In fact, after he had entered into conversation with him Pan Andrei became convinced that the prince not only had an understanding mind and a striking judgment touching everything, but the gift of attracting people. Kmita loved him after the first conversation with that feeling in which compassion is the greatest element. He felt that he would give much to bring back to that orphan the brilliant future which belonged to him by right of birth.
Pan Andrei convinced himself at the first dinner that what was said of the gluttony of Michael Vishnyevetski was true. The young prince seemed to think of nothing save eating. His prominent eyes followed each dish uneasily, and when they brought him the platter he took an enormous quantity on his plate and ate ravenously, smacking his lips as only gluttons do. The marble face of the princess grew clouded with still greater sorrow at that sight. It became awkward for Kmita, so that he turned away his eyes and looked at Sobiepan.
But Zamoyski was not looking either at Prince Michael or his own guest. Kmita followed his glance, and behind the shoulders of Princess Griselda he saw a wonderful sight indeed, which he had not hitherto noticed.
It was the small pretty head of a maiden, who was as fair as milk, as red as a rose, and beautiful as an image. Short wavy locks ornamented her forehead; her quick eyes were directed to the officers sitting near Zamoyski, not omitting Sobiepan himself. At last those eyes rested on Kmita, and looked at him fixedly, as full of coquetry as if they intended to gaze into the depth of his heart.
But Kmita was not easily confused; therefore he began to look at once into those eyes with perfect insolence, and then he punched in the side Pan Shurski, lieutenant of the armored castle squadron at Zamost, who was sitting near him, and asked in an undertone,—
“But who is that tailed farthing?”
“Worthy sir,” answered Shurski, aloud, “do not speak slightingly when you do not know of whom you are speaking. That is Panna Anusia Borzobogati. And you will not call her otherwise unless you wish to regret your rudeness.”
“You do not know, sir, that a farthing is a kind of bird and very beautiful, therefore there is no contempt in the name,” answered Kmita, laughing; “but noticing your anger you must be terribly in love.”
“But who is not in love?” muttered the testy Shurski. “Pan Zamoyski himself has almost looked his eyes out, and is as if sitting on an awl.”
“I see that, I see that!”
“What do you see? He, I, Grabovski, Stolangyevich, Konoyadzki, Rubetski of the dragoons, Pyechynga,—she has sunk us all. And with you it will be the same, if you stay here. With her twenty-four hours are sufficient.”
“Lord brother! with me she could do nothing in twenty-four months.”
“How is that?” asked Shurski, with indignation; “are you made of metal, or what?”
“No! But if some one had stolen the last dollar from your pocket you would not be afraid of a thief.”
“Is that it?” answered Shurski.
Kmita grew gloomy at once, for his trouble came to his mind, and he noticed no longer that the black eyes were looking still more stubbornly at him, as if asking, “What is thy name, whence dost thou come, youthful knight?”
But Shurski muttered: “Bore, bore away! She bored that way into me till she bored to my heart. Now she does not even care.”
Kmita shook himself out of his seriousness.
“Why the hangman does not some one of you marry her?”
“Each one prevents every other.”
“The girl will be left in the lurch,” said Kmita, “though in truth there must be white seeds in that pear yet.”
Shurski opened his eyes, and bending to Kmita’s ear said very mysteriously,—
“They say that she is twenty-five, as I love God. She was with Princess Griselda before the incursion of the rabble?”
“Wonder of wonders, I should not give her more than sixteen or eighteen at the most.”
This time the devil (the girl) guessed apparently that they were talking of her, for she covered her gleaming eyes with the lids, and only shot sidelong glances at Kmita, inquiring continually: “Who art thou, so handsome? Whence dost thou come?” And he began involuntarily to twirl his mustache.
After dinner Zamoyski, who from respect to the courtly manners of Kmita treated him as an unusual guest, took him by the arm. “Pan Babinich,” said he, “you have told me that you are from Lithuania?”
“That is true, Pan Zamoyski.”
“Tell me, did you know the Podbipientas?”
“As to knowing I know them not, for they are no longer in the world, at least those who had the arms Tear-Cowl. The last one fell at Zbaraj. He was the greatest knight that Lithuania had. Who of us does not know of Podbipienta?”
“I have heard also of him; but I ask for this reason: There is in attendance on my sister a lady of honorable family. She was the betrothed of this Podbipienta who was killed at Zbaraj. She is an orphan, without father or mother; and though my sister loves her greatly, still, being the natural guardian of my sister, I have in this way the maiden in guardianship.”
“A pleasant guardianship!” put in Kmita.
Zamoyski smiled, winked, and smacked his tongue. “Sweetcakes! isn’t she?”
But suddenly he saw that he was betraying himself, and assumed a serious air.
