “What did you really hear?” asked Skshetuski.

  “Well, since for that—they say that the prince has shed too much blood. He is a great leader, but knows no measure in punishment, and now sees, it seems, everything red,—red in the daytime, red at night, as if a red cloud were surrounding him—”

  “Don’t talk nonsense!” shouted Zatsvilikhovski, with rage. “Those are old wives’ tales. There was no better master for the rabble in time of peace; and as to his knowing no mercy for rebels,—well, what of that? That is a merit, not an offence. What torments, what punishments, would be too great for those who have deluged the country in blood, who have given their own people captive to Tartars, who know neither God, king, country, nor authorities? Where will you show me such monsters as they, where such cruelties as they have perpetrated on women and little children? Where can you find such criminal wretches? For them the empaling stake and the gallows are too much. Tfu, tfu! You have an iron hand, but a woman’s heart.
I saw how you whined, when they were burning Pulyan, that you would rather have killed him on the spot. But the prince is no old woman; he knows how to reward and how to punish. What is the use of telling me such nonsense?”

  “But I have said, father, that I don’t know,” explained Pan Longin.

  The old man puffed for a long time yet, and smoothing his milk-white hair, muttered: “Red, h’m! red,—that’s news. In the head of him who invented that it is green, and not red!”

  A moment of silence followed, but through the windows came the uproar of the revelling nobles. Little Volodyovski broke the silence reigning in the room.

  “Well, father, what do you think can be the matter with our prince?”

  “H’m!” said the old man, “I am not his confidant, therefore I do not know. He is thinking of something, he is struggling with himself,—a hot battle of some kind,—it cannot be otherwise; and the greater the soul, the fiercer the torture.”

  The old knight was not mistaken; for in that same hour the prince, the leader, the conqueror, lay in the dust in his own quarters, before the crucifix, and was fighting one of the most desperate battles of his life.

  The guards at the castle of Zbaraj called out midnight, but Yeremi was still conversing with God and with his own lofty soul. Reason, conscience, love of country, pride, perception of his own power and great destiny, were turned into combatants within his breast, and fought a stubborn battle with one another, from which his breast was bursting, his head was bursting, and pain contorted all his limbs. Now, in spite of the primate, the chancellor, the senate, the generals, against the will of the government, the regular soldiers, the nobles, the foreign troops in private service, were going over to that conqueror,—in one word, the whole Commonwealth was placing itself in his hands, taking refuge under his wings, committing its fortune to his genius, and in the person of its choicest sons was crying: “Save, for you alone can save!” In one month or in two there will be at Zbaraj one hundred thousand warriors, ready for a struggle to the death with the serpent of civil war. Here pictures of a future surrounded with light immeasurable, of glory and power, began to pass before the eyes of the prince. Those who wished to pass him by and subdue him are trembling, and he takes those iron legions and leads them into the steppes of the Ukraine, to victories and triumphs such as history has not yet known. The prince feels in himself corresponding power, and from his shoulders wings shoot forth like the wings of the archangel Michael. And at that moment he turns into such a giant that the whole castle, all Zbaraj, all Russia, cannot contain him. As God lives, he will rub out Hmelnitski, he will trample the rebellion, he will bring back peace to the fatherland! He sees extended plains, legions of troops; he hears the roar of artillery. A battle! a battle! Victory unheard of, unparalleled! Legions of bodies, hundreds of banners, cover the blood-stained steppe, and he tramples on the body of Hmelnitski, and the trumpets sound victory, and that sound flies from sea to sea. The prince rises, rushes up, extends his hands to Christ, around whose head is a mild purple light. “Oh, Christ, Christ!” he cries, “thou knowest, thou seest that I can; tell me that I should do this.”

  But Christ hung his head on his breast, and was as silent, as sorrowful as if he had been crucified the moment before.

  “To thee be the praise!” cried the prince. “Non mihi, non mihi, sed nomini tuo da gloriam! To the glory of the faith of the Church and of all Christianity! Oh, Christ, Christ!” And a new image opened before the eyes of the hero. That career was not ended by the victory over Hmelnitski. The prince, having destroyed the rebellion, grows strong on its body. He becomes gigantic in power. Legions of Cossacks are joined to legions of Poles, and he goes farther,—strikes the Crimea, reaches the terrible dragon in his den; he erects the cross where hitherto bells had never called the faithful to prayer. He will go also to those lands which the princes Vishnyevetski have already trampled with the hoofs of their horses, and will extend the boundaries of the Commonwealth, and with them the Church, to the remotest corners of the earth. Where then is the limit to this impetus, where the bounds to this glory, power, and strength? There are none whatever.

  The pale light of the moon falls into the chamber of the castle, but the clock beats a late hour, and the cocks are crowing. It will soon be day; but will it be a day in which with the sun in heaven a new sun will shine upon earth?

  Yes, it will. The prince would be a child and not a man if he did not do this, if for any reasons whatever he drew back before the voice of these destinies. Now he feels a certain calm, which the merciful Christ had evidently poured on him,—praise to him for that! His mind has become more sober; he takes in more easily too with the eyes of his soul the condition of the country and all its affairs. The policy of the chancellor and those magnates in Warsaw, as well as of the voevoda of Bratslav, is evil, and destructive for the country. To trample the Zaporojie first, and squeeze an ocean of blood out of it, break it, annihilate it, bend, and conquer, and then only acknowledge that everything is finished; to restrain all oppression; to introduce order, peace; being able to kill, to restore to life,—that was the only path worthy of that great, that lordly Commonwealth. It might have been possible perhaps to choose another path long before, but not now. What in truth could negotiations lead to then? Armed legionaries stand against one another in thousands; and even if negotiations were concluded, what power could they have! No, no! those are dream visions, shadows, a war extended over whole ages, a sea of tears and blood for the future. Let them take the only course which is great, noble, full of power, and he will wish and ask for nothing more. He will settle again in Lubni, and will wait quietly till the terrible trumpets call him to action again.

  Let them take it? But who? The Senate? The stormy Diet? The chancellor, the primate, or the commanders? Who, besides him, understands this great idea, and who can carry it out? If such a man can be found, it is well. But where is he? Who has the power? He alone,—no one else. To him the nobles come; to him the armies gather; in his hand is the sword of the Commonwealth,—but the Commonwealth when the king is on the throne. But now when there is no king the will of the people rules. It is the supreme law, expressed not only in the Diets, not only through deputies, the Senate, and chancellors, not only through written laws and manifestoes; but still more powerfully, more emphatically, more definitely, by action. And who rules in action? The knightly estate; and this knightly estate is assembling at Zbaraj, and says to him, “You are the leader.” The whole Commonwealth without voting gives him authority by the power of events, and repeats, “You are the leader.” And should he draw back? What appointment does he wish besides? From whom is he to expect it? Is it from those who are endeavoring to ruin the Commonwealth and to conquer him? Why should he, why should he? Is it because when panic seized upon all, when the hetmans went into captivity, and the armies were lost, magnates hid themselves in their castles, and the Cossack put the foot on the breast of the Commonwealth, he alone pushed away that foot and raised from the dust the fainting head of that mother; sacrificed for her everything,—life, fortune; saved her from shame, from death,—he the conqueror!

  Let him who has rendered more service, take the power. Let it rest in the hands of the man to whom it belongs more of right. He will resign that burden willingly, and say to God and the Commonwealth, “Let thy servant depart in peace;” for he is wearied, greatly weakened, and besides he is sure that neither the memory of him nor his grave will disappear.

  But if there is no such person, he would be doubly and trebly a child and not a man if he should resign that power, that bright path, that brilliant, immense future, in which lies the salvation of the Commonwealth, its power, glory, and happiness. And why should he?

  The prince raised his head again proudly, and his flaming glance fell on Christ; but Christ hung his head on his breast, and remained in silence as painful as if they had crucified him the moment before.

  Why should he? The hero pressed his heated temp
les with his hands. Maybe there is an answer. What is the meaning of those voices which amidst the golden rainbow visions of glory, amidst the thunder of coming victories, amidst the forebodings of grandeur, of power, call out so mercilessly to his soul, “Oh, halt, unfortunate one!” What means that unrest which goes through his breast like the shudder of alarm? What means it that when he shows himself most clearly and convincingly that he ought to take the power, something there in the depths of his conscience whispers, “You deceive yourself; pride misleads you; Satan promises you the glories of the kingdom”?

  And again a fearful struggle began in the soul of the prince; again he was carried away by a whirlwind of alarms, uncertainty, and doubts.

  What are the nobles doing who join him instead of the commanders? Trampling on law. What is the army doing? Violating discipline. And is he, a citizen, is he, a soldier, to stand at the head of lawlessness? Is he to cover it with his own dignity? Is he to give an example of insubordination, arbitrariness, disregard of law, and all merely to receive power two months earlier; for if Prince Karl shall be elected to the throne, power will not pass him by? Is he to give such a fearful example to succeeding ages? For what will happen? To-day Prince Yeremi acts in this way; to-morrow, Konyetspolski, Pototski Firlei, Zamoyski, or Lyubomirski. And if each one, without reference to law and discipline, acts according to his own ambition; if the children follow the example of their fathers and grandfathers,—what future is before that unhappy country? The worms of arbitrariness, disorder, self-seeking have so gnawed the trunk of that Commonwealth, that under the axe of civil war the rotten wood is scattered, the dry limbs fall from the tree. What will happen when those whose duty it is to guard and save it as the apple of the eye put fire under it? What will happen then? Ob, Jesus, Jesus! Hmelnitski too shields himself with the public good, and does nothing else; still he rises up against law and authority.