“Oh, you traitor!” said he, half jestingly, half seriously, “you want to hang me on a hook, and I almost let it out!”
“What?” asked Kmita, looking him quickly in the eyes.
Here Zamoyski saw clearly that in quickness of wit he was not the equal of his guest, and turned the conversation at once.
“That Podbipienta,” said he, “bequeathed her some estates there in your region. I don’t remember the names of them, for they are strange,—Baltupie, Syrutsiani, Myshykishki,—in a word, all that he had. Would I could remember them! Five or six estates.”
“They are adjoining estates, not separate. Podbipienta was a very wealthy man, and if that lady should come to his fortune she might have her own ladies-in-waiting, and seek for a husband among senators.”
“Do you tell me that? Do you know those places?”
“I know only Lyubovich and Sheputy, for they are near my land. The forest boundary alone is ten miles long, and the fields and meadows are as much more.”
“Where are they?”
“In Vityebsk.”
“Oh, far away! the affair is not worth the trouble, and the country is under the enemy.”
“When we drive out the enemy we shall come to the property. But the Podbipientas have property in other places,—in Jmud very considerable, I know, for I have a piece of land there myself.”
“I see that your substance is not a bag of chopped straw.”
“It brings in nothing now. But I need nothing from others.”
“Advise me how to put that maiden on her feet.”
Kmita laughed.
“I prefer to talk over this matter rather than others. It would be better for her to go to Pan Sapyeha. If he would take the affair in hand, he could do a great deal as voevoda of Vityebsk and the most noted man in Lithuania. He could send notices to the tribunals that the will was made to Panna Borzobogati, so that Podbipienta’s more distant relatives should not seize the property.”
“That is true; but now there are no tribunals, and Sapyeha has something else in his head.”
“The lady might be placed in his hands and under his guardianship. Having her before his eyes, he would give aid more speedily.”
Kmita looked with astonishment at Zamoyski. “What object has he in wishing to remove her from this place?” thought he.
Zamoyski continued: “It would be difficult for her to live in camp, in the tent of the voevoda of Vityebsk; but she might stay with his daughters.”
“I do not understand this,” thought Kmita; “would he
consent to be only her guardian?”
“But here is the difficulty: how can I send her to those parts in the present time of disturbance? Several hundred men would be needed, and I cannot strip Zamost. If I could only find some one to conduct her. Now, you might take her; you are going to Sapyeha. I would give you letters, and you would give me your word of honor to take her in safety.”
“I conduct her to Sapyeha?” asked Kmita, in amazement.
“Is the office unpleasant? Even if it should come to love on the road—”
“Ah,” said Kmita, “another one is managing my affections; and though the tenant pays nothing, still I do not think of making a change.”
“So much the better; with all the greater satisfaction can I confide her to you.”
A moment of silence followed.
“Well, will you undertake it?” asked the starosta,
“I am marching with Tartars.”
“People tell me that the Tartars fear you worse than fire. Well, what? Will you undertake it?”
“H’m! why not, if thereby I can oblige your grace? But—”
“Ah, you think that the princess must give permission; she will, as God is dear to me! For she,—fancy to yourself,—she suspects me.”
Here the starosta whispered in Kmita’s ear; at last he said aloud,—
“She was very angry with me for that, and I put my ears aside; for to war with women,—behold you! I would rather have the Swedes outside Zamost. But she will have the best proof that I am planning no evil, when I wish to send the girl away. She will be terribly amazed, it is true; but at the first opportunity I’ll talk with her touching this matter.”
When he had said this, Zamoyski turned and went away. Kmita looked at him, and muttered,—
“You are setting some snare, Pan Sobiepan; and though I do not understand the object, I see the snare quickly, for you are a terribly awkward trapper.”
Zamoyski was pleased with himself, though he understood well that the work was only half done; and another remained so difficult that at thought of it despair seized him, and even terror. He had to get permission of Princess Griselda, whose severity and penetrating mind Pan Sobiepan feared from his whole soul. But having begun, he wished to bring the work to completion as early as possible; therefore next morning, after Mass, and breakfast, and after he had reviewed the hired German infantry, he went to the chambers of the princess.
He found the lady embroidering a cope for the college. Behind her was Anusia winding silk hung upon two armchairs; a second skein of rose color she had placed around her neck, and moving her hands quickly, she ran around the chairs in pursuit of the unwinding thread.
Zamoyski’s eyes grew bright at sight of her; but he assumed quickly a serious look, and greeting the princess, began as if unwillingly,—
“That Pan Babinich who has come here with the Tartars is a Lithuanian,—a man of importance, a very elegant fellow, a born knight in appearance. Have you noticed him?”
“You brought him to me yourself,” answered the princess, indifferently, “he has an honest face.”
“I asked him concerning that property left Panna Borzobogati. He says it is a fortune almost equal to that of the Radzivills.”
“God grant it to Anusia; her orphanhood will be the lighter, and her old age as well,” said the lady.
“But there is a danger lest distant relatives tear it apart. Babinich says that Sapyeha might occupy himself with it, if he wished. He is an honest man, and very friendly to us: I would confide my own daughter to him. It would be enough for him to send notices to the tribunals, and proclaim the guardianship. But Babinich says it is needful that Panna Anusia should go to those places in person.”
“Where,—to Pan Sapyeha?”
“Or to his daughters, so as to be there, that the formal installation might take place.”
The starosta invented at that moment “formal installation,” thinking justly that the princess would accept this counterfeit money instead of true coin. She thought a moment, and asked,—
“How could she go now, when Swedes are on the road?”
“I have news that the Swedes have left Lublin. All this side of the Vistula is free.”
“And who would take Anusia to Pan Sapyeha?”
“Suppose this same Babinich.”
“With Tartars? Lord Brother, fear God; those are wild, chaotic people!”
“I am not afraid,” put in Anusia, curtesying.
But Princess Griselda had noted already that her brother came with some plan all prepared; therefore she sent Anusia out of the room, and began to look at Pan Sobiepan with an inquiring gaze. But he said as if to himself,—
“These Tartars are down in the dust before Babinich; he hangs them for any insubordination.”
“I cannot permit this journey,” answered the princess. “The girl is honest but giddy, and rouses enthusiasm quickly. You know that best yourself. I would never confide her to a young, unknown man.”
“Unknown here he is not, for who has not heard of the Babiniches as men of high family and steady people? [Zamoyski had never heard of the Babiniches in his life.] Besides,” continued he, “you might give her some sedate woman as companion, and then decorum would be observed. Babinich I guarantee. I tell you this, too, Lady Sister, that he has in those places a betrothed with whom he is, as he tells me himself, in love; and whoso is in love has something else in his head. The foundation of the matter is this, that another such chance may not come for a long time,—the fortune may be lost to the girl, and in ripe years she may be without a roof above her.”
The princess ceased embroidering, raised her head, and fixing her penetrating eyes on her brother, asked,—
“What reason have you to send her from here?”
“What reason have I?” repeated he, dropping his glance; “what can I have?—none!”
“Yan, you have conspired with Babinich against her virtue!”
“There it is! As God is dear to me, only that was wanting! You will read the letter which I shall send to Sapyeha, and give your own. I will merely say this to you, that I shall not leave Zamost. Finally examine Babinich himself, and ask him whether he will undertake the office.
“The moment you suspect me I step aside.”
“Why do you insist so that she shall leave Zamost?”
“For I wish her good, and it is the question of an immense fortune. Besides, I confess it concerns me much that she should leave Zamost. Your suspicions have grown disagreeable; it is not to my taste that you should be frowning at me forever and looking stern. I thought that in consenting to the departure of the young lady I should find the best argument against suspicions. God knows I have enough of this, for I am no student who steals under windows at night. I tell you more: my officers are enraged one against the other, and shaking their sabres at one another. There is neither harmony, nor order, nor service as there should be. I have enough of this. But since you are boring me with your eyes, then do as you wish; but look after Michael yourself, for that is your affair, not mine.”
“Michael!” exclaimed the astonished princess.
“I say nothing against the girl. She does not disturb him more than others; but if you do not see his arrowy glances and ardent affection, then I tell you this, that Cupid has not such power to blind as a mother’s love.”
Princess Griselda’s brows contracted, and her face grew pale.
Pan Sobiepan, seeing that he had struck home at last, slapped his knees with his hands and continued,—
“Lady Sister, thus it is, thus it is! What is the affair to me? Let Michael give her silk to unwind, let his nostrils quiver when he looks at her, let him blush, let him look at her through keyholes! What is that to me? Still, I know—she has a good fortune—her family—well, she is of nobles, and I do not raise myself above nobles. If you want it yourself, all right. Th
eir years are not the same, but again it is not my affair.”
Zamoyski rose, and bowing to his sister very politely, started to go out.
The blood rushed to her face. The proud lady did not see in the whole Commonwealth a match worthy of Vishnyevetski, and abroad, perhaps among the archduchesses of Austria; therefore these words of her brother burned her like iron red hot.
“Yan!” said she, “wait!”
“Lady Sister,” said Zamoyski, “I wished first to give you proof that you suspect me unjustly; second, that you should watch some one besides me. Now you will do as you please; I have nothing more to say.”
The Deluge- Volume 2 Page 33
